Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  He pressed on without a break in his stride down towards the bridge. The bridge itself wasn’t much but he’d always been fascinated by the four stone figures that decorated it. Once, when he was a small boy, his father had brought him here and pointed them out. He’d thought that’s what a soldier’s grandson would like to see. He was right. Vincent had been enchanted by the four Second Empire soldiers. The Zouave was his favourite. He stood, left hand on hip, neatly bearded chin raised defiantly against the current, swagger in his baggy trousers, tightly cinched jacket and fez.

  His father had been pleased with his reaction. ‘Les Zouaves sont les premiers soldats du monde,’ he’d said. ‘That was the opinion of General St Armaud after the Battle of Alma when we licked the Russians. And your grandfather was one of them. A real Zouave. Not one of the ruffians they recruit from the east of Paris these days – no, he came straight from the mountains of Morocco . . . Kabili tribe. Second regiment, the Jackals of Oran. No finer fighters in the world.’

  Vincent had signed on as soon as they would take him. He’d managed to see action in North Africa before the war broke out in Europe. He’d been a seasoned hand-to-hand fighter like the rest of his men, wearing just such a flamboyant uniform. A lieutenant by then, he’d slashed, burned and bayoneted his way through the forests of the Marne at the beginning of the war, realizing that he and his regiment were finished. The red trousers, the twelve-foot-long woollen sash, the red fez all cried, ‘Here I am! Shoot me!’ And the Germans, lying holed up in every village, wasted no opportunity. He’d witnessed the arrival of the British gunners, coming up late to their aid. Not creeping or dashing along – marching as though on the parade ground, camouflaged in their khaki clothing, stern, calm, standing firm when the sky above them was exploding. Machines of war.

  And, of course, his regiment had adapted. They’d been kitted out in bleu d’horizon, issued with more suitable weapons. He’d survived until Verdun. He’d been there at the storming of the fort of Douaumont. He’d been collected, one of a pile of bodies, and sorted out at the last minute by an orderly more dead than alive himself, into the hospital cart instead of the burial wagon. Months later, he’d come back to his old mother in Paris and she’d seen him through the worst of it. And he was flourishing. Not for Vincent a nightly billet under a bridge with the other drunken old lags. He had his pride and as soon as he had his strength back he’d got himself a job. It had taken a stroke of luck to get him going but he was in full-time employment. Employment that demanded all his energy and used all his skills. What more could a retired soldier ask? The pay was better than good, too, and his mother appreciated that. She had a fine new apartment. When he’d told her he was in the meat industry, she’d not been impressed but she’d accepted it. Something in Les Halles – a manager in the transport section – she told her friends. Out at all times of night, of course. She didn’t know he was still soldiering.

  He smiled and strolled the few metres down to the place de l’Alma where he greeted the old lady keeping her flower stall by the entrance to the Métro. He spent a few rare moments idling. Paris. He never took it for granted. After the grey years of mud and pain, the simplest things could please him. The walnut-wrinkled face and crouched figure of the flower seller, surrounded by her lilies and roses, beyond her the glinting river and the Eiffel Tower, so close you could put out a hand and scratch yourself on its rust-coloured struts, this was pleasing him.

  His smile widened. He’d buy some flowers. And he knew exactly which ones to choose.

  ‘Two inspectors and both speaking French? Monsieur Derval understood that we were about to receive a visit from a gentleman of Scotland Yard. I was sent along in case there were language problems. I do not represent the theatre, you understand, but I speak English. Simenon. Georges Simenon. How do you do?’

  Joe handed his card to the young man. ‘Monsieur Simenon? You are French?’ Joe asked.

  ‘No. Belgian.’ The man who greeted them at the stage door was reassuringly untheatrical, Joe thought. Of medium height and soberly dressed in tweeds with thick dark hair and a pale complexion, he looked like a lawyer or an accountant. Although not far into his twenties, Joe judged, he had already developed a frowning seriousness of expression. But the lines on his forehead were belied by a pair of merry brown eyes, peering, warm and interested, through heavy-framed spectacles. A strong, sweet smell of tobacco and a bulge in his right pocket told Joe he’d been passing some time at the stage door waiting. He seemed genuinely pleased to see them.

