‘Luckily, a British official of some sort who happened to be leaving a meeting was collared by the distraught American who’d just avoided putting his foot in something very nasty and this Briton, using the several languages he spoke, backed up by – shall we say – a certain natural authority . . .’ Moulin paused and grinned apologetically at Joe.
‘Arrogance, you can say if you wish,’ suggested Joe easily. ‘We learn it on school playing fields – or charging enemy machine-gun nests armed with a swagger-stick and shouting: “Follow me, lads!” But I can imagine what you’re going to say and – I’d have done the same, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, the Englishman took charge. Jack Pollock, his name was, and thank goodness he was there.’
Joe had reached automatically for his notebook but, remembering his promise, he relaxed.
‘He calmed everyone down and sent for all the right people. A policeman was on the spot to see fair play, I remember.’
‘And you found a body in the case? Dripping blood on to the floor? Not very well hidden?’
‘No. I think it was meant to be found. And the finding was timed . . . orchestrated, you might say.’
‘Who was in the box?’
‘Two bodies. Below: the rightful occupant, a High Priest of some sort, and on top: an alien presence. A professor of Egyptology. Stabbed. Messily. The killer knew enough about knife work to ensure that the body drained itself of blood. Weapon? A type of butcher’s knife, I wrote in my report. Something capable of stabbing and ripping open. A pig farmer could advise perhaps? It was never found. But we did find, in the throat, and sucked right down into the breathing passages of the deceased, wads of linen bindings. Ancient linen. Taken from the body of some other mummy. He’d been forced to swallow the stuff.’
‘Deeply unpleasant!’ Joe could not contain his revulsion.
‘That wasn’t the worst. I say, you won’t arrest me if I make a confession, will you, Sandilands?’
‘Good Lord! Depends what you’re confessing. If you want to tell me you’re the Mastermind behind all this, I’ll have you in cuffs at once!’
Moulin smiled, got to his feet and went to take a small box from a shelf. ‘I’m going to show you something I stole. From an evidence file. It comes from the scene of the crime.’
He handed the box to Joe who raised his brows in alarm on catching sight of the contents.
‘You can handle it. It’s been sterilized.’
‘Why would you need to do that?’ asked Joe, cautiously.
‘I removed it from the bloodied bandage lodged in the throat of the corpse of Professor Joachim Lebreton. It was sticky with various body fluids and an oil that had been used to ease the descent of the fabric down the tubes.’
‘Charming!’ Joe took the golden object gingerly and held it to the light between finger and thumb. ‘An amulet?’
‘No. Not my job, of course, to establish the provenance of exhibits but no one else seemed interested enough to do it. In the police report it’s listed as “imitation gold medallion, value 5 francs”. It would have been chucked out after a year but I was curious enough to preserve it. Oh, it’s not valuable. It’s not even ancient. A modern copy – gilded. Crudely done. Anyone with a bit of tin, a chisel and a pot of gold paint could produce the equivalent. Any mouleur-plaquiste could churn them out by the hundred. But you’d need to know your Egyptology. This is a bona fide, head and shoulders portrait, you might say.’
‘It’s a disgusting image! Whoever is this fellow? Or is it an animal?’ Joe peered more closely. ‘It seems to be half god, half bad-tempered greyhound. I know just enough to recognize that it’s not the rather stylish jackal-headed god, Anubis.’
‘You’re right. But he is a god all the same. And at one time widely venerated in Egypt. It’s the son of Ra and brother of Osiris.’
Joe shook his head. ‘We’re not acquainted. Don’t particularly wish to be.’
‘You show good taste! His name’s Set. Set murdered his brother and scattered his body parts all over Egypt. He debauched his own nephew Horus. In his capacity as Lord of the Desert, he had the power to stir up terrible storms. For the Ancient Egyptians, Set was utterly terrifying – the embodiment of Evil. The God of Evil.’
Joe put the gilded trinket back into its box. ‘I’m bringing no charge, Moulin. Let’s just keep the lid on him, shall we?’
