Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘Don’t worry – it doesn’t show,’ he confided. ‘The bulge, I mean. That cape covers a multitude of sins.’

  In India, for many good reasons, she’d always gone about armed. He’d met her just after the war when she’d first come out from England. The unexpected inheritor of an old-fashioned family trading company of international importance, young Alice had set about reorganizing the business with dash and inspiration. Her hands on the reins had been firm and capable and she found many to applaud her performance. For her admirers – and George counted himself one of the foremost of these – Alice was beautiful, talented and enchanting. But the ruthlessness she had inevitably needed to exercise had made her enemies. Enemies who would not shrink from removing her permanently from her post at the head of the company. Her own husband, George remembered, had led this faction.

  And, it seemed that for Alice Conyers, though thousands of miles separated her from the scenes of her alleged crimes, there were still people she needed to defend herself against, even here in civilized Paris. She smiled and raised an eyebrow in affected incomprehension at his remark and launched into a bright inconsequential chatter which she maintained with some skill throughout the interval. A surprisingly easy conversation. She gave every sign of enjoying the gossip he had to lay out and added a few insights and reflections of her own which took him by surprise. ‘But I had no idea, Alice!’ he heard himself exclaiming. ‘I say – can you be certain of that? Well, I never! Deceitful old baggage! And her daughter was . . .? You don’t say!’

  Any third party joining them would have heard a friendly couple talking with enthusiasm and good humour of mutual acquaintances, of experiences they had shared. They were professionals in their own separate ways, the pair of them, George reflected. They could play this game till the cows came home. And often had. But they both greeted the removal of the tray announcing the start of the second half with relief.

  At least he would now be able with some confidence to hand her over to the authorities with a warning: ‘Disarm her and don’t listen to a word she says.’ Something on those lines. He doubted that the flics would know what he was on about if he talked of Circe and her spells, the ensnaring silver sounds of the Sirens. No, better just to say the woman’s got a pistol under her cloak and she’s wanted on two continents.

  A considerable feat of engineering, he judged, was what they were witnessing. To more preparatory blasts of jazz music, a huge egg of highly decorated Fabergé fantasy, its shell trimmed all about with golden flowers, began to descend slowly from the great height of the theatre roof and slowed to hover low over the orchestra pit. After a moment, the device burst open like a flower, the petals thrust apart by the person crouching inside. The floor of the golden oval gleamed and shimmered in the carefully placed spotlights, a mirror reflecting the figure of the occupant. Josephine Baker stood, slender, motionless, arms slightly extended towards her audience with all the naked dignity, George thought, of the wondrous Tanagra figurines he’d seen in the Alexandria museum. The same rich earthenware colour, the same grave attitude and finely modelled features. A goddess.

  But then the deity grinned – a very ungodlike smile – wide and flashing with good humour. Her elbows went out to her side, akimbo, her legs, apparently disjointed, echoed the movement, and, twitching frenetically in rhythm with the band which now belted out a Charleston, she danced. Shocking, mad but compelling, her movements caused the only piece of costume she wore – a string of silvery bananas around her waist – to jiggle and bounce, catching and reflecting the light.

  The dance was soon over. The petals of the flower closed over her and she was hoisted slowly back up into the shadows of the roof, to deafening applause.

  More acts followed, thick and fast and with little continuity, but all were first rate of their kind. The audience remained appreciative, knowing they were to see one more appearance by the star who always, according to Alice, returned to join the dancing troupe and the other performers for a huge and lavishly dressed finale – the ‘Golden Fountain’.

  But this evening they were treated to an extra, unscheduled appearance by Miss Baker. In the hour or so between her acts when she might have been expected to be relaxing in her dressing room, she suddenly, between two turns, dashed on to the stage and came forward to speak into the microphone. The spotlight operator had just followed offstage a handsome young crooner and was taken aback, as was everyone, but recovered to track back and highlight the star. Her stagecraft overcame her excitement and she waited until she was illuminated to claim the full attention of the audience. She looked around the auditorium, her hands extended in the peremptory gesture artistes use to indicate that applause would not be welcome at this moment. Her head flicked from side to side, involving the occupants of both boxes, and she was ready. George listened, breathless with anticipation. He had the impression she was speaking directly to him.

