Folly Du Jour

‘Well . . . Well, well!’ said Joe. ‘No name, perhaps, but every man has fingerprints. And he can’t change those every six months. You roundly declare our chap was not wearing gloves? Let’s see what we can do, shall we? Perhaps the officers who worked here on the night of the crime have, inadvertently, recorded his prints. Though, amongst this profusion of sticky dabs, they are not aware of what they have.’

Bo

‘Ah! Le pigeon! Le gogo!’ was Simenon’s verdict on Sir George and Joe was encouraged to hear it.

‘The “patsy” you might say. Our supposition also.’

The beam of Joe’s torch illuminated the last section of the wall, to the left of the door, passed on and then jerked back again. ‘I wonder if we can reduce the area of search?’

He moved closer to a powdered print on the left door jamb. ‘Here’s a remarkably sticky print, wouldn’t you say? Just look at the detail there!’

‘Not blood?’ said Bo

‘No, not blood. The greasiness is pomade! Hair grease. I had some of that muck on my fingers yesterday. It’s the pathologist’s theory that the killer seized Somerton by his hair with his left hand from behind to hold his head in the correct position and then slit his throat with his right hand. So, his right hand might well have been covered in blood and he was obviously at some pains not to touch anything with that but, possibly leaning out to check the corridor was free, he placed what he thought was his clean left hand here . . .’ Joe extended his hand without touching the wall into a natural position and found he had to move it up an inch. ‘Tall man,’ he commented. ‘Just over six feet tall? Bo

‘As soon as I can get back up to the lab! Focusing! That could save them a bit of time!’

‘That policeman! Is he still in the building?’

The voice boomed out from the rear of the stage. Urgent. Powerful. Alarmed.

‘We’re up here, Monsieur Derval,’ Simenon called back. ‘Just finishing in the box. I have two inspectors with me – one Police Judiciaire, the other Scotland Yard.’

‘The more the merrier. Bring the Grand Old Duke of York as well if you’ve got him. Quickly! To Josephine’s room.’

The figure exited at speed, stage left, pursued, Joe would have sworn, by all three Furies.

Joe checked his watch.

Their escort turned an anxious face to them and he muttered something abstractedly, indicating that they should follow him. So evident was his concern, Joe speculated that the young man’s relationship with the star was warmer than he had declared. It wouldn’t have been surprising. Josephine was rumoured to enjoy a vigorous and fast-changing series of romantic involvements. But if the reporter had been a fixture in her frantic life for over a year, he must occupy a position of some trust and intimacy.

He led them at an ankle-breaking pace down staircases and along narrow corridors, burrowing always deeper into the vast unseen reaches of the theatre. They swept through gaggles of girls, practising steps and formations in any space they could find, skirted around others standing rigidly enduring the pi

At the end of the corridor, a group of three men stood guard in front of the closed door of the star’s dressing room. They were agitated. They did not wait for introductions. One, the director, Derval, who’d boomed at them from the stage, put a hand on the door knob.

‘Come in quietly! No fuss please! We haven’t disturbed or touched anything. We’ll stay outside until you call us. This is Alex, our stage manager. He found her.’ He nodded to one of his companions. ‘He went to check whether she’d arrived yet.’

Simenon frowned and chewed his lower lip but said nothing.

‘You’d better go in with them, Georges,’ Derval added, touching the man’s shoulder gently.

She was lying in the middle of the room, on her front on the floor with the back of her glossy black head to the door. Her high-heeled shoes had fallen off. They were green satin, exactly matching the shining cocktail dress that had slid up, revealing brown thighs and strong calves. Joe at first wondered whether the room had been ransacked. Everything was in disorder. Clothes and stage costumes hung from every picture rail and spilled from open couturiers’ boxes littering the floor, towels were draped on every chair back. There was a stench, overpowering and at first inexplicable. A potent cocktail of death and dung. Joe wrinkled his nose, trying to identify the elements. A farmyard? A zoo? And then he noticed the menagerie. In cages and boxes, small animal faces pushed forward, grunting, growling, mewing, sensing their presence, eager for attention. Dog, cat, two rabbits, a small goat, a leopard cub asleep on a cushion in a cardboard box, and – Good Lord! – a snake, thankfully securely boxed.

Well, that at least explained the trail of cereal of some sort that had spilled from the dead girl’s hand all over the carpet. She’d dropped a bag of pet food and must have been preparing to feed her animals when she was attacked.

The reporter had rushed forward and sunk to his knees beside her before they thought of calling a warning, touching her sleek head with a caressing hand. ‘She’s dead,’ he whispered. Then he recoiled and froze, eyes starting. He gasped and cursed and, taking the body by the shoulders, turned it over.

Chapter Nineteen

It was Joe’s turn to draw in his breath in surprise. ‘It’s not her . . . No – that’s not Miss Baker!’

He stared at the face and added, ‘No scarlet thread. Thank God for that at least.’ His gaze lingered uncertainly. ‘But all the same, there’s something odd here . . . something missing . . .’

‘You’re right, though. It’s Francine,’ said Bo

The reporter, visibly shaking from the shock, had taken a pipe from his pocket and was attempting to hold a match steady enough to light it. ‘No, you’re wrong. Everyday scene. The girls were very thick,’ he started to say, between puffs. ‘Josephine liked her. They were always giggling together. She had the run of the place.’

‘I understood from Francine herself that she often modelled new outfits for Josephine. They’re the same size and I suspect Francine may have worked hard at acquiring the new fashionable Baker look. Not difficult with her dark skin and hair,’ Joe said.

‘She would choose clothes for Josephine to wear after the show. Josephine always goes on somewhere after she’s performed. She’s tireless, you know! Usually to a nightclub. To her own, first of all. Chez Joséphine, it’s called. In the rue Fontaine. And then on somewhere else. Bricktop’s more often than not. She’s not captivated by fashion as Francine is . . . was – she takes her word for it that what she’s picked out for her will be just right for whatever party she has in mind.’ The words spilled out, a confusion of thoughts and tenses, a reaction to the relief he clearly felt. Relief that the dead girl at his feet was not Josephine but also guilt that, in these circumstances, he could be feeling relief at all. He collected himself. He stared at the body and frowned in pity. ‘Francine always got it right. This green satin gown is probably the one she’d selected for whatever Josephine was pla