Moulin, smiling, agreed. ‘And why don’t you take him away with you? I think I was just hanging on to him until someone who knew what he was about took an interest. You know, Sandilands, I think the purpose of that thing was to drop a hint as to motive for the crime. Out of the victim’s mouth came evil? Something on those lines? Again – no suspect was ever arrested. But, bearing in mind the closed circumstances, you’d have to say – an inside job. The man had many enemies. Archaeologist himself, he’d been ruthless in his acquisition of artefacts and had plundered his students’ and his fellows’ learned works for his own glory. He’d wrecked promising careers by his vitriolic criticism, his sly innuendoes. At least fifty academics must have raised a glass on hearing about the circumstances of his death. Now, they couldn’t all have been present at the discovery of the body but, Sandilands, a good many were. It never occurred to anyone pursuing the case to ask why so many experts, all known to the deceased, were right there on the spot.’
The doctor fell silent. Then: ‘There was a moment . . . When the amulet emerged, it dropped to the floor. Someone fainted at the sight of it and had to be taken out and I had the strangest sensation . . . I was acting in a drama. Onstage. Pushed on into the middle of a scene and left to improvise my part. The crowd – who should never have been allowed to remain – weren’t a crowd. They were . . . an audience. An invited audience.’
Moulin took a deep breath, relieved to have unburdened himself. ‘I say, Sandilands, does any of this make sense?’
‘Certainly does. My friend Sir George was himself pushed in, almost literally onstage, last night to perform the same function. And he was actually sent a ticket to the event! But, being an Englishman of a type you recognize, he bustled in rather too actively and got himself arrested for the murder. But, Moulin – four cases, in as many years? Is that all?’ Joe asked. And, tentatively: ‘If this were some sort of syndicate – shall we say? – taking commissions to carry out crimes spectacular to the general public or crimes deeply satisfying to the one who orders them up, well – we are rather assuming a business, I suppose. And businesses exist to make money. Not sure I’d take the enormous risks involved for the return. Are you? What must they charge? One killing per year? Overheads, knifemen, underlings to pay? Hush money! It wouldn’t work.’
Moulin’s expression was grim. ‘There are many more than four possibilities. I didn’t want to over-face you with detail but, if you can give me a week, I’m sure I can make out an expanded list for you. And there might be as many as twenty cases on it. Some less uncertain than others. And that’s just Paris. What do we know of other towns? But I agree with your unstated thought – it’s not just the financial returns, is it? There’s an underlying sense of . . . enjoyment?’
‘A sadistic indulgence?’ Joe said. ‘And with an added element of self-forgiveness – a twisted feeling of justification for the crimes. Someone else has paid for this. Someone else supplied the ingenious requirements of the death – the means, the scenario. So – someone else is to blame. The brain which devised the murders, the executive producer if you like, holds himself no more to blame than the dagger that came bloodstained from the heart of the victim. The guilt can be as easily washed away as the blood. Am I being fanciful?’
‘I’ve no training in psychology!’ said Moulin. ‘So you must put your theory to others. But I have to say I’ve travelled that same path, Sandilands.’
‘And the latest victim, congealing in one of your drawers? I wonder who dialled up his death?’ Suddenly decisive, Joe said: ‘I’m going to find out who’s behind the mask, Moulin. Whose hand held the Afghani dagger and whose
voice asked for it to be done. I’m going to have ’em both. I can’t go back four years in a foreign country, crusading for belated justice, but I can get to the bottom of this one that’s landed in my lap. And I’ll only get close to the truth by digging up the nastier bits of Somerton’s past. Not much chance the widow will confide but I know a man who I can persuade to cough up some details.’
Sensing that his guest was ready to leave and on the point of exhaustion, Moulin got to his feet. ‘Wait here, Sandilands, while I nip out and whistle up a taxi for you. Oh, and thinking of the rogue Somerton . . .’ He tapped the cover of the book Joe was still clutching. ‘Le mort qui tue. Read the title again. That’s le mort, not la mort. Dead man – not Death itself. The corpse that kills. Be warned! Have a care for your friend. We don’t want an innocent man, blundering in on a sorry episode, to pay for his well-meaning interference on the guillotine. I suspect this man, Somerton, has caused enough havoc in his life, I don’t want to think that, from the depths of the morgue, he has the power to kill again.’
