Folly Du Jour

‘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 Bo

‘And we’re working on the assumption that the suspect they carted off is an i

‘I never thought otherwise,’ Simenon said graciously.

Their guide switched on the house lights and the inspection began. Joe and Bo

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?’

Bo

‘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 Bo

‘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.’ Bo

‘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 Bo

‘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.’