Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  ‘What! You know who’s responsible for all this? Then why are you sitting here on your bums . . . excuse me . . .?’

  Joe and Bonnefoye exchanged looks.

  ‘Are you quite sure you want to listen to this?’

  Simenon looked from one to the other doubtfully then his curiosity overcame his wariness and he nodded.

  ‘Very well. A further theory that we dismissed out of hand, I’m afraid,’ said Joe. ‘Perhaps we should reconsider. Alfred was involved with the nameless crew you have mentioned to us. He became addicted to drugs and, we must assume, less reliable on account of that. Confused, lacking judgement . . . desperate. Perhaps the reason they wanted to get rid of him? These soldiers appear to maintain an absolute discipline. He remained close to his sister – dependent on her – and, as they rightly feared, had confided information to her. Not exactly key information – I suspect he was something of a fringe figure . . . messenger boy . . . back-up. But information we –’ he glanced at Bonnefoye – ‘have been able to make use of. An address,’ he added vaguely. ‘Look – we know nothing for certain. We merely have a fervid imagining that there may be an assassination service operating from these premises. One of rather special quality.’

  ‘Do you know who’s running it?’ Caution overcame eagerness and Simenon hurried to add: ‘Don’t give me a name.’

  ‘We couldn’t anyway. No idea. There obviously is a mind devising and controlling all this nastiness and, whimsically, we’ve called him Set after the Egyptian God of Evil. But that’s since proved to be a distraction.’

  Joe told him of Dr Moulin’s theory which had been shot down by Jack Pollock’s evidence.

  Simenon stirred excitedly and began to stuff his pipe again. ‘You’re saying the villain who committed the murder in the Louvre confessed to it and died by his own hand, thus breaking the continuity? He didn’t take responsibility for any of the others?’

  ‘Not yet known for certain. Pollock is a good authority but I’ll check the records. Shouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘Then, consequently, the series of deaths the pathologist recalls must all be personal, unconnected acts of imaginative staging? Not impossible, of course. Most murders are impulsive but boring, spur of the moment stuff . . . the push downstairs, the carving knife through the heart over the Sunday roast . . . Not many would have the confidence or the patience to kill as you’ve described. Though I can imagine the satisfaction. There’s this editor I’ve worked for who’s just asking to be . . . Never mind! Tell me – when, in Moulin’s chain of suspicious events, did this Egyptian one occur? Do you know? The first he was aware of? So the concept died with him? Hmm . . . But there is a thread, you know . . . stretching all the way from the Louvre, forward to poor Francine. This obsession with the mouth. Things, revelatory things, spilling out.’

  ‘I shall keep my mouth shut,’ said Joe lugubriously. ‘At all times.’

  ‘I’d say you’d got their message,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘And so have I. I’m going to put you on the next Silver Wing service back to London. Gagged and bound if necessary.’

  ‘If you’re looking for a feller, always try the bar first.’ The voice was female, joking and warmly American.

  Simenon had shot to his feet a second before the other two men were aware of her presence. He introduced the two policemen to Miss Baker and went off to fetch her a glass of mineral water.

  Like and yet unlike Francine. Joe was startled to see she was wearing a silk Chinese dressing gown the replica of the one the French girl had been wearing in her room in Montmartre. Seeing the girls side by side no one would have confused them, but from a distance or an odd angle or from behind it would have been all too easy to take one for the other. Judging by her lightness of tone and her smiles, no one had hurried forward to tell Josephine the truth of what lay behind the closed door of her dressing room. Cynically, he calculated they would not reveal it until the end of her performance. The show would go on, regardless of Francine.

  ‘Two fellers? Well, how about that! Joe and Philippe? Say – I’m sorry I’m late! Long night! Didn’t get to bed till six. Louis played until four in the morning! Can you imagine! And no one walks out of a Louis Armstrong performance. Have you heard him play? Come! Tonight! Pick me up here and we’ll make a night of it,’ she said, batting eyelashes flirtily at Bonnefoye.