Chapter Fourteen
He chose a dark side street behind the place de la Contrescarpe to pay off his taxi. Feeling mildly foolish but in no way allowing this to make him lower his guard, he waited in a doorway until he was sure he hadn’t been followed. When he was fully confident, Joe wandered into the small square lined with cafés and restaurants. The aperitif hour was swinging to a close and the tables were rapidly filling with diners. He browsed the menus displayed on boards outside or scrawled on the windows and made his choice. The Café des Arts, being the biggest and noisiest, had claimed his attention and he went inside to the bar, ordered a Pernod and paid for a telephone connection.
He’d committed Bonnefoye’s number to memory and destroyed the card and, in his state of fatigue, hoped he’d got it right.
The same lively female answered his tentative: ‘Umm . . . allô?’
‘There you are! Just in time for supper. You know how to get here? Good. See you in two minutes! Bye!’
No names, no details, he noticed. And none asked for. Whoever she was, Bonnefoye’s female was well trained. And hospitable.
Joe was conscious of the unusual honour the Inspector was doing him and Sir George by extending this invitation to take shelter in his own home. The French rarely asked friends to dinner at their flat or house. Friendships were pursued in the café or restaurant or at shooting weekends in the country. If the Englishman’s home was his castle, the Frenchman’s was a keep with the drawbridge permanently up to repel invaders or visitors.
Bonnefoye had been surprised and enchanted with his first taste of British hospitality the previous winter. Welcoming the Frenchman on an official visit to London, Joe had taken responsibility for the young officer and invited him to spend a long weekend with him at his sister’s house in Surrey. An instant love-affair had flowered. The English family had fallen for Bonnefoye at first sight and Jean-Philippe had been equally smitten. He probably considered he was in Joe’s debt in the hospitality stakes but Joe was, nevertheless, surprised and charmed by the gesture.
And concerned. The man kept his address a close secret and doubtless for excellent reasons. Joe had no intention of bringing danger within his orbit. He was keeping up his guard. He ambled around the square again, marking his exit, and when he was sure he was unobserved, he slipped off into the rue Mouffetard. A lamp-lighter was moving down the street creating romantic pools of light and Joe hurried to get ahead of him, hugging the shadows. He was looking for a baker’s shop. In the alleyway to the side of it he found a door which opened at his tap.
He was greeted by Bonnefoye who closed and bolted the door behind him. ‘We’ve got him settled in,’ he told Joe as he led the way up a flight of stairs. ‘All’s well! Through here – it’s a bit crowded and you’ll have to share a room with me if you want to give the Ambassador a miss tonight. I gave Sir George our only guest room.’
Sir George was sitting at a kitchen table shelling peas. He was under instruction from a middle-aged woman who, with her striking dark looks, could be no other than Bonnefoye’s mother, and he appeared to be doing well at his task. His manicured thumbnail was slicing along with skill, making short work of the pods. When his mentor turned to greet Joe, he stuffed a podful of peas into his mouth and was sharply rapped on the knuckles.
‘Now add the spring onions and the butter . . . more lettuce leaves on top . . . tiny drop of stock . . . don’t drown it . . . and there you are! Put it on the stove. Back burner . . . So glad to meet you at last, Commander!’ The voice from the telephone. Youthful, bossy and eager. ‘I’m running a little late this evening and I’ve had to call up reinforcements.’ She flashed a devastating smile at George. He grinned and mumbled a greeting across the table, content to take a back seat in the proceedings.
Madame Bonnefoye was much younger than George – perhaps fifty years old but, in the way of Frenchwomen, still attractive. She whisked off her grey pinafore to reveal a black widow’s dress enlivened by a pink scarf draped at the neck. Bonnefoye’s father, he had told Joe, had fallen at Verdun.
‘Jean-Philippe! A glass of wine for the Commander! It’s one from our home village in Burgundy. We bring it back in quantities. You boys have ten minutes to exchange information before you present yourselves at table. It will be a very simple supper: I made some soup to start with, then the butcher had some excellent veal which will be good with George’s petits pois à l’étuvé, followed by cheese and, since Jean-Philippe tells me you Englishmen are fond of sweet things, I’ve got some chocolate éclairs from the pâtissier.’
