Folly Du Jour

by Barbara Cleverly

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Your guard dog’s standing right outside, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s as tough as he looks and he understands English. That’s why I lured you down to this end of the room. Laugh a little, Joe. If you go on snarling at me, he’ll come crashing in.’

  She gave a peal of laughter that sounded genuine enough but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. ‘You won’t be allowed to leave here alive, you know. I don’t think we ever expected you’d come here . . . just walk in. Flavius will have sent a message by now . . . To the boss. I’ll be expected to entertain you – to keep you on the premises until he gets here. He’ll want to think up something original for you. It’s high time the police had a warning shot across their bows.’

  Joe decided to ignore her bluster and concentrate on the present danger. ‘Tell me about him quickly, your Flavius. Is he a one off or is he at the head of a pack?’

  He looked again at his watch.

  ‘He’s from the south. Not bright but quick enough. Vicious. Ex-Foreign Legion. Knife or gun, he doesn’t mind. He’ll have one of each in his hands at the moment. He’s right-handed. He’ll use the knife if he can – we like to avoid noises up here – but if he has to, he’ll shoot you with his pistol. It’s fitted with a silencer. He’s top house dog but there’s a security staff of four more always on the premises. They are wolves. Two North African, two Parisian. Armed. They have discreet house guns for indoor work. Beretta 6.35s. Last year’s model. At the first sign of trouble, two will go out through the back exit and circle round. Two will come straight down the main corridor to back up Flavius.’

  ‘Where are they all at the moment?’

  ‘Flavius is right there, as you guessed, at the door. The others?’ She shrugged. ‘Playing cards in their room. It’s ten yards down the corridor to the left. Playing with the girls, given half a chance. They won’t be expecting trouble at this early hour and the girls won’t be busy. We like to keep the staff sweet.’

  Joe went to the sideboard. ‘More champagne, m’dear?’ he asked in a louder, drunken voice. ‘Jolly good drop of fizz you keep! What?’ He clinked a glass against the bottle at the moment he pulled open the drawer. It opened silently. He took out the Luger.

  ‘It’s fully loaded. I did it myself,’ she mouthed.

  Joe checked it anyway.

  She shuddered as he reached behind his back and took a pair of handcuffs from under his jacket. ‘I borrowed these from a colleague,’ he murmured. ‘I think I can make them work. Do I need to put them on you?’

  ‘No. I’ll be more use with my hands free. And don’t forget we have to get out through the club. They’re not used to seeing women in cuffs. And they’re not very fond of the police. They might object.’

  He slipped them back through his belt.

  ‘Come closer to the door but stay well to the side. I don’t forget he’s got my Browning. If he fires that into the room the bullet won’t stop until it hits the towers of Notre Dame. Remind me – which way does the door open?’

  ‘Inwards.’

  ‘Listen! When I nod, you’re to squeal. Not loudly. Enough to encourage him to come in to investigate. Okay?’

  ‘Ready.’

  Joe took a deep breath then nodded.

  Alice squealed.

  Joe waited one second then blasted the door with four rounds. The wood splintered as the bullets tore through the flimsy structure. A lozenge pattern of blackened holes marked out a target area two feet square which would reach from throat to abdomen on a six foot two inch man standing at the door.

  If, indeed, he had been standing at the door.

  Joe heard no scream or oath. Not even a grunt.

  Crouching to the side, he listened. Not a sound. No time to wait. The wolves would be slamming down their cards, saying, ‘What the hell was that?’ or murmuring ‘Excuse me, ma’am’ and unsheathing their Berettas. Covering the door space with his gun, Joe reached out, turned the knob and flung the remains of the door open into the room.

  Alice made a little wuffling sound in her throat.

  Flavius was utterly silent. His huge body lay collapsed, sandbagging the doorway, still pumping out blood from at least two wounds. No screams because the highest and first of the bullets had shot out his throat.

  Alice was faster than Joe. She leapt straight at the obstacle, scrambling in high satin heels over the twitching body. Joe followed. As they reached the door to the stairs Alice fiddled with the bolt and double lock and a gathering roar rumbled down the corridor after them. As the door yielded, Alice took off down the stairs.