  ‘Bonnes nouvelles! Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said in her warm American voice, ‘Charles Lindbergh has arrived! The Spirit of St Louis has landed in France!’

  The outburst that greeted this simple statement was extraordinary. George put his hands over his ears then took them down again to join in the clapping. Shouts, whistles and cheers rang out. Most of the male members of the audience, and some of the women, climbed on to their seats, the better to express their enthusiasm. The din went on in many languages as people translated for each other. Americans in the auditorium were singled out for especially warm congratulations.

  George’s trained observer’s eye delighted in identifying the different nationalities’ reactions amongst the audience. The unrestrained whooping of the American contingent was unmistakable, the clapping and murmuring of the English a counterpoint and, underpinning all, the squealing, fluttering expressiveness of the French. He wouldn’t have expected such warmth from them, he thought, saddened as the nation was by the news that its own French entrant in the race to make the crossing had been lost at sea only a week ago. He wondered cynically whether they rightly understood that the St Louis whose spirit was now amongst them was a southern American town – and, coincidentally, the home town of Miss Baker – and not, as they might be forgiven for understanding, a reference to their own saintly king of France.

  He leaned to share this thought with Alice, to find that he was once again alone in his box.

  Wretched girl! His first feeling of self-recrimination for his careless lapse in attention was followed very quickly by one of intense relief. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He luxuriated in the feeling for a moment. She was no problem of his. He pictured her scuttling away to hide herself in a city she’d made her own. He could never find her now. Useless even to think of pursuit. He struggled with a reckless and bubbling joy, acknowledging for the first time the nature of his concern for the woman. Against all his fears, she was alive and had taken the time to show herself to him. The irrepressible thought that came to mind was: ‘Good luck, Alice, wherever you’re going. I hope you get away with it at the last! Whatever you’re up to . . .’

  He acknowledged that the glamour had faded from his evening but sat on and admired the last flourish – the ensemble gathering staged amidst miles of golden satin, tulle, sequins and bobbing ostrich feathers – and clapped heartily as the curtains swung closed for the last time. As the house lights came on, he glanced across to the opposite box to check on the rogue Somerton.

  ‘Ah! So your girl’s cut loose too!’ he muttered to himself, surprised to see that his acquaintance was alone. Surprised also to find that Somerton was sitting slumped over the rim of the box, fast asleep. ‘Through all that din?’ George was instantly alert. The man’s posture was unnatural. No man, however elderly, could have snoozed his way through that performance. Alice’s warning words concerning heart attacks among the susceptible flashed into his mind. Good Lord! The poor old bugger had had a seizure! No more than he deserved but – all the same – what bad luck. And the girl must have gone off to seek assistance
.

  George gathered himself together, preparing to battle his way to the exit through the still over-excited crowds. He fought against his sense of duty but it won. Suppose the girl didn’t speak English? That she didn’t know the identity of her escort? That she had just abandoned him to be swept up with the discarded chocolate boxes? His diplomat’s antennae for international scandal were sending him signals he could not ignore. The villain was, after all, a baronet, now possibly a dead baronet, and if the gutter press were to get hold of the circumstances, he could imagine the headlines. But the other news of the evening, luckily, George argued with himself, would squeeze the plight of an English aristocrat off the front pages. Nevertheless, and cursing his compulsion always to take charge of any delicate or dangerous situation, George hesitated and then, mind made up, turned resolutely to shoulder his way against the tide flowing towards the bar and the exits and headed for Somerton’s box.

  He gave a perfunctory tap and walked straight in. Somerton was indeed by himself and, to all appearances, fast asleep, head comfortably cushioned on the padded upholstery. George cleared his throat noisily and followed this with a sharp exclamation: ‘Somerton! Come on, wake up! Show’s over!’