  ‘Everyone else is doing what they usually do an hour before the matinée. You may go wherever you please in the building – just try to keep out of the way as far as you can. I’ll come with you. You’ll be needing a torch, I think. And a guide. I know where the light switches are. Front of house is empty – the orchestra drag themselves in at the very last minute. The cast are thumping about backstage. Clattering up and down stairs and being drilled by Monsieur Derval. Soon they’ll be screaming and yelling, tearing each other’s hair and stealing each other’s lipstick! Oh, and you’re expecting to see Josephine?’ He paused for a second, and continued with a slight awkwardness. ‘Can’t promise anything as far as she’s concerned, I’m afraid. Not the most reliable . . . In fact, she’s usually late. She’s not arrived yet and may well drift in, still eating her lunch, and go straight onstage. We’ll just have to wait and see. I’ll give you a call when she gets here.’

  He seemed to tune into the two policemen’s puzzlement. ‘You must be wondering what I’m doing here, answering for the star? Wonder myself sometimes! I’m not an employee of Josephine’s – more of a friend. I’m a journalist in fact. I met her last year when she arrived, fresh off the boat. I was a stage-door admirer, I’m afraid, turning up with a bunch of roses. She talked to me. I discovered she knew not a word of French.’ He smiled. ‘Her English isn’t wonderful either! She was an instant success and, as you can imagine, began to receive sacks full of mail. Every day there were invitations from some of the grandest people you can imagine, offers of hospitality of one sort or another, gifts, proposals of marriage – thousands of them. And, of course, the poor girl was unable to answer a single one of them. Couldn’t even manage a thank-you note for a diamond necklace or a De Dion-Bouton! I began to help her out. She’d tell me how she wanted to reply, I’d put it into suitable French – or English – and see that the notes were sent off.’

  ‘You’re her secretary?’

  ‘It’s not that formal. No. As I said – I’m a news reporter. And I’m a friend who writes for her. But – to business. I expect you’d like to inspect the scene of the crime first? The box? It hasn’t been used since the killing. Nor has the other one. All entry barred. The police squad didn’t spend a great deal of time up there . . .’ His voice was slightly quizzical. ‘Commissaire Fourier in attendance. The big gun! They hauled off the corpse and the weapon – and a suspect they claim to have caught red-handed – gave firm instructions to leave the site alone and that’s the last we’ve seen of them. Wondered when you’d be back . . . There must be much still to discover . . . Have they made an arrest? Have they charged their Englishman with murder? Did they have any success with the fingerprinting, do you know?’

  ‘Which branch of journalism are you employed in, monsieur?’ asked Joe with the air of one who knew the answer.

  ‘Crime,’ he replied, smiling.

  ‘Then you’ll never be without material in Paris,’ said Bonnefoye acidly.

  ‘And we’re working on the assumption that the suspect they carted off is an innocent man,’ Joe felt bound to assert.

  ‘I never thought otherwise,’ Simenon said graciously.

  Their guide switched on the house lights and the inspection began. Joe and Bonnefoye opened up the two boxes and tick-tacked rude messages to each other over the void, agreeing that Wilberforce Jennings’ account was probably entirely accurate. The reporter went obligingly to occupy a position centre stage, confirming that he had a clear and close view
of Joe in one and Bonnefoye in the other box, sight limited only by the available light. With nothing of note in Jardine’s box, the three men gathered at the murder scene and looked about them. The grey upholstery with its sinister dark stain was witness to the exact spot on which Somerton had breathed his last.

  Simenon waved a hand at the walls where patches of graphite from the fingerprinting brush stippled the paintwork. ‘Dozens, you see! Not one of them bloodstained. I expect the ones they’ve taken belong to the world and his wife – and his mistress; everyone who’s been in here since it was last cleaned. And the knifeman could have been wearing gloves. Not much of a tradition with us, I understand, Inspector – fingerprinting? Chances are, if they can pick up the murderer’s prints on these surfaces, they’ll have no records to compare them with. You’ll have to catch him first and then match them up.’

  Joe took the torch he was offered and trained it systematically along the walls, since it seemed to be expected of him. He wasn’t hopeful that this murderer had left a trace of himself behind. He wasn’t likely to have paused to decorate the walls with his calling cards, but he had to come and go through the door. Yes, the door, if anything, would be the most revealing, Joe thought and said as much.

