Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘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!’

  He smiled at the mention of his colleague and relished the thought of the warm greetings they would exchange. Inspector Bonnefoye. Late of Reims. Now, thanks to his undeniable talent and his great charm, promoted to the Police Judiciaire squad in Paris. A useful contact. Relations between the English and the French police departments were not often easy. Joe had made known his plans for attending the conference and Bonnefoye, with Gallic insouciance, had set about pulling strings and calling in favours, making promises – who knew what? – to get himself appointed to the French contingent at the Interpol jamboree. Not that Bonnefoye seemed prepared to take it seriously. His telephone conversations had been full of plans of an entertaining nature which had little to do with international crime fighting.

  The Argosy circled the Eiffel Tower, Joe judged for the satisfaction of the passengers rather than in response to any navigational imperative, then headed off to the northeast and lined itself up, head into the wind facing an illuminated landing strip, and made a delicate touchdown. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was the stewards’ odd behaviour that warned Joe. Suddenly unconfident, they advised the passengers to remain seated: ‘. . . until we have taxied up to the hangar. There appears to be an impediment on the runway,’ one of them improvised. The other climbed the stairs communicating with the cockpit to confer with the crew and he returned looking no less puzzled. The doors remained closed. No staff came forward to open the door and release them. And something was going on outside the plane.

  Peering through the gloom, Joe saw, to his astonishment, shadows moving on the tarmacked runway, lights from torches and flares skittering everywhere. The passengers sat on, docile and puzzled.

  Joe got to his feet and, with a calming gesture to the two stewards, made his way down the gangway to the front of the plane. With a bland smile he murmured: ‘I speak a little French.’ They nodded dubiously and made no attempt to remonstrate with him. No one ever challenged a man confident enough to make such an assertion on foreign soil, he found. He nipped up the steps and located the two pilots seated in the open cockpit.

  ‘Captain! Commander Sandilands here. Scotland Yard. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Problem? I’ll say!’ came the shouted reply. ‘People! It’s worse than a football crowd. Look at them! They’re standing ten deep up there on the viewing gallery. And they’re milling around everywhere, all over the runways. Damned dangerous, if you ask me! And where are the airport staff? Can’t move until they’ve cleared this mob away. What the hell’s going on? Some strange French Saturday night entertainment?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Joe groaned. ‘I think I can guess what’s going on. It’s Charles Lindbergh! Attempting the transatlantic crossing. It was on the wireless – he was sighted over Ireland this afternoon. Made much better time than anyone expected and I’d guess this mob’s gathered to watch him land. We must have beaten him to it by a few minutes. Dashed inconvenient! And we’re a huge disappointment to all these idiots on the runway. It’s not us they’ve come out from Paris to see. Ah, look! At last – they’ve twigged. They’re pushing off, I think. They’ll leave us alone now.’

  ‘Lucky Lindy!’ said the captain. ‘Well, well! Never thought he’d do it! I can see a space now. Sir – would you mind returning to your seat? I think I can get through to the hangar.’

  Joe made his way back to his place, passing on the news to the passengers as he moved down the aisle. Heather Watkins was thrilled to hear it and at once called forward to her brother: ‘Jim! I want to stay to see Charles Lindbergh! Take care of my luggage, will you? If we get separated I’ll meet you back at the hotel!’

  Joe was amused to hear the decisive and energetic girl emerge from the heap of anxiety he had sat next to for three hours but felt he ought to offer advice: ‘Do hang on to someone’s arm, Miss Watkins. It’s a menacing scene out there. Stay close to your group!’

  The plane taxied on to an apron by the Imperial Airways hangar and, with no exterior staff in evidence, the stewards opened the door themselves and released the passengers on to the tarmac. They stood, paralysed, unable to negotiate the crowds, wondering which way to turn. Joe’s eyes were searching for the familiar form of a police car when he felt his arm seized by a strong hand.

  ‘Joe! I had no idea you were so popular!’ said Inspector Bonnefoye. ‘Welcome to Paris! The car’s over there. Let me take your bags.’ He gestured to a police car parked, lights on, engine running and pointing in the direction of the city with the driver at the wheel. They pushed their way over to it and threw the bags into the back seat.

  ‘Bonnefoye! Never more pleased to see you, old man!’

  ‘But you didn’t tell me you were to be accompanied?’ Bonnefoye was eyeing Miss Watkins with interest.

  ‘A fellow passenger separated from her group. Miss Watkins,’ said Joe, surprised to find that she’d followed him but relieved to see she’d abandoned her notion of staying to see Lindbergh touch down. ‘I say, would you have room for her? She’s bound for the city centre also. Her taxi doesn’t seem to have made it through.’