  For a moment, Joe was so disconcerted he could not remember why on earth they were seeing her. The three men exchanged glances, silently and shamefacedly acknowledging that they’d get the best information out of Miss Baker if she remained for the moment in ignorance of her friend’s death.

  Josephine herself came to their rescue. ‘That poor old gent!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hate to think the guy was up there dying . . . could have been just above my head . . . while we were wiggling our way through that last Irving Berlin number. Why would anyone want to do that? At a show?’

  ‘We were wondering, Miss Baker,’ said Joe, ‘if you could recollect anything – anything at all – of the occupant of what I’ll call the murder box.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll try. Can’t say I’d remember any old night. But this was special. Lucky Lindy made it, did you know that? Someone rushed in with the news and I went on in between numbers and announced it. Crowd went wild! And so they should! What a feller! I remember looking up at both boxes. But you’ll have to tell me which one the dead guy was in.’

  Joe touched her right hand and said, ‘From the stage, he would have been on this side.’

  ‘Okay. Up there.’ She looked up to her right, and extended her finger, fixing the imagined box. ‘Got it. Not that it makes a heap of difference, ya know – I could have been seeing double! Two gents. Wearing tuxedos, the both of ’em, and each with a girl. All snuggled up hotsy-totsy. Nothing out of the ordinary. Clapping. Seemed to be having a good time . . .’

  She sipped her water with a smile of thanks for Georges and thought hard. They waited in silence. ‘Can’t say I noticed anything odd about the fellers but the girls . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yeah . . . that was kinda strange . . . I was struttin’ about, leading the applause. Watching them watching me. Everybody was getting very excited about the flight. Clapping and whistling and screeching like you’d never heard but they were talking to each other as well, smacking each other on the back, standing on their seats. Gathering together into one big shout of congratulations. But not those girls.’

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘Yeah, the two of them. You’d have sworn they were agreeing with each other. Exchanged a look and turned and left. Without a word. No goodbyes. No nothing. It was choreography. And I know choreography! The men were left on their lonesome for the finale.’ She frowned, doing her best to call up her fleeting impressions.

  A good witness, Joe thought.

  ‘The one you say died . . .’ Out came the right hand again. ‘I last had a glimpse of him halfway, I suppose, through the finale. I don’t have a lot to do in that routine – just prance around in gold feathers – and I remember being something put out – he was looking at his watch! Turning it this way,’ she held up an arm and demonstrated, ‘towards the stage lights, you know, to get a look at it. And he stared across at the other box. I was beginning to think we were losing the audience. Feller looked as though he couldn’t wait to take off.’

  ‘Strange behaviour?’ murmured Joe.

  ‘Well, exactly! Lord! If a hundred naked girls – and me! – can’t knock his eye out, whatever will?’

  ‘A good question, Miss Baker. What better entertainment can he possibly have wanted?’

  Bonnefoye looked curiously at Joe, who had lapsed into silence, and he seemed about to speak but he was interrupted by Josephine who, half-rising, was drawing the conversation to a close. ‘Still, sorry to hear the old goat died.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Bonnefoye, getting to his feet. ‘The man was more of a cold-hearted snake and he got off lightly. Don’t give him another thought.’

  Simenon sho
wed them to the side door and said goodbye. ‘You will let me know how all this turns out?’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been most intrigued . . .’

  ‘And helpful,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘We’ve been interested to hear your insights, monsieur.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Look. You’re a crime reporter. You must be keen to see how we live over there at the Quai? Take a peek inside? Have you ever been? Well, why don’t you come over and see me there when this is all over? I’ll fill you in. My turn to give you the tour!’

  ‘Bit rash, weren’t you?’ Joe commented as they walked away back into the avenue de Montaigne. ‘Fourier won’t like that.’

  ‘Sod Fourier! I can swing it! Anyway – with the ideas you’ve been stuffing into his head, a newsman might be just exactly what he wants to encourage . . . “Now, my dear Simenon, just take this down, will you?” Chaps like that are very useful to us. They’re a channel. They’re not exactly informers but – well, you heard him – he talks to people who’ll accept a glass from him and open their mouths but who wouldn’t be seen within a hundred yards of a flic. They can pass stuff to the underworld we can’t go out and shout through a megaphone. He seemed to be able to take a wide view of things. Man of the world.’