  ‘Unless he had the forethought to leave it ajar,’ murmured Simenon. ‘And shove it open with his foot. That’s what I’d have done. He was right-handed, I assume? Is it known?’

  Bonnefoye nodded. ‘And Somerton’s lady friend who nipped off early could have ensured it was left open when they entered – had to have a draught of air or some such excuse – so he could push it open with an elbow.’

  ‘Indeed? Mmm . . . So he’s in and out with no need to touch anything with or without bloodied hand or bloodied glove?’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have closed the door behind him in anticipation of his private moment? Instinctive, you’d think,’ said Joe, ‘covering your back?’

  ‘A man with cool nerves would chance it. With the finale going on . . . star on stage . . . no one’s going to be prowling about the corridors. And his back could have been covered by his blonde conjurer’s assistant keeping cave outside, holding his cloak ready to slip over any bloodstains he might have on him.

  ‘You know – I think the man probably wasn’t wearing gloves . . .’

  Joe was enjoying the man’s musings. ‘Yes. Go on. What makes you say that?’ he asked.

  ‘Not their style. It’s a tricky manoeuvre slicing through flesh – muscle and gristle. They like to have complete control of the blade in their fingers. I’ve witnessed a demonstration.’ He shuddered. ‘They’ll tell you a gloved hand can slip. And why bother when it’s easy enough to wipe the blade afterwards? It had been wiped clean?’

  ‘It had,’ said Bonnefoye.

  ‘There you are then. No gloves.’

  ‘But tell me, monsieur: they? Who might they be? Do they have a name and number? An address, perhaps? Where they might be reached?’

  ‘The professionals. You must be aware of them, Inspector. You clear up their nasty little messes often enough.’

  ‘The gangs of the thirteenth arrondissement? The Sons of the Apaches, I’ve heard a romantic call them.’ Bonnefoye grinned at Joe.

  ‘No, no! Those buffoons are window-dressing! Practically a sideshow for the tourists. Did you know you can hire them by the hour to stage a knife-fight in the street, right there on the pavement in front of whichever café is opening that week? They even have stage names: Pépé le Moko, Alfrédo le Fort, Didi le Diable, La Bande à Bobo. Two rival gangs will fight it out with blood-curdling oaths and threats, egged on by their molls. And all to an accompaniment of delighted squeals from the clientele. Then, after a suitable interval,’ he looked slyly at Bonnefoye, ‘on they come – the hirondelles, the swallows flashing about in their shiny blue capes. The boys in blue sweep up on their bicycles and confront both gangs who, miraculously, always seem to turn around and join forces against the flics. Oh, it’s a pageant! You could put it on at the Bobino! The bad boys always know exactly the moment to disappear down the dark alleys, leaving really very little blood behind them. Just a few spots for the patron to point out to his customers. These – as you might expect – are perfectly unscathed but have worked up quite a thirst in their excitement. No, this is not their work. And no, I can’t give you any names. They have none.’

  ‘Is what we’re hearing your theory or your evidence, monsieur?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

  ‘I’ve told you what I do for a living. To report on crime you have to be close to the criminals. As close as they will allow you to approach. I know, or think I know, a good many people who are known to you also – by reputation. I’ve shared a drink with them . . . talked to them . . . drawn them out. I have friends in some pretty low places! Brothels, opium dens, absinthe bars . . . Sometimes they shoot me a line for their own benefit. But even their lies and false information can give much away if you’re not taken in by it . . . are prepared to analyse it. I’m aware of what they can do – of what they have done – but I have no name to offer you and would not offer if I knew it . . . The last man who let his tongue run away with him was found two nights ago in the canal with his mouth stitched up. They have a brutal way with those who would . . . vendre la mèche . . .?’

  ‘Sell the fuse?’ said Joe, puzzled. ‘Oh, I see . . . Give away the vital bit? Squeal. Inform.’

  ‘The warning is reinforced periodically. Whether it’s called for or not, I sometimes think,’ he added with chill speculation.

  ‘Is that all you have for us? Aportentous warning empty of any substance?’ Joe’s voice was mildly challenging.