  ‘I’m sure I can squeeze Miss Watkins in the back,’ said Bonnefoye easily, and Joe was amused to hear the automatic gallantry in his voice.

  Before they could get in they were startled by the whining and coughing sound of an engine low over their heads, making for the runway. The crowd screamed and pushed its way to the sides as the monoplane, gleaming briefly silver as it passed b
etween the searchlights, throttled back noisily and set down on the runway, continuing onwards towards a dark part of the airfield. In evident confusion, the pilot stopped and turned the plane around, nose pointing back to the hangars. But before he had gone far in this direction, he cut the engine abruptly, no doubt in regard for the crowd as people surged back again, risking loss of limbs, unaware of the danger of the scything propeller blades. For a moment the Spirit of St Louis stood in the middle of the track way, small, battered, oil- and salt-caked and unimpressive once out of its element of air. And then, as the engine spluttered its last, souvenir-hunters moved in and began to pull strips of canvas from the wings, tugging anything that yielded from the framework of the plane. Press camera bulbs flashed and popped, trained on the door.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Joe shouted, horrified. ‘Do something, Bonnefoye! Those maniacs will tear the poor bugger apart! He’s been flying solo in an open cockpit for a day and a half over the Atlantic – he won’t be in any fit state to face up to a reception like this!’

  As he spoke, the pair of them were already shouldering their way back through the crowd, using their height and aggressive energy to forge their way through to the door. Flourishing their warrant cards in a valiant attempt to keep the masses at bay, they stood together, arms extended, holding an uncomfortably small space free in front of the plane. After a moment, a window slid open and a voice called uncertainly: ‘Does anyone here speak English?’

  ‘We do!’ Joe shouted back. ‘Captain Lindbergh! Welcome and congratulations! I think it might be a good idea if you were to get out, sir, and we’ll escort you to the hangar.’

  The door opened and the tall figure of Charles Lindbergh appeared, blinking in the spotlights and the flash of the cameras. With a cry of concern, Bonnefoye put an arm under his shoulders and helped him to the ground, murmuring words of welcome. The pilot was pale and weary and looked much less than his twenty-five years. He stared in dismay at the jostling mass between him and safety and Joe remembered that, by all accounts, the young man was terrified of crowds. Taking his other arm, Joe felt his panic and the stiffness of his limbs and came to a decision.

  ‘Captain, this is an impossible situation you’ve flown into. Idiotic, unplanned and damned dangerous! If only we could get you over to the hangar . . . Look – why don’t you give me your flying helmet and take my hat instead?’

  Lindbergh’s eyes brightened with instant understanding. ‘A decoy? That what you have it in mind to be, sir?’

  ‘Might work. I’m tall. I can keep my hair covered, shout cheerful platitudes in English. That’s all they want. In any case, I don’t suppose they’ve any idea what you look like. Anyone in a flying helmet and talking English is going to get the attention of this crowd. Let’s give them a run for their money, shall we?’

  The American grinned and nodded. ‘Well, I’d call that a very sporting offer . . . and good luck to you, sir . . .’

  They ducked down and, crouching under cover of the wing, swapped headgear.

  ‘They’ll never think of chasing after a couple,’ said a confident English voice and Heather Watkins pushed forward. She stood on tiptoe and adjusted the black fedora firmly over the aviator’s golden hair. Companionably, she tucked an arm through his. ‘Right, er, Charles, the hangar’s that way. And just by it there’s a police car with its engine running and a driver who knows where he’s going. How about it?’

  They strolled off, unimpeded, and Joe heard with amusement her cheerful voice: ‘Now – tell me – how was your flight?’

  And the laconic response: ‘Why, just fine – and yours?’

  Joe had no time to hear more. He straightened and moved to arrange himself with a tentative wave in the searchlight now trained on the cockpit door, helmet strap dangling provocatively. ‘Well, hi there, folks! I guess this must be Paris . . .’

  He got no further. In a second he was swept up with a howl of triumph on to the shoulders of two men in the crowd and carried off in parade down the runway towards the terminal building. The throng on the viewing gallery cheered. Joe turned this way and that, nodding and waving to his admirers, shouting the occasional greeting or navigational direction in English. Worse than riding an elephant. His back was slapped repeatedly, his hands wrung, he was lowered and hoisted on to fresh shoulders several times. A painful experience and not one to be endured for long.

  Eventually, after spending what he considered an overgenerous amount of his time on this performance, he bent and informed his bearers that after more than thirty hours in the air he needed to have a pee. Urgently. He reckoned they had ten seconds to set him down. It seemed to work. Once his feet were on the ground, he made off at speed towards the hangar, tearing off the helmet as he ran. The front door of Bonnefoye’s car opened at his approach and he flung himself inside. Bonnefoye and Miss Watkins were sitting together on the back seat.

