‘What sort of people were in the crowd? Did you know any of them?’
‘No one on our books, if that’s what you mean. Upright citizens, I’d say. Large number of Americans – you’d expect it in that part of Paris. Poets, painters, photographers and their models and muses all packing the place out. Sixth arrondissement bohemian, to use an old-fashioned word! But living up to it – you know, a bit self-conscious and not the real thing. Every client looking over his shoulder spotting the latest outrageous artist. And every outrageous artist looking over his shoulder spotting the mouchards from the police anti-national department. Who’s likely to be snitching on them? The local commissariat is still on the alert for extreme views of one sort or another. Marxism, Fascism, intellectualism. Dadaism. Is that a word? They especially don’t like that! We’re supposed to be on the watch for it. Not sure what we’re expected to do with it if we find it . . .’
‘Anyone spot you?’
‘No, indeed! I thought I blended in rather well. And no one was making inflammatory statements. The clientele weren’t annoying anyone when I was there. Usual mixture of thrill-seekers and thrill-providers. Well-heeled but quirky. Silk scarves rather than ties, two-tone shoes, little black dresses and cocktail hats – you’d have felt very much at home, Joe.’
‘I’d never wear a cocktail hat to a café,’ muttered Joe.
‘Unless you were going on somewhere. No . . . the seediest customers were a couple of gigolos . . . nothing too flamboyant . . . and a pair of politicians. The rest were businessmen, rich tourists and poseurs, I’d say. It’s obviously the place to be seen this month.’
‘Nothing unusual? No dope? No under-the-counter absinthe?’
‘None that I noticed and I notice more than most. The only odd thing, and it didn’t occur to me until I was on the point of leaving, was that two of the men had gone off into the back quarters, separately, and neither had come out again. I followed the second of them after a discreet interval. Cloakrooms, as you’d expect. The gentlemen’s accommodation was impressive – as good as a top hotel – and I’d assume the ladies’ was of equal comfort. Nothing untoward going on. The man I was pursuing was not in the room. He’d disappeared. Alongside the cloakrooms was a carpeted staircase.’
‘You didn’t resist?’
‘Whistling casually, I followed on up to a landing. A table with a lavish display of flowers and three closed doors. No numbers. They each had a – fanlight? – a pane of glass over the top. Well, I judge the management have some sort of mirror system in place because the middle door opened at once, before I’d even knocked, and a maître d’hôtel type appeared. Large, ugly, unwelcoming but exquisitely polite. Well trained. He sent me straight back downstairs. I was trespassing on private property, apparently.’
‘Some sort of house of ill repute, are you thinking? A house of assignation?’
‘Yes. Something in the nature of the Sphinx which is close by – just off the boulevard by the cemetery. There’s a call for it. Tourists seeking thrills and well able to pay over the odds for their indulgence. And citizens come over from the affluent Right Bank into the Latin Quarter in search of a slight frisson of danger, a whiff of spice, but not the out and out dissolution on offer round every corner in Montmartre. Another attraction is that the maisons d’illusion of this type guarantee anonymity. From a perfectly innocent meeting place, thronged with people – like the jazz club – clients present themselves, are checked and gain entrance through an antechamber. They leave through a different door. All very discreet. You could run into your brother-in-law who’s an archdeacon and you needn’t blush for your presence there. You’d be just another fan of that wonderful saxophonist.’
‘This Sphinx you mentioned . . .?’
‘. . . is generally reckoned the top of the tree. It’s reputed for the calibre of its girls. They started with fifteen and now have about fifty. Beautiful of course but also well-educated and charming – good conversationalists. Many of them – or so it’s said – have aristocratic pretensions: Russian princesses, Roumanian countesses, English nannies.’
‘Top drawer stuff!’
‘And it’s fresh and modern. Forget the red plush decadence of the Chabanais and the One-Two-Two! The Sphinx is avant-garde, art deco . . . Good Lord! It’s even air-conditioned! It’s the sort of place where responsible fathers take their sons for their first serious experience with the fair sex.’
‘And our nameless establishment over the White Rabbit jazz club may have set up as a rival?’