  ‘And quite obviously something going on between him and the star, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Good luck to them! How did he say they met? Stage-door Johnny, didn’t he say? Just turned up on the off-chance?’

  ‘Yes. But not empty-handed,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ‘Said he brought her a bunch of roses. Roses . . . lilies . . .’ He looked about him. ‘We’re a long way from a florist’s shop here. But there must surely be some enterprising merchant out there catering for star-struck young men on their way to the theatre?’

  ‘Place de l’Alma,’ said Bonnefoye, turning to the right and walking towards the river.

  ‘Lilies? Two dozen? Yes, of course. Not every day I shift two dozen in one go! Lucky to get rid . . . they were just on the turn. I told him: “Put them straight away in water up to their necks.” Must be nearly two hours ago. That’s right – the bell on the Madeleine had already rung two. But not the half past . . .

  ‘What did he look like? Oh, a handsome young chap!’ The fleuriste turned a toothless smile on Joe and cackled. ‘To my old gypsy eyes at least. Rather like you, monsieur. Your age. Young but not too young. Tall, well set up. Dark skin. Southern perhaps? North African even? Mixed probably. Sharp nose and chin. Well dressed. Nice hat. Lots of money.

  ‘You’d need lots of money to buy all those lilies! His wallet when he took it out to pay for them was stuffed! Wished I’d asked double! He didn’t really seem interested in the price. Some of them haggle, you know. This one didn’t. Paid up, good as gold.

  ‘Scar? Can’t say I noticed one . . . I did notice the bristles though. He’s growing a beard. It’ll be a fine black one in a few weeks’ time.

  ‘Where? Oh, he walked back up the avenue towards the theatre.’ The old woman grinned. ‘Probably spotted some young dancer on the front row. He’ll certainly impress her with those flowers anyway!’

  Sensing they were about to close up the interview, she recalled their attention: ‘Do you want to know what he was doing before he came to my stall?’

  A further five francs changed hands.

  ‘He was wandering about on the bridge. Looking at the statues,’ she said. ‘Now, gentlemen, I’ve got some lovely red roses fresh in from Nice this morning if you’re interested . . .’

  ‘Heard enough?’ said Bonnefoye using English, in a voice suddenly chilled. ‘She’s scraping the barrel now.’ And then: ‘He’s not exactly hiding himself, is he? He must have known we’d trace him here to this stall.’

  ‘He’s watching us at this moment,’ said Joe, managing by a superhuman effort not to look around. ‘Down one of those alleys, at one of those windows. Under the bridge even.’

  Bonnefoye carefully held his gaze and Joe added: ‘So, let’s assume that, just for once, it’s we who have the audience, shall we? And give him something to look at.’

  He turned to the flower seller. ‘Thank you, madame. I’ll take two dozen of those red roses from Provence.’

  The old woman stood and moved a few yards to watch them as they went down to the river. When she saw what they were about, she shook her head in exasperation. Idiots! Mad foreigners! Had they nothing better to waste their money on? They’d taken up their position halfway along, leaning over the parapet, and, taking a dozen blooms each, were throwing the roses, one at a time, downstream into the current.

  She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and crossed herself. She watched on as the swirls of blood red eddied and sank. How would those fools know? That what they were doing brought bad luck? Flowers in the water spelled death.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bonnefoye had returned to the Quai des Orfèvres to pass on instructions for the fingerprint section and to check whether they’d made any progress with the Bertillon records of scarred villains. He’d been reluctant to let Joe turn up unaccompanied at the jazz club on the boulevard du Montparnasse, offering, as well as his own company, the presence of a team of undercover policemen in reserve.

