Folly Du Jour

‘I don’t want to be boring,’ Joe began tentatively, ‘but in London –’

‘And here in Paris!’ said Bo

Joe was drinking his second cup of coffee before Bo

‘Ah! I think we might have been expecting this,’ said Joe, smiling with satisfaction. ‘Let me teach you another London expression, mate: Gotcha!’

Vincent Viviani strode smartly down the avenue Montaigne towards the Pont de l’Alma. He was glad that his schedule had led him back to this part of Paris. He’d make time in his day to go and have a look at his favourite bridge over the Seine. Not being a theatre-goer, there was little to bring him to this increasingly smart area. Like everyone else passing by, he gave a swift, unemphatic glance at the three-storey, art nouveau façade of the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. Overblown, sweet-toothed, but perfect for its purpose, he supposed. Offering rich men the chance of parting with large sums of money for the privilege of gawping at acres of jiggling, gyrating female flesh – of all colours now, it seemed. He flicked an interested eye sideways, following the two men on the opposite side of the road. They ducked into the alley that led to the side door of the theatre. Stage-door Joh

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 begi

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.’