‘Perfectly possible. There’s an increasing demand. Every luxury liner disgorges thousands of eager sensation-seekers. Restaurants, theatre, night spots – they’ve never been so busy. And of course the brothels are going to cash in too. The Corsicans who used to run this side of life have suddenly lost authority and the market’s ripe for the taking. The North Africans are moving in but there’s a strong challenge from the lads of the thirteenth arrondissement. They’re flexing their muscles, getting Grandpa’s zarin down from the attic, and are ready for the fight.’ Bonnefoye became suddenly serious as he added: ‘But more than knives. Some of them have guns they didn’t turn in after the war ended. And the men themselves . . . they’re not untried lads. They survived the war. They’re trained killers. Killers who perhaps got used to the excitement of war and miss it?’
‘But if the guard dog was told not to admit a clean-cut and clearly solvent chap like yourself – well, that’s a bit strange, isn’t it? I’d have expected them to have dragged you in the moment you stuck your head over the parapet.’
‘Yes. I was quite miffed! I went back down into the bar and got myself a drink. Found myself next to the two I’d marked down as politicians – I vaguely recognized one and, since they were talking about government grants on animal fodder in Normandy, I think I got that right. I’d parked myself next to the two most boring men in the room! I knocked back my vermouth and was on the point of leaving when the conversation next to me started to break up. It’s always worth while listening when goodbyes are being said. People say things with their guard down that perhaps they ought not to – and more loudly.’
‘Like – “Remember me to your brother and tell him to count on my help. The Revolution’s next Tuesday, is it? I’ll be there!”’
Bonnefoye grinned. ‘In fact, my man said, “Remember me to your wife. Her soirée’s next Saturday, isn’t it? I’ll be there!” It was the bit he added that was worth hearing. At least I think it was worth hearing. You must be the judge. He leaned over and in a hearty, all-chaps-together voice said: “I’m just off to the land of wonders . . . interested? No?” And he walked out through the back door.’
‘Say it again – that last bit,’ said Joe uneasily. ‘The bit about wonders. Where did he say he was going?’
Bonnefoye repeated his words in French: ‘. . . au pays des merveilles . . .’
‘Au pays des merveilles,’ murmured Joe. He was remembering a book he’d bought for Dorcas the previous summer to help her with her French reading. It hadn’t been well received. ‘Gracious, Joe! This is for infants or for grown-ups who haven’t managed to. It’s sillier than Peter Pan. I can’t be doing with it!’ His mind was racing down a trail. He was seeing, illuminated by a beam of hot Indian sunshine, a book, fallen over sideways on a shelf in an office in Simla, the cover beginning to curl, a peacock’s feather marking the place. The same edition. Alice au pays des merveilles. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Alice.
Surely not. He knew what Dorcas’s judgement would have been if he’d confided his mad notion: ‘Sandilands in Fairyland.’
The idea would not go away. Alice Conyers, fleeing India, Gladstone bag stuffed with ill-gotten gains of one sort or another, stopping over in Paris – might she have used her formidable resources to set herself up in a business of which she had first-hand knowledge? She might well. Bonnefoye waited in silence, sensing that Joe was struggling to rein in and order his thoughts.
‘Tell you a story, Bonnefoye
! At least Part One of a story. I think you may be about to make a bumbling entrance with me into Part Two. As the Knave of Hearts and the Executioner, perhaps?’
Bonnefoye was intrigued but scornful. ‘That’s all very fascinating but it’s as substantial as a spider’s web, Joe!’
‘But we’ll only find out the strength by putting some weight on it, I suppose. Your face is known there now. My turn to shoot down the rabbit hole. It’s my ugly mug that they’ll see leering in their mirrors next time! And, if madame’s there, I think I know just the formula to persuade her to let me in. There’s something I shall need . . . Two items. Didn’t I see a ladies’ hat shop down there in the Mouffe? Two doors north of the boulangerie? Good. What time do they open, do you suppose?’
Chapter Sixteen
Harry Quantock was again performing front-of-house duties at the Embassy. He recognized Joe at once and greeted him breezily.