  Joe turned and raised the Luger. He watched the door Alice had mentioned, waiting. The door creaked open and the snub-nosed barrel of a pistol started to slide out. Joe fired. The gun crashed to the ground. Someone howled in pain. Joe fired again blindly through the wood. Two bullets remaining. He waited a heartbeat and fired them off, warning shots down the length of the corridor, then wiped the gun and threw it back towards Flavius’s body. He turned and leapt, three steps at a time, down the stairs. Alice had already disappeared.

  When he reached the entrance to the jazz club he paused and listened. The music had stopped, women were shrieking, men shouting. He was in greater danger of being torn apart in a mêlée of angry jazz fans, he calculated, than by the wolves.

  He turned and backed into the door, bumping it open. He held up both hands, clearly unarmed, and gestured with a hand towards the stairs, a soldier indicating an enemy position. He yelled, ‘Au secours! Help!’ He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide in alarm, and shouted into the horrified silence: ‘Hell! A feller goes to the john and World War Two breaks out over his head! What sort of joint is this?’

  Two hearty Americans leapt to his rescue and dragged him backwards to safety into the café. All three of them were instantly caught up and struggling in the general surge towards the exit.

  God! It was there! Joe hadn’t heard and really didn’t believe in Bonnefoye’s promised taxi but there it was, as he’d described it, panting and choking at the kerbside. A petulant Alice was locked in the back. Bonnefoye was leaning nonchalantly against the driver’s door. He greeted Joe as he dashed up and unlocked the rear door.

  ‘Do you mind, Joe? Sitting in the back? Standard procedure when we’re carrying a dangerous prisoner. The lady took me for the driver. Understandable, as I was sitting at the wheel. Jumped in and told me to drive to the Gare de Lyon. In quite a hurry. Peremptory, even. Promised me a reward if I arrived on bald tyres! Another woman fleeing your company? What on earth do you say to them, Joe?’

  He climbed in behind the wheel and turned off the engine. ‘Well now – what do you have to tell me, Joe?’

  ‘Four others on the premises, you say?’ Bonnefoye was calm, enjoying the moment. ‘We found the rear exit and covered it. There’s a panier à salade round there blocking the alley and ten of our best boys raring to have a go. A section of the Vice Squad are on their way as well. They’ll go in and clear up. Um . . . heard the noise. Are we likely to put our feet in anything up there, Joe?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. One rather large casualty, bleeding copiously. Not our man – the doorman. Name’s Flavius. Not that he’s answering to it. Problem with his throat.’

  ‘It was self-defence!’ Alice spoke up firmly. ‘He was threatening me and the Commander had to shoot him.’

  ‘Much as I dislike contradicting a lady,’ said Bonnefoye pleasantly, ‘I have to say I think you’ve got that wrong, madame. Your guard was shot by one of the other bits of scum you keep about the place with the house gun. I expect if we search carefully we’ll find the . . .’

  ‘Luger,’ supplied Joe.

  ‘. . . Luger, yes. Wiped clean? Yes, of course. And we’ll establish that the fracas was no more than a fight over a girl. The usual. We’ll just have to wait and see which one confesses to what, won’t we? But I’m sure one of them will be only too pleased to assume responsibility. Do you want to stay and see the fun, Joe, o
r shall we take off for the Quai?’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said Joe, still getting his breath back.

  Alice had shrunk away from him as he pushed himself into the back seat alongside her.

  He stared at her and burst out laughing. ‘Two minutes ago this woman, you’d have sworn, was on her way to the Ritz, sporting the last word in cocktail frocks! And now look at her! Milady de Winter! Fully caped. Booted and spurred probably too if I could be bothered to check. And –’ he kicked a soft leather bag she’d pushed away behind her calves – ‘packed and ready for the weekend, I see. Now where were you off to, I wonder?’

  ‘Not planning on helping us with our enquiries,’ said Bonnefoye with mock resentment. ‘I was watching her. She tore into the café and spoke to the barman. He handed that stuff to her from under the bar.’