  ‘What have you done with our hero?’ panted Joe.

  ‘Dropped him off at Reception in the hangar. He’ll be all right. The American Ambassador’s taken cover in there with him, offering medical aid, engineering assistance and a bed and breakfast at the Embassy when they can make a break for it. And now, Sandilands, if you’ve quite finished horsing around and showing off, perhaps we can extricate ourselves from this mêlée and get ahead of the crowd before they all block the road back into Paris.’ Bonnefoye looked anxiously at his watch. ‘If you’d taken many more curtain calls we’d have missed the best of the entertainment at Zelli’s, which is where I’m planning we’ll make a start.’

  Chapter Five

  Act followed act and George settled to enjoy himself. Music Hall. This was something he could respond to. And the quality of the turns was high – the best the world had to offer, he would have thought, and lavishly staged. He admired especially a slender woman in a tight black sheath, and was moved to wiping a sentimental tear from his eye as she sang of the fickleness of men. He wasn’t quite sure about the androgynous creature who swung out over the audience on a Watteau-like, flower-bedecked swing and, at the end of the act, peeled off a blonde wig to reveal a man’s hairless scalp. Not entertaining. But he enjoyed the lines of chorus girls, performing complex manoeuvres to the split second. Some backstage drill sergeant deserved a commendation, George reckoned.

  To huge enthusiasm, Josephine Baker made a second appearance just before the interval but this time she sang. Coming forward and involving the audience with a touching directness she warbled in a thin, little-girl’s voice, strange but, once heard, unforgettable, of her two loves: J’ai deux amours, Mon pays et Paris . . .

  Everyone including George was enchanted. Except, apparently, for Alice. She leaned over and whispered: ‘Two loves? Is that all she’s declaring? Ha! And the other thousand!’ Miss Baker bowed and laughed and made her way offstage, the curtain was lowered and the lights began to come on again in the auditorium. Alice started to fidget. Under the pretence of stretching her legs, she moved her chair stealthily back a foot or so and lifted the hood of her cape to cover her head again. Odd behaviour. George wondered whether he should remark on it and decided to give no indication he’d noticed anything strange. If she wanted to tell him, she would tell him in her own good time of whom she was so afraid. But he rather thought it was not her intention to confide in him at all. Do you whisper your terrors to the trunk of a sheltering oak tree when the lightning is flashing all around? No, you stay under its branches looking out, with just the anxious eyes Alice was trying to hide from him, until the storm was over. But perhaps there was some revealing reaction he could provoke?

  ‘Ah, the interval already,’ he exclaimed jovially. ‘I say, Alice, I was rather expecting my cousin Jack would be with me tonight. I’ve ordered up a tray of whisky . . . not at all suitable for a lady. I’ll just speed off and change that to champagne, shall I? Or is there something else you’d prefer? Now what was that pink drink you used to like?’ He started to get up. ‘Though – we could go and show our faces in the bar?’

>   Her reaction was instant. She seized him by the arm, trying to hold him in his place. ‘No! You’re quite wrong, George. I’ll drink whisky with great pleasure. Don’t go off into those crowds, you’ll never find your way back and we’ll lose minutes of precious time. It’s been five years – you must have such lots to tell me. Let’s just stay quietly here, shall we? And talk about old times.’ And then, with relief: ‘Ah – here are our drinks.’

  So – he hadn’t imagined her nervousness, her undeclared need to stay close to him. She decidedly didn’t want to be left alone up here, ogled by the crowd.

  Even the waiter came in for a searching look from Alice and she fell silent, watching his every move until he left with his tip. George poured out two glasses, offering her one of them.

  ‘Let’s drink to absent friends,’ he said, still probing.

  She smiled. ‘So many of them! But I’m thinking of one in particular. Of Joe. Joe Sandilands. My handsome Nemesis. Do you remember? Do you know what became of him?’

  ‘Indeed. A dear friend. Joe’s doing well. I follow his career with interest. We’ve arranged to see each other in London when I move on there. I understand he’s gone on dodging bullets and breaking hearts – you know the sort of thing.’

  Alice gurgled with laughter. ‘I rather think he broke my bullet and dodged my heart,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad to hear he’s being a success.’

  George noticed that she sipped delicately at her whisky, controlling her features to hide her dislike. He decided to torment her. ‘Not too fond of the hooch, I see? I’d have expected you to down it in one with a resounding belch – seasoned gun-slinger that you are.’

  He settled back into his seat, pleased to have evoked – and, he was sure, accurately interpreted – an instinctive reaction. The slightest twitch of her right hand towards her right side told him all he wanted to know.