‘Good morning, Commander! Good morning! We got your message and it’s all laid on. Come along to the back quarters, will you? You don’t merit a salon rouge reception today,’ he teased. ‘Much more workaday surroundings, I’m afraid. Jack Pollock’s expecting you in his office. Being on the Ambassador’s staff, an attaché, if you like, at least he’s housed in relative comfort.’
Joe was shown into a ground-floor office at the rear of the building, looking out on to a courtyard garden. It was high-ceilinged, wood-panelled and stately. The walls were studded at intervals with sepia photographs of pre-war cricket teams. Joe noted the progression from public schoolboys to the undergraduates of an Oxford college whose first eleven was outstanding for its striped blazers, striped caps and ugly expressions. These were followed in the line-up by examples of the University side. The only touch of modernity was a black and gold telephone sitting on a mahogany desk next to a silver vase of spring flowers. A tall window was open, letting in the scent of lilac blossom and the sound of traffic rumbling along the Champs-Élysées.
The attaché was seated behind his desk thumbing through a file, one eye on the door.
Joe was prepared for a family resemblance but, even so, he was taken aback by the young version of Sir George who leapt from his seat and bounded across the room to greet him with a cheerful bellow. Pollock’s handshake was dry and vigorous, his welcome the equal of – and reminiscent of – that of any large yellow dog that Joe had ever met.
‘You’ll have a cup of coffee, or do you prefer tea, Commander? Tea? Harry – could you . . .? Let’s sit down, shall we? I won’t waste your time – busy man – I’ll just say how sorry I am that you’ve been dragged into this mess, Sandilands. Lucky for us you were here on the spot, or in mid-flight to be precise, when all this burst over our heads. But – first things first – how are the Varsity doing?’
‘Varsity? Doing?’ For a moment, Joe was perplexed.
‘The Surrey match,’ Pollock prompted. ‘First fixture of the season.’
‘Ah, yes. Last I heard, I rather think they were losing 3–1 at half-time.’
The stunned silence lasted only a second. Pollock threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course – Edinburgh man, aren’t you? Like my old relative, George. And how you must be cursing him! He might have expected to get into some trouble or other by taking a box at the Folies – might even have been relishing the thought – but surely not trouble of this magnitude. Never heard the like! He has told you that the ticket didn’t come from me, has he? Good! I wouldn’t like it assumed that I was remotely responsible. Not my style! But, I say, Sandilands – if I didn’t send the fatal billet – are we wondering who did? It must be someone, apart from myself, who knew he was going to be in Paris and is aware of our relationship. It could only be known through an ambassadorial contact – here in Paris, in London or in Delhi, I suppose.’
‘You’ve just narrowed it down to a thousand people,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you!’
Jack Pollock grinned, leaned over the desk and added: ‘I can narrow it more usefully to someone who knows that there’s no way in this world my cousin would have recognized my handwriting. I’d swear the last sample he had was the gracious note I wrote in appreciation of the mechanical tiger he sent me when I was at school.’
Pollock’s eyes twinkled at the memory. He looked at Joe, friendly but calculating. ‘Wonderful contraption! With a bit of devilish skill, a dab or two of honey and lashings of schoolboy callousness I contrived to get my tiger to snap up flies!’
‘The Tipu Sultan of the Lower Third?’
‘Exactly! I was allowed to demonstrate it on Sundays after tea. George had taken me to see the original life-sized tiger at the Victoria and Albert – you know – the one Tipu had made . . . His tiger was in the act of eating a British soldier. I’ll never forget the roars and screams it emitted when someone wound it up! And the way the victim’s arm twitched as the tiger held him in his jaws!’
Joe laughed. ‘George would know how to please. He has a certain magic with children. I’ve watched it working.’
‘Pity the old feller has none of his own,’ said Pollock, suddenly serious again. ‘What a waste of many things.’ He snapped back into the conversation he had himself interrupted. ‘But the note – I have no reason to suppose he’d recognize my scrawl. We were never frequent – or even regular – correspondents. Distance and the exigencies of the war rather put paid to intimacy of that kind. And the transition from uncle–nephew to equal adult cousins has never had a chance to take place. Not sure how it will all pan out . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.’
