Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘As perhaps may be his son? I understand that Somerton was a baronet? So, the title is a hereditary one and will pass – has already passed – down to his only son.’

  ‘Yes. The world now has Sir Frederick Somerton to reckon with. An effortless way of acquiring a degree of nobility. Though a tarnished title. And one some might not be eager to parade. I’ll look into all this. The contents of the will, if the man left one, are not yet known. I’ll inform you if anything interesting comes up. Are you thinking that the young man got fed up with waiting for his absent reprobate father to drop off the twig? Young Frederick can’t have been easy, aware that the old man was roving about Europe, spending the family fortune. I understand this to have been quite sizeable at one time. Perhaps he decided to hurry things along a bit? Makes sense to me. He’ll have an uphill task, trying to burnish up the family name again, though. Old Somerton left quite a stink behind him!’

  Intrigued by the nuances of speech and the unusual ideas they hinted at, Joe felt himself steered into asking with more familiarity than he would normally have assumed: ‘How are you placed, Pollock – dynastically speaking?’

  He seemed ready enough to reply. ‘I’m not impressed by dynasties, successions, and all that family rubbish. I suppose I take that attitude from my father. My mother – oh, it’s well known – married beneath her, as they say, and my father brought me up to be very dismissive of all that inheritance nonsense. I went to a Good School where the other boys merely confirmed me in my prejudices. On the whole, the grander the nastier, I concluded. But – the system seduces us all, I suppose you’d say. Did I refuse my cousin’s offer of a recommendation to the right person? No. And I have to confess, Sandilands, that . . .’ Again he lowered his voice, taking Joe into his confidence, slightly embarrassed at what he was about to reveal. ‘ . . . there’s a chance . . . a good chance . . . that there’ll be an honour in the offing for me before very long. Knee on the velvet cushion, sword on the shoulder, “Arise, Sir John” stuff! And, do you know – I shan’t feel inclined to turn it down. I’ll have earned it. It will be my own achievement and will owe nothing to a scheming old ancestor having pleased some capricious monarch in the dim and distant.’

  ‘So, if we were making a book on the runners and riders in the Somerton slaying, we’d be giving short odds on the new baronet?’

  ‘I’d certainly leave him on the list until we have more information. And his mother. At slightly longer odds, of course. Any more suspicions?’

  ‘Vague ones. Tell me, Pollock – there’s been a suggestion that the whole thing was staged deliberately to be witnessed by Sir George . . . or for the delectation of someone else in the audience. What’s your opinion on that?’

  Pollock frowned. ‘A bit far-fetched but not out of the question, I suppose,’ he replied cagily.

  ‘I wonder if it had occurred to you that there might be a similarity with another crime scene you were dragged into some four years ago? I only mention this because the officiating pathologist at both crimes turns out to be one and the same – efficient fellow called Moulin.’

  Pollock’s face livened at the name. ‘I remember. Yes, indeed. Good man! Effective and businesslike. And the scene was in the Louvre of all places! Good God, is it really four years? To me it’s as clear as if it happened yesterday. Did he fill you in . . .?’

  ‘Yes, he gave me the details of the discovery of the body, the means of killing, the identity of the corpse and so on. But the most interesting thing he had to say was that, in common with that of Somerton, the murder was undertaken as a form of display to an invited audience of Egyptologists and academics, who all had reason to hate the man. Did you have the same feeling, I wonder?’

  ‘Certainly did! The whole event was – well, just that! – an event. Apart from the representatives of law and order, there were three of us non-combatants, so to speak, caught up in the sorry scene. A very nice couple of Americans who raised the alarm when they caught sight of the blood pool under the coffin box – and me.’

  ‘What on earth were you doing in the Louvre? Did anyone orchestrate your movements on that day?’