  The absolute stillness and lack of response confirmed all George’s fears. He moved over to the man and knelt by his chair placing a finger behind his right ear where he might expect the absence of a pulse to tell him all. He snatched his finger away at once. He looked at his hand in horror. Black and sticky in the discreetly dim light of the box, there was no mistaking it. With a surge of revulsion, George seized hold of the chair-back to hoist himself to his feet. He had not thought to calculate the effect of his considerable weight being applied in a desperate manoeuvre to the elegant but insubstantial modern chair. It tilted and the body of Somerton heeled over, threatening to land in his lap. The expressionless face was inches from his own, eyes staring open but focused on a presence beyond George. George’s hand shot out in an instinctive attempt to support the back of the lolling head which seemed about to roll away. A wide slash across the throat had almost severed the head from the rest of the body and quantities of blood had gushed all the way down his shirt and evening dress.

  Ignoring the protests of his arthritic old knees and gargling with disgust, George staggered upright, taking the weight of both the chair and the lolling body against his chest, struggling to right them.

  A gasp and a squeal made him turn his head in the middle of this black, Keystone Cops moment and he saw ‘his’ ouvreuse standing huge-eyed and speechless in the doorway.

  Chapter Six

  The hammering on the door of his room at the Ambassador Hotel had been going on for a while before Joe Sandilands swam up to consciousness. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. The last thing he’d done before his eyes closed was put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his doorknob. He’d planned to sleep until midday at least. And now, only three hours after he’d slumped into his bed, here was some lunatic going against all the well-oiled discreet tradition of a French hotel.

  Joe cleared his throat and reached for his voice. ‘Bugger off! Go away!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know it’s Sunday morning?’

  A silence was followed by another fusillade. More peremptory this time, sharper. An authoritative voice called out to him: ‘Monsieur Sandilands. This is the manager here. You are requested to come down at once to the lobby. We have England on the telephone. Long distance and they are holding. Scotland Yard insists on speaking to you.’

  Joe was alarmed. Always cost-cutting, the department didn’t waste money on trunk calls unless they had something serious to impart. He shouted back his thanks and said he’d come straight down to the reception desk.

  Minutes later he was enclosed in the guests’ phone booth in the lobby taking a call from the Assistant Commissioner himself. Major-General Sir Wyndham Childs, i/c CID. His dry soldier’s voice leapt straight to the point with no preamble.

  ‘Having a spot of bother with the French police . . . thought you might be able to help out . . . and how fortunate we are that you’re right there on hand. Look – we know you’re scheduled to attend the Interpol conference – starting when? – tomorrow. Just put that on hold, will you? We’ll send out someone to cover for you and you can rejoin your party as soon as you can see your way through. There’s been a rather nasty occurrence. Over there in Paris. One of our countrymen murdered in his box at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées last night. Knifed to death, I am informed. The French police have made an arrest and a suspect has been detained in a cell at the Quai des Orfèvres where he’s currently giving a statement.’

  Joe marshalled his thoughts, regretting last night’s excesses. ‘That is sad news indeed, sir. But there’s not a great deal I can do. The victim may be English and I’m sorry to hear it, but if, as you say, the murder was committed on French soil it must be the province of the Police Judiciaire. We couldn’t possibly interfere . . .’ Joe hesitated. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Sir Wyndham knew all this perfectly well.

  A stifled exclamation of irritation which might have been ‘Tut!’ or ‘Pshaw!’ or even a click on the line startled him into adding hurriedly: ‘. . . unless there’s something I could do towards identification of the body. Do we know who the unfortunate gentleman is?’

  An awkward silence was followed by: ‘They have a strong suspicion that the deceased is an English aristocrat and ex-soldier. Sir Stanley Somerton.’

  Joe used the pause following this pronouncement to search his mental records. ‘Sorry, sir. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of the man.’