Joe listened to the outpouring of eager speculation and confidences, smiling and agreeing.
‘Now tell me – what have you done with him? I’m assuming you’ve put the boot in imperially and sprung him from whatever hell-hole they’d banged him up in?’ The question was put abstractedly, Pollock’s attention on the tray of tea a manservant carried in. ‘Just set it down over there, will you, Foxton? Milk or lemon, Sandilands?’
‘Milk, please.’
Returning to the first question he’d been asked: ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joe carefully. ‘Still incarcerated, I’m sorry to say. Reasonably comfortable, I insisted on that, but still in a lock-up on the island. The authorities appear to be unimpressed by Sir George’s standing. I shall have another try later today. It may come down – or rather up – to a personal representation from the Ambassador himself.’
Pollock was angry. Whoever said that blue eyes could only be cool should have seen Pollock’s at this moment, Joe thought. They blazed. ‘What impertinence! Poor old George! He must be let out before the end of the day. Ring in and reassure me he is comfortably settled back in his hotel – where’s he staying? The Bristol? Of course. Well, the moment he gets there I’ll go and see him. And you, Sandilands – where are you staying?’
‘I’m at the Hotel Ambassador on the boulevard Haussman.’
Pollock made a note.
‘And all went well with the widow yesterday? Thank you for undertaking that unpleasant task!’
‘Unpleasant perhaps but not the harrowing experience it most often is. The lady seemed not particularly grieved to find her husband dead.’ Joe wondered how far he could pursue this line but the slight nod of agreement he received from Pollock encouraged him. ‘In fact she emerged from the identification scene a changed woman, I’d say. Reassured. Confident. Feeling a certain amount of release, no doubt? She was looking forward to an evening’s assignation at Fouquet’s with a companion whose identity is as yet unknown to us.’ He caught the echo of deadly police phrasing and added: ‘Give a lot to know who the lucky chap was!’
‘Oh, I think I can help you with that!’ said Pollock, enjoying the intrigue. ‘Doubtless the gentleman she sat next to on the plane – her travelling companion. Her constant companion for the past year, I understand. A Major Slingsby-Thwaite.’ Pollock lowered his voice though there was no risk of his being overheard. ‘Between you and me – bit of an adventurer! But then . . . perhaps that’s exactly what the lady’s after
– a bit of an adventurer – after all those bleak years of being married to a murderous swine. I take it my cousin has filled you in on the activities of the unlamented Somerton?’
‘I’ve had a pungent account of the case. And agree with Sir George – the man got no less than he deserved. But you seem to be very well informed as to his movements, Pollock? Why does His Britannic Majesty’s Government take such an interest in an ex-this, a disgraced-that? A wandering has-been?’
‘Current nuisance! For many a year. We’ve always kept tabs on him, watched his movements around Europe. Passed him on to the next chap with a sigh of relief. The man made many enemies – he was always likely to be a target for revenge or embarrassing mayhem of one sort or another. And a thorough cashiering, though well-deserved, doesn’t, in my experience, turn a villain into a saint overnight. “Off with his buttons!” is in no way as effective as “Off with his head!”’
Pollock frowned for a moment and looked at Joe with speculation. ‘You may not approve, of course. But I see you are a military man. You must agree with Richard III when he was having his problems with . . . now who was it . . .?’
‘Lord Hastings, it was, who provoked that famous order for execution, I believe,’ said Joe, coming to his rescue. ‘In Shakespeare’s play.’
‘Quite right! Someone ought to have advised Sir George similarly at the time – “Off with his head!” Overtly or covertly if necessary. Either method easily available in that locale, you understand. No questions asked. Death closes all. George slipped up there. When they’re given the sack, some of these villains take the honourable way out of their situation – the revolver and the brandy on the terrace after a good dinner, a friend’s steady hand on the elbow – but the ones who go on fighting the judgement – you need to keep an eye on them. Trained soldiers, used to command, wily and unscrupulous – can cause havoc if they take it badly! Even in death, the wretch Somerton’s causing problems. And it all happened on my watch! I’d have thought he was harmless enough boxed up at the Folies. Glad he’s gone!’
Folly Du Jour Page 17
