Folly Du Jour

Joe made the sign of the cross over the dead girl and knelt, tugging down and straightening the hem of the green satin dress. ‘Even in death, she looks beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘She’d be pleased to be making her last appearance in something special. Not her black uniform. What is this little number do you suppose, Bo

‘I know what this is. I checked the label. It’s a Paul Poiret. Her favourite.’

The three men gathered at the door, pausing to adjust their expressions, regain control and prepare for the flood of questions waiting for them in the corridor.

On the point of leaving, Simenon took a parting glance around the room, then, one element of the chaos evidently catching his attention, he pointed and exclaimed.

‘Look! Over there! That’s how he got in!’

Chapter Twenty

They followed his pointing finger to a lavish bouquet of two dozen large white lilies abandoned behind the door and begi

Bo

‘And flowers arriving at the stage door – it’s a daily occurrence. There’s usually someone on duty to receive them, though, and bring them on here to her dressing room.’

‘I’m thinking this must have been a particularly forceful delivery boy,’ said Joe. ‘Too much to hope there’s a card with them, I suppose?’

Bo

‘Well, gentlemen, are we ready to face the crowd?’ asked Joe.

Information, explanation and requests for back-up followed in an intensive quarter of an hour. Derval hurried away to carry out Bo

‘I hope you don’t mind but, in the circumstances, with the performance about to start, we’ve kept all this quiet,’ said the stage manager, assuming authority. ‘Josephine turned up five minutes ago, strolling down the corridor, munching on a ham sandwich, cool as you please. God! I nearly fainted! We guessed what had happened and when Derval could get his voice back he told her there’d been an accident in her room, a spillage . . . Had to get the cleaners in . . . When we could reassure her that her animals were all safe she agreed to borrow a costume, use the general dressing room and go on as normal. She doesn’t make a fuss . . . used to bunking up . . . gets on well with the girls. Goodness only knows what I’m going to tell her when she comes off! She was very fond of Francine, you know. We all were.’

Joe launched into an angry outburst. ‘Then you should take better care of your staff, monsieur! Where is your security in all this? A murderer walks in from the street and kills what he assumes to be the star? What next? One killing on the premises, I will call chance, two, a coincidence. But three? That’s known as enemy action! If you call us back here for a further crime I shall send Commissaire Fourier to arrest you! Good day, monsieur.’

Joe and Bo

‘It’s not your fault. I’m talking to both of you! I haven’t got the whole picture by any means, but I see enough to say: I can see you’re both knocked sideways by that girl’s death – more than professional concern calls for perhaps? I don’t know what more you could have done or shouldn’t have done and why you should hold yourselves responsible, but it wasn’t your hands around her throat. Hang on to that! All you can do now is find those hands.’

‘And break every last bone in each one,’ muttered Bo

They had found a quiet corner behind a screen of potted palms and were sitting, heads together, sipping generous measures of cognac, half an hour before the doors opened to admit the crowds.

‘It seems that, unwilling as we were to believe it, what we’ve got is a double – at least – murder, carried out, gangland-style, to punish informers and send out a warning,’ said Joe. ‘Alfred and Francine.’

‘You said you knew about Alfred?’ Bo

‘Her brother? Rumours only. Nothing for certain. Feel like telling me?’

Bo

‘. . . So it would seem to me that these clever dicks not only punish but signal ahead the identity of their next victim,’ Joe summarized heavily.

‘See what you mean,’ said Simenon. ‘All that stitching done on Alfred was a very personal warning to his sister.’

‘She perceived it as such. Yes.’

‘And her own death is meant to carry with it a threat to the next name on their list?’

‘Oh, good God! Those English banknotes, Joe!’ said Bo

‘Yes. I’m afraid so. Though they got that wrong. The notes they provided from their own resources. She had nothing from me but a red rose, a cup of coffee . . . and a laugh.’ With an effort, he pulled himself together and battled on: ‘I think the next name on their list is Joseph Sandilands. As Simenon here has remarked, I’m not safe to stand close to and I take the comment seriously. I’ve no intention of being the death of anyone else in this hellish chain. I think we know the source of the infection. Let me go in and lance the boil.’

‘What! You know who’s responsible for all this? Then why are you sitting here on your bums . . . excuse me . . .?’

Joe and Bo

‘Are you quite sure you want to listen to this?’

Simenon looked from one to the other doubtfully then his curiosity overcame his wariness and he nodded.

‘Very well. A further theory that we dismissed out of hand, I’m afraid,’ said Joe. ‘Perhaps we should reconsider. Alfred was involved with the nameless crew you have mentioned to us. He became addicted to drugs and, we must assume, less reliable on account of that. Confused, lacking judgement . . . desperate. Perhaps the reason they wanted to get rid of him? These soldiers appear to maintain an absolute discipline. He remained close to his sister – dependent on her – and, as they rightly feared, had confided information to her. Not exactly key information – I suspect he was something of a fringe figure . . . messenger boy . . . back-up. But information we –’ he glanced at Bo

‘Do you know who’s ru

‘We couldn’t anyway. No idea. There obviously is a mind devising and controlling all this nastiness and, whimsically, we’ve called him Set after the Egyptian God of Evil. But that’s since proved to be a distraction.’

Joe told him of Dr Moulin’s theory which had been shot down by Jack Pollock’s evidence.

Simenon stirred excitedly and began to stuff his pipe again. ‘You’re saying the villain who committed the murder in the Louvre confessed to it and died by his own hand, thus breaking the continuity? He didn’t take responsibility for any of the others?’

‘Not yet known for certain. Pollock is a good authority but I’ll check the records. Shouldn’t be difficult.’