  ‘Do you know – that thought never occurred to me! No . . . I’d say it was impossible. I was newly at the Embassy. Relatively low-ranking, of no significance in this context. Has George told you how I spent the war years? No? Well, knowing something of Egypt, and speaking a few languages, I was posted into Intelligence there. I picked up first-hand experience of the tricky political situation in the country. Powder keg! Wanting its independence from Britain, France, Italy, Turkey and every other piratical nation that thought it had a claim on its archaeological resources, to say nothing of its strategic and geographical advantages. After demob which came at very long last – always one more dispute to preside over – it was thought I could use the skills I’d acquired on the ground, here in Paris.

  ‘I owe my present position to George – were you aware of this? When I got here I found that the war was still being fought out amongst the archaeological cliques! And that’s what I was doing at the museum that day. On neutral territory, away from embassies, we were having a meeting, trying to reach an agreement between four nations growling like dogs over a bone. Well, several thousand bones, as it happened. A whole newly discovered burial chamber. And the digging rights were in dispute. Not as straightforward as you might expect – many borders were still being negotiated in those days after the war.

  ‘We’d come to something approaching a position all could accept and were gratefully on our way home when we were accosted by a frightfully concerned American who thought he’d discovered someone bleeding to death in a coffin case. Well, I assume the doctor who arrived shortly after that has filled you in?’

  He paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘Moulin did not mislead you. I agree with him. There was something very strange going on. I was so occupied with keeping the peace I was perhaps a bit slow to catch on. It wasn’t until later at police headquarters . . . The Americans – the Whites – fled. The wife was feeling ill. Got clean away. But their consciences overcame them afterwards and they duly reported to the police, who set up the interview and took their statement. Mr White asked particularly if I could be present to help with the language. A sensible arrangement and a task I was pleased to carry out. Very nice people, as I said. He was an army sergeant who’d been decorated for bravery on the Marne, I believe. I’ve never understood why they call those Yanks “doughboys”, have you? Most unfortunate. Conjures up images of puffy-faced, spotty youths, soft to the touch. This man was as hard as a well-seasoned oak beam. And smart. We talked later, off the record, so to speak, and he put his ideas to me. I had to agree with him. He’d seen more than I had and made better sense of it. And his wife’s insights were even more acute!

  ‘Sandilands, the audience were there by invitation, I’d swear it. Someone had arranged the whole thing. A ringmaster of sorts. Set the scene, knowing it would go down well. A much-hated man had got his just deserts.’

  ‘Would it be too fanciful, do you think, to assume that this, um, ringmaster had gone on cracking his whip? Organizing spectacles of this kind? Perhaps this wasn’t the first? Perhaps it wasn’t the last?’ Joe suggested tentatively as though the idea had just occurred to him. He spoke with the diffidence of one putting such a ridiculous suspicion into words.

  Pollock was astonished. Then he smiled. ‘You didn’t know? Well, how could you be expected to know? Just nipped over the Channel for a few days . . . no access to records . . . Oh, I do beg your pardon! How rude of me! It’s just that . . . you’ve shown such insight . . . delved so deep in no time at all – the temptation is to assume Scotland Yard is omniscient. It takes a diplomat with fingers in many pies, a nosy bugger like me, someone with months to reflect on it, to get the full picture.’

  Joe’s easy smile showed that he was not at all put out by Pollock’s frankness.

  ‘The murderer was indeed in the room. Enjoying his little show. When I thought about it, I was o
nly surprised he didn’t take a bow or lead the applause.’

  Pollock became suddenly serious and Joe caught sight of the tenacity and moral muscle that lay beneath the insouciant surface. ‘There were several nationalities involved, you understand, Sandilands. At least three Englishmen present and participating. There were men I had had dealings with in the past and with whom I could expect to deal in the future, men whose hospitality I would be accepting, men on whose good will I would have to count. But I hadn’t been so long in the business that I no longer cared whether the hand I was shaking had blood on it. I made a few enquiries, put two and two together and came up, I believe, with the right answer.’

  ‘You have his identity?’ Joe tried to keep his voice level.

  ‘Certainly have! And the excellent Maybelle White confirmed my suspicions!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Joe waited, allowing him to savour his moment of intrigue.

