Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

Alice shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed.

‘And stand. . and stand. . Have you any idea how much stress that puts on the body after a few hours? George is still suffering. So, be thankful you’re sitting in an overstuffed armchair being served with coffee, talking to two understanding chaps making notes.’

‘I’ll have mine black with one lump of sugar, please, Inspector,’ she said, capitulating. ‘And you can put your thumbscrews away. I’m going to talk to you. Look on this as a practice run. You must advise me regarding the contents of my official statement. If, that is, you are still requiring me to make one when I’ve got to the end of what I have to say. You may be begging me to tear it all up by the time I reach that point. And hustling me aboard the next transatlantic liner with my head in a bag.’

Relishing their sudden wariness, she added: ‘No, gentlemen — you won’t be pleased.’

‘The Zouave, I’ll start with him,’ she said, accepting a china mug of coffee.

‘The knifeman as you call him, though he’s more versatile than the name suggests. He was in the same regiment as the dear departed Flavius. Yes, I think you’ve detected that there’s a military thread running through all this. I met him nearly five years ago when I arrived here from India. Alone and friendless and trying to establish myself in a hostile city. .’

She caught Joe’s eye and went on hurriedly: ‘The man tried to rob me! There in the boulevard, in broad daylight. A scarecrow! A heap of rags and bones, he suddenly appeared in front of me with his hand held behind him, like this. .’

She got to her feet and, with a frisson, Joe recognized the Apache gesture.

‘He put his other hand out and demanded that I give him money. He wasn’t thinking clearly or he’d just have snatched my whole bag and run. He seemed on the point of collapse. . wobbling rather. I realized he was incapable of running anywhere. The man was at death’s door. Desperate. I opened my bag as though to look for money and took out the gun I always keep by me. You still have it in your pocket, Commander. He wasn’t worth a bullet, I thought. Certainly not worth the time it would take making statements, having my pistol confiscated and all that rigmarole, so I hesitated. And then he did something rather extraordinary. He brought his knife hand forward and showed me it was empty. Too poor even to possess a knife. And then he smiled, his chin went up and he saluted. I could hardly make out what he was saying at first but he repeated it. “ Vive la France! ”

‘He thought he really was living his last moment. “Don’t be so silly,” I told him. “When did you last eat?” I took him to a pancake stall. He wolfed down about six. I made him walk ahead of me to a park bench and sat him down at the opposite end. Perfectly safe — I had my gun in my pocket, covering him the whole time. He told me his story. Perfectly ghastly! He’d drifted back from the war where he’d been badly wounded and was searching for his mother in Paris. He hadn’t seen her for eight years. He’d been reported missing, presumed dead, and she’d moved on. He was destitute. Dying of neglect. A common story. They sweep up a dozen like him from under the bridges every morning. But there was something about this one. . the tilt of his chin, the glare in his eyes. It was like finding a rusty sword by the wayside. If I polished it up, sharpened it, I would have a weapon worth owning.’

‘So you bought yourself a Zouave, Alice? For an outlay of six pancakes? Were you aware of the reputation of these men? I’d be more comfortable in the close proximity of a mad bull terrier with a stick of ginger up its backside!’

‘I had a use for his skills. I know they are fierce, implacable, terrifying fighters and none more effective with a knife. And there was someone in my world at that time that I needed to terrify. I gave him food, drink, money and a purpose in life. I asked him to undertake a small task for me in return. He was happy to repay my kindness. Loyalty is another of their virtues, you know. And he has never been asked to do something he has not been delighted to do. Clean work compared with what his wartime commanders expected of him. He re-established himself and in time introduced some old army acquaintances. They became the core of my organization.’

‘ Your organization?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes. Initially it was mine. I bought the premises in the boulevard du Montparnasse. Girls need protection, you know that. And I needed to show a tough face to the world to make it understood that my affairs were not to be interfered with. There was a power-shift going on at that time. Corsicans killing each other, North Africans moving in. . an unsettled and dangerous time for one in my business.’

‘Alice, couldn’t you have set yourself up in a tea shop and bought a pair of poodles?’ Joe burst out.

Alice and Bonnefoye both turned a pitying glance on him.

‘A cup of tea brings in one franc,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘A girl, between a hundred and a thousand. A dirty business but a calculatedly short one, I’d guess. Five years. . I’d say you were pretty well poised to make off with your ill-gotten gains?’ he guessed.

‘I am,’ she said with a confident smile.

‘So — tell us about the moment when your organization became his. ’

‘Ah! A sad story! And one you will have heard many times before. I became friendly with one of my clients. Over-friendly. I fancied myself in love with him. He reminded me very much of someone I had been fond of in my past and I allowed him to get too close to me. He also was recently arrived in the city, finding his feet, totally without female companionship. Someone introduced him to the establishment. We were a comfort and a support to each other.’

Joe was remembering just such a confession in a moonlit garden in Simla when she’d talked of a man she’d loved, and he wondered.

‘I was rash. I confided in him. But why not? He gave me good advice and he brought me more clients — he’s a well-connected man. I told him one day, for his amusement, of a fantasy shared with one of my girls. . Thaïs, it was. . A regular customer of hers had whispered in her ear. They do. And my girls are required as part of their job to pass on their confidences.’

‘God! I’d like to get a look at your little black book, madame,’ Bonnefoye chortled.

‘Clients assume — perhaps you will know the reason for this, Inspector — that the head on the adjoining pillow may always be disregarded. The woman, by nature of her employment, must be empty-headed, deaf or have a short memory. None of that is true.

‘Thaïs told me that her client, a regular visitor and an agreeable young man, was suffering at the hands of his old uncle. Known for years to be his uncle’s heir, he had been played with, tormented beyond reason by the old man on whom he was financially dependent. Finally the chap had informed his nephew that he was to be cut out of the will, that he (a keen theatre-goer) was leaving the entire fortune to the Garrick Club in London, to be distributed to indigent old actors. Our client spent some time outlining to Thaïs exactly what he wanted to see done to his uncle by way of retribution. His fantasy was amusing. He saw his uncle centre stage at the Garrick Theatre, spotlit of course, knife in his heart and an orifice unmentionable in mixed company stuffed with banknotes.’

‘Oh, good Lord!’ said Joe. ‘November 1923?’

Alice smiled. ‘I told my friend jokingly about this and to my surprise he didn’t laugh. He was intrigued. He gave way to a fantasy of his own. “What a cracking notion! Well, why not? Tell Thaïs to whisper in the boy’s ear that all his dreams can come true! Overnight he will become a very rich and very grateful client, will he not? Let’s put a proposal to him. We undertake to set the stage and provide the body for a fee to be agreed. How much?”