Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

‘No. You don’t need to know him. You just need to do as he says.’

He had counted on annoying her, but Joe was taken aback by the fury in the glare she directed at him.

A small black police car screamed to a halt a few inches in front of them.

‘Here he is,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘My associate in Vice. I’ll just leave you for a moment while I fill him in then we can leave. We’ll make for a nice quiet place and put a few questions to the lady. If she answers correctly and reasonably, it may be that she can go free — after signing a statement, of course. If we’re concerned by what she has to say then she may have to proceed as far as Commissaire Fourier. Won’t be a minute.’

‘How long will he be?’ Alice’s voice was strained. He could hardly see her face. She had flung the hood over her head and was shrinking down into the upholstery. Her eyes were scanning the crowds milling about on the pavement. ‘We must leave now, Joe! Call him back! He — you — have no idea. .!’

Joe was reminded of George’s remark about Alice’s strange behaviour. ‘. . eyes quartering the room like a hunter,’ he’d said and then corrected himself: ‘No — more like the prey. There was someone out there in the auditorium. .’

And there was someone out there at this moment on the pavement, coming closer. He began to catch Alice’s fear. He spoke softly to her. ‘Alice, we are surrounded by at least a dozen assorted flics. You’re quite safe. For the moment.’

She looked at him, incredulous. ‘You think that will stop him?’

Uneasy, he muttered, ‘Damn! I haven’t got a gun. I really did remember to wipe the Luger and drop it a suitable distance from the body. And — oh God! — I didn’t get my Browning back. No time, even if I’d thought of it.’

Alice bent and fished about in her bag. ‘Here. Take this. It’s only a.22 but it’s a little more effective than pointing a wagging finger.’

He took it warily, resting it along his thigh between them, finger on the trigger.

‘You make me nervous, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘As nervous as you made Sir George on Saturday night at the theatre? And for the same reason perhaps? I’m afraid for my life. Should I be afraid for my life? What are your instructions this time? The same as last? Kill the Englishman?’

She looked at him, eyes darkening with suspicion inside her silk hood. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean that I know , Alice. I know that you’d gone to the theatre that night, not for the pleasure of seeing Sir George again, but to kill him.’

‘To kill him. At the very least, to participate in his killing.’

She swallowed but remained silent, still staring through the windows.

‘Sir Stanley Somerton was never the target, was he? His death has brought freedom, much relief and even unholy joy to a good number of people but it was never intended, was it? No one put cash in an envelope and asked for him to die? Am I getting this right, Alice?’

She nodded her head. ‘As usual.’

‘Do you want to know how I guessed?’

‘No. Not particularly. I assume you to be omniscient.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Because I shall enjoy the satisfaction of making you and your filthy organization aware that you’ve been tripped up by no more than a couple of bystanders, neither of them connected in any way to the murder that went wrong but both sharp-eyed, observing accurately and passing on their observations to those who could make sense of them.’

Alice appeared not to be listening. ‘Where’s your friend? God! Now where’s he off to? Do we have to wait for him?’

‘The star of the show, Miss Josephine Baker,’ Joe pushed on, ‘was kind enough to grant us an interview. She’s a responsive girl who feeds off her audience, is aware of them and their moods. She remembers that evening particularly because the routine was broken. Lindbergh flew in and she took it upon herself, being from St Louis, to invite the audience to celebrate with her. She was aware of you, Alice, and your young employee in Somerton’s box. She was aware enough of the two men to tell me the boxes were a mirror image of each other. Two elderly gents, two blonde young women with them. She didn’t even know which man had died. Left or right, they were much the same to her. It made no difference to the star but it was life or death for one of those men. And then it struck me. For me, the kaleidoscope suddenly shifted and settled into a different pattern when she said that.

‘And, taken with the strange behaviour of Somerton, the behaviour reported both by Sir George and by a treacherous school friend of his who happened to be in the audience, it all began to pull together. They said the same thing. George, compassionate man that he is, attempted in the only way open to him to ensure — not the virtue — but the well-being of your little tart across the way. Before the show started and you showed up, he got to his feet and in soldier’s hand language told Somerton to back off. “Or else!” he added. Accompanying his threat by a very familiar gesture. This!’

Joe performed the slow dragging of the index finger across the throat.

‘George was relieved to see his old enemy signal: “Message received and understood.” He was puzzled, though not disturbed, by the man’s further reaction. He fell about laughing. The witness in the stalls, Wilberforce Jennings, told us that Somerton “damn near slapped his thigh, he thought it so funny. .”

‘And it was funny. In the circumstances. Very. Ironic might be a more accurate word as no one but Somerton would have been genuinely amused by the gesture. Because George was the one who was supposed to die and in exactly the way he’d mimed — by the slicing of a dagger across his throat. And the man who supplied the dagger, chose the killing place and the time, and paid for the assassination show was Somerton himself. George’s prophetic gesture added to the gaiety! The cherry in the cocktail!’

Joe didn’t care that she was barely listening to him. His outrage pushed him to try to make an impression, to make her admit an understanding. Regret and shame were out of the question, he supposed.

‘The vile Somerton discovered that Jardine, the man who’d disgraced him and ruined his life — as he saw it — was to be in Paris at the same time as himself. He wanted the satisfaction of watching while his old enemy was filleted in front of his eyes. But a solitary viewing is not an entirely satisfactory experience for a man like Somerton. He wanted to share it. He arranged to be seen, flaunting female company of the choicest kind, knowing that this would annoy Sir George. And he intended that his companion should join him in witnessing a real-life bit of theatre.’

‘You know that’s not what happened, Joe.’

‘No. And I’m wondering what went wrong — or should I say right? It seems to me that someone threw a sabot into the works and put all the cogs out of mesh. Are you going to tell me?’

‘Me! It was me! You know that! He didn’t tell me, for once, the name of the target as he usually does. Sometimes he allows me a veto when he’s getting his schemes together. He trusts my judgement. But in this case, he must have been offered a great deal of money and he didn’t care to hear my objections.’ Alice paused and bit her lip, still working through her reasoning. Not quite happy with her thoughts, Joe guessed. ‘He might have expected me to balk at killing off someone I knew from India. And he was right. I would never have agreed to harming George. He confided in Cassandre — that’s the girl’s name — and set up the whole theatre episode with her. The assassin had been told to kill the Englishman in Box A, the one sitting alone. The client himself would have one of our girls with him, a protective marker, so there was no chance he would get it wrong.