  ‘The murderer wasn’t concealing himself or his motive with very great care. What a show-off! I expect you, sharp fellow that you are, would have been waiting by the door to finger his collar.’

  The ball had been patted back into his court and Joe wondered whether he was being tested in some mildly playful way. Readying himself to provide an entertaining belly-flop, he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and checked that what he was seeking was there. He remembered the details of Dr Moulin’s story and plunged in. ‘It was, of course, the jocular prestidigitator who pulled the gold amulet of the god Set out of his victim’s mouth! Rather in this manner . . .’

  Joe flourished the trinket he’d palmed, holding it between finger and thumb, enjoying Pollock’s astonishment. This was followed swiftly by a burst of laughter.

  ‘You’ve got him! Good Lord! I never would have expected to see that piece of nonsense again! Wherever did you come by it? And the murderer produced it that day in front of that learned crowd, just as you’ve demonstrated! Probably with a wink for his admirers, but I’ll never know – he had his back to me at the time. And, like everyone in the room with the exception of Harland C. White, I was able to interpret the symbolism of the gesture: here was a man who was opening his mouth one last time to Spew Out Evil. Mrs White had a good deal of interesting remarks to make about the Egyptian burial rite of “The Opening of the Mouth” but we decided that line of thought might be a little over-adventurous.’

  ‘And what’s become of your ringmaster?’ Joe asked. ‘Your entrepreneur of crime? Is he still flourishing? I should very much like to talk to him. Is he still here in Paris?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes, he is! He’s in Père Lachaise. The cemetery. Committed suicide last year. Down in the south somewhere . . . Cannes, that’s it. Left a full confession. More tea, Sandilands?’

  Joe accepted a fresh cup using the mechanical gestures to disguise his surprise and disappointment.

  ‘The murder in the Louvre wasn’t the only thing he had on his conscience.’ Pollock shook his head, in distaste. ‘A really terrible man! Almost the equal of the man he’d had done away with. Two of a kind! But then, the profession, which it now claims to be, has always attracted unscrupulous rogues of all nationalities. And all ranks of society. From Napoleon to the ten-year-old native tomb-robber.’

  After a carefully calculated interval, Joe put down his teacup and began to draw the interview to a close, thanking Jack Pollock for his help and interest: formulaic phrases cut short by Pollock’s bluff response: ‘Think nothing of it, old chap!’ His warm hand reached again for Joe’s and gripped it firmly. ‘If there’s anything – the slightest thing – I can do, I’m your man. Keep me informed, won’t you?’

  At the door he paused. ‘French views of Law and Order not the same as ours, you know. Stay alert, Sandilands!

  ‘And where have you decided to have luncheon today? May I recommend somewhere?’ he asked as they crossed the hall on the way to the front door. ‘At your hotel? The Ambassador, I think you said? Excellent reputation for its cuisine. Good choice!’

  So. Moulin and Francine Raissac – and he swiftly added himself to the list – had fallen victim to an over-coloured story, a lurid, crime-novel notion of villainy. Relief and disappointment were flooding through Joe, fighting for control. Of course Pollock’s theory was correct and it was supported by a confession. The scene at the museum had to have been staged by a man with influence enough to clear rooms, to lure in the victim, to have him dispatched with all that chilling ceremony, to arrange for an independent witness to stumble on the body, and to have the insider’s knowledge to invite just the right people to participate in the finding. No one but the Americans and Pollock was there by chance.

  The whole presentation had been a work of art. A labour not of love but of hatred. And, with a final directorial twist, the case had been solved and brought to a conclusion by the perpetrator himself. Very proper. Inevitable. The death had occurred down south in Cannes and Moulin had not been aware or involved. ‘I’ve saved the best till last,’ the doctor had told him. And the best – the most astonishing – case in the series of unexplained crimes now proved to have been no such thing. A one-off. Solved. Case closed with Père Lachaise finality. And, with that key element dislodged, the whole house of cards tumbled down.