  The reporter was spurred to make his point. ‘There’s a small group of villains – six at the most. Deadly. Discreet. For hire. When the Corsican gangs folded their tents and moved on after the war, a central core of bad boys, the survivors, stayed on. Licensed to kill, trained and encouraged to kill, they came out on the other side of it ruthless, skilled and, above all, older and wiser. They regrouped themselves. They’re careful. And that’s most unusual; gangsters have a touch of the theatrical about them as a rule . . . they like to have their names known, their exploits vaunted . . . there are even songs made up about some of the more flamboyant villains! But the men I have in mind are silent. Or else they’re being run by someone capable of imposing discipline on them. And when they work, it’s not in public, for a handful of francs in front of a Saturday night audience of voyeuristic merrymakers, it’s for thousands, in the dark. In secrecy. In anonymity.’

  ‘Well . . . Well, well!’ said Joe. ‘No name, perhaps, but every man has fingerprints. And he can’t change those every six months. You roundly declare our chap was not wearing gloves? Let’s see what we can do, shall we? Perhaps the officers who worked here on the night of the crime have, inadvertently, recorded his prints. Though, amongst this profusion of sticky dabs, they are not aware of what they have.’

  Bonnefoye stared and sighed. ‘So many! It’s going to take a month to process this lot. If they haven’t given up already. And – really – are they going to bother when they have so many of Sir George’s on the victim’s chair?’

  ‘Ah! Le pigeon! Le gogo!’ was Simenon’s verdict on Sir George and Joe was encouraged to hear it.

  ‘The “patsy” you might say. Our supposition also.’

  The beam of Joe’s torch illuminated the last section of the wall, to the left of the door, passed on and then jerked back again. ‘I wonder if we can reduce the area of search?’

  He moved closer to a powdered print on the left door jamb. ‘Here’s a remarkably sticky print, wouldn’t you say? Just look at the detail there!’

  ‘Not blood?’ said Bonnefoye.

  ‘No, not blood. The greasiness is pomade! Hair grease. I had some of that muck on my fingers yesterday. It’s the pathologist’s theory that the killer seized Somerton by his hair with his left hand from behind to hold his head in the correct position and then slit his throat with his right hand. So, his right hand
might well have been covered in blood and he was obviously at some pains not to touch anything with that but, possibly leaning out to check the corridor was free, he placed what he thought was his clean left hand here . . .’ Joe extended his hand without touching the wall into a natural position and found he had to move it up an inch. ‘Tall man,’ he commented. ‘Just over six feet tall? Bonnefoye? Could you . . .?’

  ‘As soon as I can get back up to the lab! Focusing! That could save them a bit of time!’

  ‘That policeman! Is he still in the building?’

  The voice boomed out from the rear of the stage. Urgent. Powerful. Alarmed.

  ‘We’re up here, Monsieur Derval,’ Simenon called back. ‘Just finishing in the box. I have two inspectors with me – one Police Judiciaire, the other Scotland Yard.’

  ‘The more the merrier. Bring the Grand Old Duke of York as well if you’ve got him. Quickly! To Josephine’s room.’

  The figure exited at speed, stage left, pursued, Joe would have sworn, by all three Furies.

  Joe checked his watch.

  Their escort turned an anxious face to them and he muttered something abstractedly, indicating that they should follow him. So evident was his concern, Joe speculated that the young man’s relationship with the star was warmer than he had declared. It wouldn’t have been surprising. Josephine was rumoured to enjoy a vigorous and fast-changing series of romantic involvements. But if the reporter had been a fixture in her frantic life for over a year, he must occupy a position of some trust and intimacy.

  He led them at an ankle-breaking pace down staircases and along narrow corridors, burrowing always deeper into the vast unseen reaches of the theatre. They swept through gaggles of girls, practising steps and formations in any space they could find, skirted around others standing rigidly enduring the pinning up and repair of flimsy costumes. Someone threw a tap shoe along with a curse at them as they blundered by. Finally, they climbed a spiral staircase which brought them out on the level of the dressing rooms. The first three rooms were crowded with dozens of girls with sweaty towels round their necks, offering greasy faces to over-bright mirrors, dipping fingers into pots of Crowe’s Cremine or peering closely to apply layers of Leichner make-up. They were screeching at each other in English, breaking off to shout louche invitations to the three men as they hurried by. All perfectly normal behaviour. Joe felt he could have been backstage at the London Palladium. Nothing untoward going on here.