Joe decided he’d died and gone to heaven and, as he’d always thought it might, heaven smelled of herb soup and rang with a woman’s laughter.
He went to sit in the small salon of the apartment with Jean-Philippe, listening to the chatter from the kitchen. George’s stately but adventurous French sentences rolled out, to be punctuated by sharp bursts of amusement and exclamation from Madame Bonnefoye.
‘First things first,’ said Joe. ‘Security. I’m as sure as I can be I wasn’t followed here. You?’
‘Sure. But we mustn’t reduce the level of precaution. A message came by telephone late this afternoon. From Miss Watkins, I’m afraid. One of my staff took it down and I’ve translated it but I think it’s very clear. All too clear!’ He passed Joe a scrap of paper.
My new boyfriend very keen! He even came shopping with me. Was compelled to go on the offensive. He has a two-inch red scar on his left jaw.
Joe was aghast. He picked out the word which most alarmed him. ‘“Offensive”, she says?’
Bonnefoye cleared his throat. ‘This ties in with a report we had from the Galeries Lafayette,’ he said. ‘To be precise – from the ladies’ underwear department. A customer lodged a complaint against a man she alleged was following and threatening her. Two assistants, who remarked the young lady grappling with a tall man in a dark overcoat, went to her aid and attempted to detain him. Unfortunately he was able to effect an escape.’
‘And the scar? I hardly dare ask!’
‘. . . was already a feature of his physiognomy before he encountered Miss Watkins.’
‘Thank goodness for that! But we should never have involved her.’
‘I agree. And it’s too late now to uninvolve her.’ Bonnefoye sighed. ‘But look – if these people are as good as we think they are, they’ll make enquiries and discover that she has absolutely no connection with Sir George and leave her to get on with her hearty tennis life. They’ll assume that she was just spooked by an over-zealous piece of shadowing. He’ll probably get a ticking off from his boss – should have had more sense than to follow her into the lingerie section. And Miss Watkins has certainly got closer – physically at any rate – to the tool they’re using than we have.’
‘That scar? Any use to us?’
‘Yes, could be. I’ve reported it to the division that keeps our Bertillon records. All marks of that kind are listed, classified and kept on card. If
the chap has committed a crime before, his features will be on file and indexed. They ought to be able to come up with a few suggestions.
‘The thing that’s worrying me, Joe, is their apparent preoccupation with Sir G. They seem to have him in their sights. But why? Did he see something he’s not told anyone yet? Does he know something he ought not to know? You’ll have to grill him. I can’t seem to get near him. Any attempt on my part at putting a few questions gets batted aside – with the greatest good humour of course. Genial, avuncular, smelling of roses – and he’s as slippery as a bar of soap. But tell me – how did you get on with the widow?’
After a draught or two of the Chablis he was handed, Joe launched into an account of his evening.
‘She was off to Fouquet’s, eh?’ Bonnefoye was entertained by the thought. ‘I’ll make enquiries. We’ll know tomorrow who she met, what they ate, what time they left and where they went afterwards! Are you thinking – there’s one lady who is delighted that old Somerton was done to death?’
‘She told me she had no idea her husband was in Paris – they hadn’t communicated for years. And, of course, she was hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime . . .’ Joe began dubiously.
‘Well, if your mad theory about the crime-order-catalogue business is correct, she would be. That’s the whole point of it. They have the telephone in England and the wires run as far as Paris, remember.’
‘Not sure she fits the frame,’ said Joe. ‘Glad enough, yes, to be rid of the old boy. As, indeed, might be the son I discover she has. The one who succeeds to the title. And who knows what else! We might check on him and the size and nature of his inheritance. But why would she or he or they bother with all the palaver? I mean the showmanship element? The theatre . . . the dagger. I watched her examine the knife. I’ll swear it meant nothing to her. She was curious, fascinated even in a ghoulish way, but there was no flicker of recognition. Just an element of his past life she’d rather not think about. Why didn’t they simply have him pushed under a bus or off a bridge? And why wait all these years?’
Folly Du Jour Page 15