  Joe surrendered to relief. And yet he was left feeling foolish. He was still saddled with the problem of assigning responsibility for Somerton’s killing and had wasted a precious day. But at least now he could concentrate on the motive he had originally thought most likely: vengeance. And he could probably discount the unlikely phone calls from the Somerton residence in England to an undisclosed agency in Paris: ‘The name’s Somerton. You’ll find him at the Crillon . . . Dagger would be most suitable . . . How much? You are joking, of course? Ah well . . . I suppose it will be worth it . . .’

  He could forget about Sir George’s presence being an element in the planning. It was most likely that there had been no planning at all. Perhaps some Anglo-Indian, retired from the army, someone with a grudge against the man, had seen him lording it in a box at the Folies accompanied by an attractive young girl and this had been the trigger for a vengeful act of fury. It was the unconsidered flaunting of power and position that could incite lesser men to rage. Many men had come back from India with daggers in their possession. They might, with all the alarming stories of the revived Apache gangs, have chosen to carry a knife from their collection instead of the more usual swordstick as a means of self-defence in this dangerous capital.

  Joe wondered wearily if he could ask Bonnefoye to release names from the information he knew the French police kept on foreigners residing in the city, permanently or temporarily. Hours of patient checking would be called for and he was very far from certain that such a request would be taken seriously by the police authority. In any case, Fourier would have lost patience long before results were available and rearrested George.

  But, looking on the bright side, Sir George was no longer to be considered the target of some mysterious Set or Fantômas figure, stalked through the streets of Paris by a scar-faced acolyte. And Joe could now return safely to his hotel without slinking along like a polecat. He badly needed to change his clothes. Toothbrushes and other essential items had been provided by the industrious and early-rising Madame Bonnefoye and he had spent a comfortable night in a pair of Jean-Philippe’s pyjamas, but he wanted to touch base.

  But what of Heather Watkins? Her encounter had been with a flesh and blood menace. Twice. Could the shadowing of Miss Watkins be explained by the girl’s obvious attractions? Her vivid hair and fresh Celtic looks would always attract masculine attention, he thought. They had attracted his. He knew that many men on the lookout for just such loveliness haunted the foyers of even the best hotels. Perhaps she was being pursued by some theatrical impresario? To be recruited into the ranks of high-kicking chorus girls? She had exactly the right height and athletic appearance. And he didn’t doubt that, like every other English girl he knew (always excepting Dorcas Joliffe
of course), she’d been to ballet classes. Bonnefoye had confessed that certain nameless limbs of the government actually kept lists of spectacular girls – attractive and good conversationalists – who might be summoned to escort visiting royalty or the like about the city. Joe wasn’t quite sure he believed him. At the worst, she might be the target of the gangs of confidence tricksters who ran the ‘badger games’ from hotel lobbies. Beautifully dressed, well-spoken and plausible, the female bandits they employed would lure men freshly arrived and looking forward to adventures with a sob-story or an involving smile and in no time they’d have the gold out of their pockets – and their teeth.

  He reined in his thoughts. Nonsense! There were more loose fragments of tinsel swirling about in this kaleidoscope than he could pull into focus at the moment and he was not going to lose track of a single element. The face of Francine Raissac had stayed with him. He remembered clearly her terror. Her warnings. He’d take her seriously and he’d listen to Pollock’s parting words of advice and stay alert.

  He performed his automatic checks for surveillance as he strolled along the rue du Faubourg St Honoré but with no sense of urgency. If anyone cared to follow him from the Embassy to his hotel, they were welcome to do so. He paused in front of the window display in one of the bookshops along the street, decided they probably didn’t have what he was looking for and moved off. Finding what he wanted a few yards further on, he went in and spent a few minutes examining the stock before he made his choice.

  The receptionist at the Hotel Ambassador greeted him and told him a telephone message had just arrived for him. Joe took the note. A brief one from Bonnefoye.