Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

‘Jack Pollock earns a perfectly decent salary. He may well be ennobled in the near future off his own bat. He doesn’t need, like Frederick Somerton, to wait around to inherit a title.’

Again he was rewarded with the pitying, world-weary gaze. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to underpin the life of a titled man? The estate? The household? The ceremony? The motor cars? The city house? The upkeep of a future Lady Pollock? He is like, yet not like George. Don’t be deceived. They are opposite sides of the same coin. Made from the same metal but the features are different. Jack is extravagant, fast-living. Ruthless, they are both ruthless, but, unlike George, his cousin has no conscience.’

‘Set and Osiris,’ Bonnefoye murmured. ‘I knew that ugly creature would stick his bent nose in before long. Good God! That little scene at the Louvre must have given him the idea for all this carnage! Planted a seed!’

Alice looked from one to the other in puzzlement. They didn’t bother to explain.

Half an hour later, a document had been drawn up to Alice’s satisfaction and she signed it.

‘My gun, Joe? May I?’

He took it from his pocket and handed it over hurriedly as though it would burn his fingers.

‘Well, I think I’ll be off now. Don’t bother to get up. I’m sure I can find my way out. I’ll mind my manners and pause to thank Moulin graciously for his hospitality and be on my way. I’ll leave you to curse me when my back’s turned.’

* * *

‘Moulin keeps his brandy in a bottle behind The Man in the Iron Mask ,’ said Joe heavily. Bonnefoye poured out generous measures into the dregs of the coffee and they sipped it silently.

‘Which of us is going to tell George?’ asked Bonnefoye.

‘I will. You must be getting pretty fed up with all this palaver. Foreigners messing about in your life, murdering each other on French soil. Jolly bad form, what!’ he finished in an imitation of Wilberforce Jennings’ braying voice. ‘And I must find time to stroll into the Embassy and slap the cuffs on Pollock.’

‘And we’d better watch our backs on the streets. I haven’t forgotten there’s a pet Zouave slinking about.’

‘Well, well! Who’d have thought Fantômas, stalking the streets of Paris, would turn out to be a blue-eyed Englishman reciting the latest cricket scores!’

On their way through the morgue, Joe averted his eyes from the busy scene at three of the marble tables. He’d had enough of death for one day. But he was not to be allowed to ignore it entirely. Moulin called out to them as they appeared. He was holding something bloodstained up to the light in pincers and, carrying on with his work, said: ‘Somerton. Your last customer but one. The toxicology report came through. No, he wasn’t poisoned but they mentioned that he had a very high level of an opiate in his system. A pain-killer. I took a further look at the body. And there it was. A cancer. Well developed. I’d say he had no more than a month at the most to live. Pity the killer didn’t know that. He could have saved himself a tidy sum.’

Quietly Joe absorbed the news and, going to stand at Moulin’s shoulder while he worked on, murmured: ‘The killer did know. The killer, the instigator of the crime, was Somerton himself. He knew, then, he hadn’t got long and was determined to treat himself to a variety of luxuries before he snuffed it. He wanted to see Sir George suffer and in the most dramatic way. .’ He filled in the story as far as it was known to them.

‘Mon Dieu! But — what a lucky escape! You must take your friend out to celebrate his good fortune.’

‘He’s not going to be much in the mood for celebrating when he learns the identity of the man we’ve been calling Set.’

‘Great heavens! You managed to get it out of her? I heard no squeaks of outrage, no rattling of irons?’

‘In the end she was all co-operation. Largely, I think, because the information she was giving us, she knew was most unwelcome to our ears. Set is, in fact, the alter ego of Sir George. The obverse of the medallion — his young cousin. Very sad and disturbing. And it’s not over yet. We’re just off into the night to find and arrest Set. Can’t say I’ve ever tangled with the God of Evil. Any suggestions? Ah well. .’

‘Do I need to prepare a few more slabs?’ said Moulin lugubriously. ‘For goodness’ sake, take care, Sandilands. What gun are you carrying? Are you armed?’

‘Not so much as a toothpick,’ said Joe.

‘Here, take this,’ said Moulin, selecting a shining silver tool from his tray and rather embarrassed by his gesture. ‘Put it away in your pocket. It’s my best scalpel. Razor sharp. Don’t touch the edge! Handle with extreme care.’

They stepped out into the grey and gold light of a spring evening. There was a faint glimmer in the sky to the west and, across the river, dying rays were caught up and given a last flicker of life by the open windows of high attic rooms, still hot from the day. But a mist was already beginning to curl up from the Seine and Joe shivered.

‘Now I know you won’t want to hear me say this,’ Bonnefoye began cheerfully, ‘because I’m quite aware you’re all fired to go and stick your newly acquired weapon into the black heart of Set, but there are two people we must see first. Fourier and Sir George. Any preference?’

‘As we’re on the spot — Fourier. Let’s start with him, shall we?’

‘I’d prefer it. I have to report back on the fracas in the boulevard just now. He’ll be waiting to see me. Seems to be taking more of an interest. He grudgingly gave me ten blokes to mount the raid, after all! Feel up to the stairs, then, do you?’

Police headquarters was busy. Fourier, they were told, was busy but he had asked to see them as soon as they arrived. The Chief Inspector appeared not to have left his desk or changed his clothes since Joe had last seen him on the morning after the murder. A closer look, however, revealed a different pattern of coffee stains on his shirt front.

Juggling papers and cards, the Chief Inspector demonstrated his busy-ness and asked them to take a seat. The enquiry, he informed them, was progressing. His sergeant dashed in with a sheet of foolscap. Fourier was instantly absorbed by what he read there and, taking out his pen, made a few alterations and additions to the text.

‘The copy,’ he announced. ‘The copy, as we call it, for the press. I have it. Anything vital missing? Not having had your report yet, Bonnefoye, I’m working in the dark. What do you think?’

He began to read out the salient points. ‘Now then. . Brigandage in Bohemia. Here we go. Guaranteed to get them going, a reference to brigandage. . Officers working under the direction of Commissaire Casimir Fourier. . dramatic shootout. . three gangsters dead. . no bystanders hurt. . police squad remain on the alert and ensuring public safety in this erstwhile peaceable quartier. . Well? What are you thinking?’

‘Can’t argue with the facts, sir,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘It will do as a preliminary account.’

‘Had you thought, Fourier, you might insert something on the lines of: The peace of Mount Parnassus was shattered last night when . .’

‘Good. Good.’ He scratched in the insertion. ‘Now. Next. Take a look at this line-up, will you? You requested it, I believe. Anything there you like the look of?’

He passed them a hand of six Bertillon identity cards. They shuffled ugly face after ugly face complete with cranial measurements and descriptions of distinguishing features. Three had accompanying fingerprint records stuck along the bottom of the card. All the men were aged between twenty and forty and all had a scar on the right jaw.