  ‘My exit bag. I always have it to hand,’ she explained sweetly.

  ‘And what were you intending to do at the Gare de Lyon, Gateway to the South? From where so many adventures start?’ Joe asked. ‘Return to your old haunts on the Riviera?’

  ‘Change taxis? Head north . . . or east . . . or west,’ she said, tormenting him. ‘You’ll never know. Not sure I do myself. Joe, are you ever going to introduce me to your charming young colleague? He seems to have the advantage of me.’

  ‘No. You don’t need to know him. You just need to do as he says.’

  He had counted on annoying her, but Joe was taken aback by the fury in the glare she directed at him.

  A small black police car screamed to a halt a few inches in front of them.

  ‘Here he is,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘My associate in Vice. I’ll just leave you for a moment while I fill him in then we can leave. We’ll make for a nice quiet place and put a few questions to the lady. If she answers correctly and reasonably, it may be that she can go free – after signing a statement, of course. If we’re concerned by what she has to say then she may have to proceed as far as Commissaire Fourier. Won’t be a minute.’

  ‘How long will he be?’ Alice’s voice was strained. He could hardly see her face. She had flung the hood over her head and was shrinking down into the upholstery. Her eyes were scanning the crowds milling about on the pavement. ‘We must leave now, Joe! Call him back! He – you – have no idea . . .!’

  Joe was reminded of George’s remark about Alice’s strange behaviour. ‘. . . eyes quartering the room like a hunter,’ he’d said and then corrected himself: ‘No – more like the prey. There was someone out there in the auditorium . . .’

  And there was someone out there at this moment on the pavement, coming closer. He began to catch Alice’s fear. He spoke softly to her. ‘Alice, we are surrounded by at least a dozen assorted flics. You’re quite safe. For the moment.’

  She looked at him, incredulous. ‘You think that will stop him?’

  Uneasy, he muttered, ‘Damn! I haven’t got a gun. I really did remember to wipe the Luger and drop it a suitable distance from the body. And – oh God! – I didn’t get my Browning back. No time, even if I’d thought of it.’

  Alice bent and fished about in her bag. ‘Here. Take this. It’s only a .22 but it’s a little more effective than pointing a wagging finger.’

  He took it warily, resting it along his thigh between them, finger on the trigger.

  ‘You make me nervous, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘As nervous as you made Sir George on Saturday night at the theatre? And for the same reason perhaps? I’m afraid for my life. Should I be afraid for my life? What are your instructions this time? The same as last? Kill the Englishman?’

  She looked at him, eyes darkening with suspicion inside her silk hood. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I know, Alice. I know that you’d gone to the theatre that night, not for the pleasure of seeing Sir George again, but to kill him.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘To kill him. At the very least, to participate in his killing.’

  She swallowed but remained silent, still staring through the windows.

  ‘Sir Stanley Somerton was never the target, was he? His death has brought freedom, much relief and even unholy joy to a good number of people but it was never intended, was it? No one put cash in an envelope and asked for him to die? Am I getting this right, Alice?’

  She nodded her head. ‘As usual.’

  ‘Do you want to know how I guessed?’

  ‘No. Not particularly. I assume you to be omniscient.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Because I shall enjoy the satisfaction of making you and your filthy organization aware that you’ve been tripped up by no more than a couple of bystanders, neither of them connected in any way to the murder that went wrong but both sharp-eyed, observing accurately and passing on their observations to those who could make sense of them.’

  Alice appeared not to be listening. ‘Where’s your friend? God! Now where’s he off to? Do we have to wait for him?’

  ‘The star of the show, Miss Josephine Baker,’ Joe pushed on, ‘was kind enough to grant us an interview. She’s a responsive girl who feeds off her audience, is aware of them and their moods. She remembers that evening particularly because the routine was broken. Lindbergh flew in and she took it upon herself, being from St Louis, to invite the audience to celebrate with her. She was aware of you, Alice, and your young employee in Somerton’s box. She was aware enough of the two men to tell me the boxes were a mirror image of each other. Two elderly gents, two blonde young women with them. She didn’t even know which man had died. Left or right, they were much the same to her. It made no difference to the star but it was life or death for one of those men. And then it struck me. For me, the kaleidoscope suddenly shifted and settled into a different pattern when she said that.

