Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

A good witness, Joe thought.

‘The one you say died. .’ Out came the right hand again. ‘I last had a glimpse of him halfway, I suppose, through the finale. I don’t have a lot to do in that routine — just prance around in gold feathers — and I remember being something put out — he was looking at his watch! Turning it this way,’ she held up an arm and demonstrated, ‘towards the stage lights, you know, to get a look at it. And he stared across at the other box. I was beginning to think we were losing the audience. Feller looked as though he couldn’t wait to take off.’

‘Strange behaviour?’ murmured Joe.

‘Well, exactly! Lord! If a hundred naked girls — and me! — can’t knock his eye out, whatever will?’

‘A good question, Miss Baker. What better entertainment can he possibly have wanted?’

Bonnefoye looked curiously at Joe, who had lapsed into silence, and he seemed about to speak but he was interrupted by Josephine who, half-rising, was drawing the conversation to a close. ‘Still, sorry to hear the old goat died.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Bonnefoye, getting to his feet. ‘The man was more of a cold-hearted snake and he got off lightly. Don’t give him another thought.’

Simenon showed them to the side door and said goodbye. ‘You will let me know how all this turns out?’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been most intrigued. .’

‘And helpful,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘We’ve been interested to hear your insights, monsieur.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Look. You’re a crime reporter. You must be keen to see how we live over there at the Quai? Take a peek inside? Have you ever been? Well, why don’t you come over and see me there when this is all over? I’ll fill you in. My turn to give you the tour!’

‘Bit rash, weren’t you?’ Joe commented as they walked away back into the avenue de Montaigne. ‘Fourier won’t like that.’

‘Sod Fourier! I can swing it! Anyway — with the ideas you’ve been stuffing into his head, a newsman might be just exactly what he wants to encourage. . “Now, my dear Simenon, just take this down, will you?” Chaps like that are very useful to us. They’re a channel. They’re not exactly informers but — well, you heard him — he talks to people who’ll accept a glass from him and open their mouths but who wouldn’t be seen within a hundred yards of a flic. They can pass stuff to the underworld we can’t go out and shout through a megaphone. He seemed to be able to take a wide view of things. Man of the world.’

‘And quite obviously something going on between him and the star, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Good luck to them! How did he say they met? Stage-door Johnny, didn’t he say? Just turned up on the off-chance?’

‘Yes. But not empty-handed,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ‘Said he brought her a bunch of roses. Roses. . lilies. .’ He looked about him. ‘We’re a long way from a florist’s shop here. But there must surely be some enterprising merchant out there catering for star-struck young men on their way to the theatre?’

‘Place de l’Alma,’ said Bonnefoye, turning to the right and walking towards the river.

‘Lilies? Two dozen? Yes, of course. Not every day I shift two dozen in one go! Lucky to get rid. . they were just on the turn. I told him: “Put them straight away in water up to their necks.” Must be nearly two hours ago. That’s right — the bell on the Madeleine had already rung two. But not the half past. .

‘What did he look like? Oh, a handsome young chap!’ The fleuriste turned a toothless smile on Joe and cackled. ‘To my old gypsy eyes at least. Rather like you, monsieur. Your age. Young but not too young. Tall, well set up. Dark skin. Southern perhaps? North African even? Mixed probably. Sharp nose and chin. Well dressed. Nice hat. Lots of money.

‘You’d need lots of money to buy all those lilies! His wallet when he took it out to pay for them was stuffed! Wished I’d asked double! He didn’t really seem interested in the price. Some of them haggle, you know. This one didn’t. Paid up, good as gold.

‘Scar? Can’t say I noticed one. . I did notice the bristles though. He’s growing a beard. It’ll be a fine black one in a few weeks’ time.

‘Where? Oh, he walked back up the avenue towards the theatre.’ The old woman grinned. ‘Probably spotted some young dancer on the front row. He’ll certainly impress her with those flowers anyway!’

Sensing they were about to close up the interview, she recalled their attention: ‘Do you want to know what he was doing before he came to my stall?’

A further five francs changed hands.

‘He was wandering about on the bridge. Looking at the statues,’ she said. ‘Now, gentlemen, I’ve got some lovely red roses fresh in from Nice this morning if you’re interested. .’

‘Heard enough?’ said Bonnefoye using English, in a voice suddenly chilled. ‘She’s scraping the barrel now.’ And then: ‘He’s not exactly hiding himself, is he? He must have known we’d trace him here to this stall.’

‘He’s watching us at this moment,’ said Joe, managing by a superhuman effort not to look around. ‘Down one of those alleys, at one of those windows. Under the bridge even.’

Bonnefoye carefully held his gaze and Joe added: ‘So, let’s assume that, just for once, it’s we who have the audience, shall we? And give him something to look at.’

He turned to the flower seller. ‘Thank you, madame. I’ll take two dozen of those red roses from Provence.’

The old woman stood and moved a few yards to watch them as they went down to the river. When she saw what they were about, she shook her head in exasperation. Idiots! Mad foreigners! Had they nothing better to waste their money on? They’d taken up their position halfway along, leaning over the parapet, and, taking a dozen blooms each, were throwing the roses, one at a time, downstream into the current.

She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and crossed herself. She watched on as the swirls of blood red eddied and sank. How would those fools know? That what they were doing brought bad luck? Flowers in the water spelled death.

Bonnefoye had returned to the Quai des Orfèvres to pass on instructions for the fingerprint section and to check whether they’d made any progress with the Bertillon records of scarred villains. He’d been reluctant to let Joe turn up unaccompanied at the jazz club on the boulevard du Montparnasse, offering, as well as his own company, the presence of a team of undercover policemen in reserve.

Joe had reassured him. ‘Don’t be concerned. . Just think of it as a visit between two old friends. . Yes, I think I can get in. I’m prepared.’ He patted his pocket. ‘A bird has led me to the magical golden branch in the forest. I only have to brandish it and the gates to Avernus will swing open. As they did for Aeneas.’

Bonnefoye had rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘The gates can swing shut as well. With you inside. And I’m not too certain that Aeneas had a very jolly time. Full of wailing ghosts, Avernus, if I remember rightly. If you’re not out by eight, I’m storming the place. I mean it! Now here’s what I’m offering. .’

Joe waited until six o’clock when the crowds hurrying in through the door made him less conspicuous. He went to the bar and ordered a cocktail. He asked for a Manhattan and threw away the cherry. A Manhattan seemed the right choice. The combination of French vermouth and American bourbon, spiked with a dash of bitters, was in perfect harmony with this atmosphere. Throaty, fast Parisian arpeggios studded a base of slow-drawing transatlantic tones and the band also seemed to be an element in the blend. Setting the scene, in fact, Joe thought, as he listened eagerly. Excellent, as Bonnefoye had reported.