Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

Apretty redhead wearing a sporty-looking woollen two-piece and a green cloche hat changed places with one of her friends to sit beside the stranger. She leaned slightly to catch a glimpse of the papers which were so absorbing him. Joe wondered what on earth she would make of the learned treatise he was scanning: Identification of Corpses by G. A. Fanshawe, D.Sc. (Oxon) with its subheadings of Charred Bodies, Drowned Bodies, Battered Bodies. .

Aware of her sustained curiosity, Joe mischievously shuffled to the top a printed sheet of writing paper. Under the bold insignia of Interpol, and laid out in letters so large she would have no difficulty in reading them, was an invitation to The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard, London, to attend the second conference of Heads of Interpol in Paris. A detailed programme of lectures and events followed. Joe took out a pencil and began to make notes in the margin.

She addressed him with the open confidence of a fellow passenger aboard a boat, all companions for the duration of the voyage. ‘I see you’re not on pleasure bent in the capital of frivolity? Er. . Commissioner? Should I address you as Commissioner? Is that who you are?’

He grinned and passed her a card. ‘Not Commissioner, I’m sorry to say. He’s the villain who’s deputized me to come along in his stead. This is me. I’m Joseph Sandilands. How do you do, Miss. .?’

‘Watkins. Heather Watkins.’ And she read: ‘ Commander Sandilands. DSO. Légion d’honneur. Ah, I was right! I took you for a military or naval man of some sort. But Commander sounds very impressive!’ And she added in a tone playfully inquisitive: ‘May we look to see “Commissioner” on your card one day?’

‘I do hope not! Annoying my boss is one of my chief recreations. I should hate to find myself at the top of the pyramid keeping order. Who would there be to keep me in order? I should have to do it myself!’ Good Lord! That was the first time he’d given words to any such feeling. And he’d expressed it in unbelievably artless words to a complete stranger. It must be the fear of the next few hours that was sweeping away his defences, making him reckless.

The arrival of a steward in Imperial Airways livery made unnecessary any further revelations and they were called for boarding. The group, jostling and joking with each other, surged forward. But, at the point of putting her foot on the ramp, the lively and confident Miss Watkins, who had trailed behind finishing a conversation with Joe, balked. She shook her head like a horse refusing a fence, turned pale and began to breathe raggedly. Joe, close behind, recognized the symptoms and put a comforting arm under hers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘And, above all, don’t be concerned if the wings appear to wobble alarmingly. They’re supposed to do that. Watch them carefully and, should they stop wobbling, then you may start to worry. These big planes are perfectly safe, you know, and the company has an unblemished record. Look — do you see — it’s an Argosy. That means it’s got four wings, three engines and two pilots. That should be enough to get us through.’ He wished he could believe all this rot himself. ‘And, look, Miss Watkins. . Heather. . take this. I find it really helps.’ He passed her a lump of barley sugar.

A second steward in spanking white mess jacket and white peaked cap welcomed them aboard what he proudly called ‘the Silver Wing service’ and, taking them for a couple, ushered them towards a pair of seats alongside at the rear of the plane.

‘Every passenger has a window seat, you see,’ said Joe, helping her to settle. ‘Though you can always draw the curtain across, should you have vertigo.’

They braced themselves for take-off. It came with the usual terrifying snarls of the engine and bumps along the runway and then there was the stomach-clenching moment of realization that the machine had torn itself free of the earth and was soaring at an impossible angle upwards. A glance through the oil-spattered glass showed the grey blur of London disappearing below them. Higher up, the sunlight brightened and they caught the full glow of the westering sun gilding the meadows and woods of southern England.

‘It will be dark before we arrive, won’t it?’ Heather Watkins asked, suffering a further pang of apprehension.

‘Yes,’ Joe admitted. ‘This is technically the night flight, after all. We should touch down just before ten o’clock.’

‘But how will the pilot. .?’ Hearing the naïveté of her question, Heather fell silent.

‘Beacons all the way along the flight route,’ said Joe confidently. ‘But while the light lasts, he’ll just follow the railway lines. Look — over there!’ He pointed out a group of buildings below. ‘You can see exactly where we are. Do you see — it’s Ashford. That was the railway station. They paint the names of the main stations on the roof in big white letters all the way to Paris. They have emergency landing strips every few miles. And even in the dark the pilot can’t mistake the Eiffel Tower. It’s lit like a Christmas tree!’

Miss Watkins checked every few seconds to see that the wings were wobbling satisfactorily, the railway lines still beneath them, and finally began to relax.

‘Doing anything interesting in Paris?’ Joe asked when he judged she was capable of a sensible reply.

‘Oh, the usual things,’ she said. ‘Shopping and shows for a few days then we’re all off to the south of France. For the tennis tournament.’ She fell silent.

‘Do you observe or compete?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I play. Not very well. I mean I’m not in the Suzanne Lenglen or Helen Wills league yet but I’m improving. The boys,’ she indicated the four young men sitting ahead of them, ‘are all players. My brother Jim — that’s him with the red hair — is the team captain and general organizer. The other two girls are team wives. I’m the odd one out.’

‘Very odd,’ Joe agreed. ‘Most unusual. I’ve never met a lady tennis player before. One who plays seriously.’

‘There aren’t many of us in England. In France it’s thought rather dashing and quite the okay thing to be! We’re even allowed to wear skirts up to our knees over there.’

She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Look — here’s where we’re staying. . well, you never know. It’s a little hotel on the Left Bank. In the rue Jacob. Handy for the bookshops. And a stone’s throw from the police headquarters, funnily enough. .’ she added with a gurgle of laughter. ‘It’s right opposite the Quai des Orfèvres!’

‘I’m booked in at the Ambassador on the Right Bank, handy for the Opéra,’ he said lightly. ‘And a few steps away from the department stores. Au Printemps. . Galeries Lafayette, funnily enough . . One way or another, I think it’s very likely in the way of business or pleasure our paths will literally cross again. And if my mental map of Paris serves me well, that’ll be just about at Fauchon’s, Place de la Madeleine. In time for what they call “the five o’clock tea”.’

So that was the way to conquer a fear of flying — sit yourself next to a beautiful, athletic redhead and flirt your way there — Joe thought as they began to circle Paris, preparing to land at Le Bourget airfield just to the northeast. He wished he’d suggested something a little less staid than a salon de thé. The Deux Magots in St Germain would have struck a more adventurous note. Well, it was just a few stops on the electric tram and taxis were everywhere.

‘How are you getting in to the city?’ Joe asked. ‘It’s quite a few kilometres distant. .’

‘Oh, Jim’s ordered a couple of taxis. You?’

‘A colleague from the Quai des Orfèvres is coming to collect me. In a police car, I expect,’ said Joe. ‘All screeching sirens and flashing lights — that would be his style!’