  ‘And, taken with the strange behaviour of Somerton, the behaviour reported both by Sir George and by a treacherous school friend of his who happened to be in the audience, it all began to pull together. They said the same thing. George, compassionate man that he is, attempted in the only way open to him to ensure – not the virtue – but the well-being of your little tart across the way. Before the show started and you showed up, he got to his feet and in soldier’s hand language told Somerton to back off. “Or else!” he added. Accompanying his threat by a very familiar gesture. This!’

  Joe performed the slow dragging of the index finger across the throat.

  ‘George was relieved to see his old enemy signal: “Message received and understood.” He was puzzled, though not disturbed, by the man’s further reaction. He fell about laughing. The witness in the stalls, Wilberforce Jennings, told us that Somerton “damn near slapped his thigh, he thought it so funny . . .”

  ‘And it was funny. In the circumstances. Very. Ironic might be a more accurate word as no one but Somerton would have been genuinely amused by the gesture. Because George was the one who was supposed to die and in exactly the way he’d mimed – by the slicing of a dagger across his throat. And the man who supplied the dagger, chose the killing place and the time, and paid for the assassination show was Somerton himself. George’s prophetic gesture added to the gaiety! The cherry in the cocktail!’

  Joe didn’t care that she was barely listening to him. His outrage pushed him to try to make an impression, to make her admit an understanding. Regret and shame were out of the question, he supposed.

  ‘The vile Somerton discovered that Jardine, the man who’d disgraced him and ruined his life – as he saw it – was to be in Paris at the same time as himself. He wanted the satisfaction of watching while his old enemy was filleted in front of his eyes. But a solitary viewing is not an entirely satisfactory experience for a man like Somerton. He wanted to share it. He arranged to be seen, flaunting female company of the choicest kind, knowing that this would annoy Sir George. And he intended that his companion should join him in witnessing a real-life bit of theatre.’

  ‘You know that’s not what happened, Joe.’

  ‘No. And I’m wondering what went
wrong – or should I say right? It seems to me that someone threw a sabot into the works and put all the cogs out of mesh. Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘Me! It was me! You know that! He didn’t tell me, for once, the name of the target as he usually does. Sometimes he allows me a veto when he’s getting his schemes together. He trusts my judgement. But in this case, he must have been offered a great deal of money and he didn’t care to hear my objections.’ Alice paused and bit her lip, still working through her reasoning. Not quite happy with her thoughts, Joe guessed. ‘He might have expected me to balk at killing off someone I knew from India. And he was right. I would never have agreed to harming George. He confided in Cassandre – that’s the girl’s name – and set up the whole theatre episode with her. The assassin had been told to kill the Englishman in Box A, the one sitting alone. The client himself would have one of our girls with him, a protective marker, so there was no chance he would get it wrong.

  ‘Cassandre consulted me about the outfit she should wear that evening and I discussed it with her. I was concerned that I’d been sidelined in this – suspected Cassandre herself of making a try for my own position. No such thing – the girl was just as much in the dark as I was. I got the whole thing out of her. It wasn’t difficult, she assumed I knew. I was horrified. I knew nothing of this Somerton but I did know I wasn’t going to let Sir George die. I thought by arranging for the other man to be killed in his place, I could put it down to a ghastly mistake on the part of the knifeman. And there’d be no client left behind to complain that he hadn’t had his show, after all! No consequences!

  ‘At the appointed time – the killing was fixed for the moment when the applause for the finale rang out – I left and went down the stairs. I met our man coming up and berated him. “Idiot! The bloke you want is over the other side! B, not A. Don’t you listen? Or don’t you know your alphabet? I’m with this chap, can’t you see? The other, the dark one, is the one sitting by himself. Go quickly!”