  ‘No. I don’t wonder.’ There was no warmth in the reply. ‘He did spend most of his time travelling abroad after all. And kept well out of our sphere of activities.’

  ‘Have you been asked to send out any members of the family to confirm identity, sir? I’d gladly be on hand to receive them and guide them through the process – it’s all rather different over here. The Paris morgue is not a particularly . . . well . . . you shouldn’t think of sending in someone of a nervous disposition. Perhaps someone at the Embassy could –’

  ‘Stop rattling on, Sandilands! We’re sending over his wife. Lady Catherine has been informed and is packing as we speak. She’ll be on the noon flight arriving at teatime – you know the score – and I want you to arrange to see her when she fetches up at police HQ. No need to go to Le Bourget to meet her – the Embassy are taking care of all that. You can do the hand-holding business in the morgue.’

  Joe was encouraged by a lightening in the tone to reply: ‘Right-o, sir. I’ll parade with smelling salts and handkerchief at a time to be arranged. Um . . . have they told us whom they have arrested for this crime?’

  ‘They have indeed.’ The Assistant Commissioner was once again deadly serious. ‘And this is where you come in, Joe. You will want to be involved in whatever capacity you can contrive for yourself when I tell you that the suspect they’ve arrested is George. George Jardine. Friend of yours, I understand? When we heard, someone said straight away, “Get Sandilands out there.”’

  Joe mastered his astonishment and disbelief to reply firmly: ‘Terrible news. But not the disaster you suggest, surely, sir? It must be a misunderstanding . . . a mix-up with the language . . . failure to communicate one way or another at any rate – Sir George is a diplomat. And a top one at that! He has immunity. He might have shot dead the whole front row of the chorus and he could be lounging at ease with a reviving cup of tea in the shelter of the British Embassy out of reach of the Law. Why is he in a police cell? This is outrageous!’

  ‘Ah, you don’t know . . . you hadn’t heard?’ Agusty sigh down the telephone and then: ‘George no longer has diplomatic status, I’m afraid. He resigned his post a couple of months ago. He’s retired. Hasn’t quite severed his links – talks of returning – but, officially (and that’s all that counts with the French), he’s a free agent, no longer employed by HM Government and no longer under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity.
Unlisted. A huge loss. One might have expected them to show some respect for his past position and let the matter drop. But the chap I spoke to who seems to be handling the case is one of those heel-clicking martinets you trip across sometimes over the Channel. Brittle. Self-important. You know the type. We’re not short of a few over here . . . Anyway, I see from your file, Sandilands, which I have before me, that you have experience in dealing with this style of Gallic intractability . . . interpreter during the war, weren’t you? We must have a drink when you’ve sorted all this out – I’d like to hear your slant on old Joffre. Anyway. Mustn’t keep you. Get on down there, will you? Let me see . . . their HQ is at . . . now where did I . . .?’

  ‘36, Quai des Orfèvres, sir,’ said Joe. ‘Staircase A. I’ve visited before. Makes our HQ look like Aladdin’s palace. I’ll do what I can and report back, er, this evening.’

  ‘Very well. Oh, and, Sandilands – feel free to reverse the charges, will you? No expense to be spared on this one. Better take down my home number. Got a pen?’

  Joe replaced the hand-set and stayed on in the booth for a moment or two, deep in thought. He went to the reception desk where the manager was still hovering nervously with a solicitous eye to the English gentleman now revealed to be an agent of the British police force. Joe spoke in a reassuring undertone requesting more telephone time. He needed to put a call through to this number. He handed him a card, carefully avoiding using the word ‘police’. Guests were beginning to trickle through on their way to breakfast in the dining room and Joe recollected that hotel management the world over had a horror of any suggestion of police activity, even benign activity. Luckily Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye’s card simply gave his name and telephone number.

  Joe went back into the booth and waited through several clicks and bangs for the ringing tone that told him the manager had successfully made contact with the number. Disconcertingly, it was a young woman’s voice that answered sleepily. He asked to be allowed to speak to his colleague Jean-Philippe.