  Joe had reassured him. ‘Don’t be concerned . . . Just think of it as a visit between two old friends . . . Yes, I think I can get in. I’m prepared.’ He patted his pocket. ‘A bird has led me to the magical golden branch in the forest. I only have to brandish it and the gates to Avernus will swing open. As they did for Aeneas.’

  Bonnefoye had rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘The gates can swing shut as well. With you inside. And I’m not too certain that Aeneas had a very jolly time. Full of wailing ghosts, Avernus, if I remember rightly. If you’re not out by eight, I’m storming the place. I mean it! Now here’s what I’m offering . . .’

  Joe waited until six o’clock when the crowds hurrying in through the door made him less conspicuous. He went to the bar and ordered a cocktail. He asked for a Manhattan and threw away the cherry. A Manhattan seemed the right choice. The combination of French vermouth and American bourbon, spiked with a dash of bitters, was in perfect harmony with this atmosphere. Throaty, fast Parisian arpeggios studded a base of slow-drawing transatlantic tones and the band also seemed to be an element in the blend. Setting the scene, in fact, Joe thought, as he listened eagerly. Excellent, as Bonnefoye had reported.

  A black clarinettist doubling on tenor saxophone was playing the audience as cleverly as his instruments this evening and there was a jazz pianist of almost equal skill. A banjo player and a guitarist added a punchy stringed rhythm. Not an accordion within a mile, Joe thought happily. Generously, the instrumentalists were allowing each other to shine, turn and turn about, beating out a supporting and inspired accompaniment while one of the others starred. To everyone’s delight, the pianist suddenly grabbed the spotlight, soaring into flight with a section from George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and Joe almost forgot why he was there.

  Damn George! If it hadn’t been for his officious nosiness, Joe could have been here, plying Heather Watkins with pink champagne, relaxing after a boring day at the Interpol conference, just a couple of tourists. She’d have been laughing at the new cap he’d bought and flattened on to his head, wearing it indoors like half the men in the room. Instead, he was crouching awkwardly, sitting slightly sideways on his bar stool to disguise the bulge of the Browning on his hip and hoping that no friendly American would fling an arm around him, encountering the handcuffs looped through his belt at the small of his back.

  He glanced around at the crowd. Not many single men but enough to lend him cover. The one or two who appeared to be by themselves had probably chosen their solitary state, he reckoned. He saw two men line up at the bar, released from the company of their wives whom they had cheerfully waved off on to the dance floor in the arms of a couple of dark-haired, sinuous male dancers. What had Bonnefoye called them? Tangoing, tea-dance gigolos. Everyone seemed pleased with the arrangement,
not least the husbands. On the whole, a typical Left Bank crowd, self-aware, pleasure-seeking, rather louche. But then, this wasn’t Basingstoke.

  He enjoyed the clarinettist’s version of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ and decided that when he spiralled to a climax, it would be time to move on.

  He ducked into the gentlemen’s room and checked that, as Bonnefoye had said, it was no more than it appeared and waited for a moment by the door he held open a finger’s breadth. No one followed him. A second later he was walking up the carpeted stairs towards the three doors he’d been promised at the top on the landing. And there they were. The middle one, he remembered, was the one behind which the doorkeeper lurked.

  The building itself was a stout-hearted stone and rather lovely example of Third Empire architecture seen from the exterior. But it had been drastically remodelled inside. The original heavy wooden features had been stripped away and replaced with lighter modern carpentry and fresh bright paint. Entirely in character with the new owner, Joe suspected.

  He fished in his pocket for his ticket to the underworld, thinking it might not be wise to be observed digging about as for a concealed weapon at the moment when the doorkeeper turned up. And the mirrors? Just in case, he offered his face to the fanlight, grinned disarmingly, and waited for Bonnefoye’s promised monster.

  A moment later the door opened and he was peremptorily asked his business by a very large man wearing the evening outfit of a maître d’hôtel. Bonnefoye, for once, had not exaggerated. The attempt to pass off this bull terrier as a manservant could have been comical had he not seemed so completely at ease in his role. He was not unwelcom-ing, he merely wanted to know, like any good butler, who had fetched up, uninvited, on the doorstep.