Folly Du Jour

‘Then, consequently, the series of deaths the pathologist recalls must all be personal, unco

‘I shall keep my mouth shut,’ said Joe lugubriously. ‘At all times.’

‘I’d say you’d got their message,’ said Bo

‘If you’re looking for a feller, always try the bar first.’ The voice was female, joking and warmly American.

Simenon had shot to his feet a second before the other two men were aware of her presence. He introduced the two policemen to Miss Baker and went off to fetch her a glass of mineral water.

Like and yet unlike Francine. Joe was startled to see she was wearing a silk Chinese dressing gown the replica of the one the French girl had been wearing in her room in Montmartre. Seeing the girls side by side no one would have confused them, but from a distance or an odd angle or from behind it would have been all too easy to take one for the other. Judging by her lightness of tone and her smiles, no one had hurried forward to tell Josephine the truth of what lay behind the closed door of her dressing room. Cynically, he calculated they would not reveal it until the end of her performance. The show would go on, regardless of Francine.

‘Two fellers? Well, how about that! Joe and Philippe? Say – I’m sorry I’m late! Long night! Didn’t get to bed till six. Louis played until four in the morning! Can you imagine! And no one walks out of a Louis Armstrong performance. Have you heard him play? Come! Tonight! Pick me up here and we’ll make a night of it,’ she said, batting eyelashes flirtily at Bo

For a moment, Joe was so disconcerted he could not remember why on earth they were seeing her. The three men exchanged glances, silently and shamefacedly acknowledging that they’d get the best information out of Miss Baker if she remained for the moment in ignorance of her friend’s death.

Josephine herself came to their rescue. ‘That poor old gent!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hate to think the guy was up there dying . . . could have been just above my head . . . while we were wiggling our way through that last Irving Berlin number. Why would anyone want to do that? At a show?’

‘We were wondering, Miss Baker,’ said Joe, ‘if you could recollect anything – anything at all – of the occupant of what I’ll call the murder box.’

‘Sure. I’ll try. Can’t say I’d remember any old night. But this was special. Lucky Lindy made it, did you know that? Someone rushed in with the news and I went on in between numbers and a

Joe touched her right hand and said, ‘From the stage, he would have been on this side.’

‘Okay. Up there.’ She looked up to her right, and extended her finger, fixing the imagined box. ‘Got it. Not that it makes a heap of difference, ya know – I could have been seeing double! Two gents. Wearing tuxedos, the both of ’em, and each with a girl. All snuggled up hotsy-totsy. Nothing out of the ordinary. Clapping. Seemed to be having a good time . . .’

She sipped her water with a smile of thanks for Georges and thought hard. They waited in silence. ‘Can’t say I noticed anything odd about the fellers but the girls . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Yeah . . . that was kinda strange . . . I was struttin’ about, leading the applause. Watching them watching me. Everybody was getting very excited about the flight. Clapping and whistling and screeching like you’d never heard but they were talking to each other as well, smacking each other on the back, standing on their seats. Gathering together into one big shout of congratulations. But not those girls.’

‘Girls?’

‘Yeah, the two of them. You’d have sworn they were agreeing with each other. Exchanged a look and turned and left. Without a word. No goodbyes. No nothing. It was choreography. And I know choreography! The men were left on their lonesome for the finale.’ She frowned, doing her best to call up her fleeting impressions.

A good witness, Joe thought.

‘The one you say died . . .’ Out came the right hand again. ‘I last had a glimpse of him halfway, I suppose, through the finale. I don’t have a lot to do in that routine – just prance around in gold feathers – and I remember being something put out – he was looking at his watch! Turning it this way,’ she held up an arm and demonstrated, ‘towards the stage lights, you know, to get a look at it. And he stared across at the other box. I was begi

‘Strange behaviour?’ murmured Joe.

‘Well, exactly! Lord! If a hundred naked girls – and me! – can’t knock his eye out, whatever will?’

‘A good question, Miss Baker. What better entertainment can he possibly have wanted?’

Bo

‘Don’t be,’ said Bo

Simenon showed them to the side door and said goodbye. ‘You will let me know how all this turns out?’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been most intrigued . . .’

‘And helpful,’ said Bo

‘Bit rash, weren’t you?’ Joe commented as they walked away back into the avenue de Montaigne. ‘Fourier won’t like that.’

‘Sod Fourier! I can swing it! Anyway – with the ideas you’ve been stuffing into his head, a newsman might be just exactly what he wants to encourage . . . “Now, my dear Simenon, just take this down, will you?” Chaps like that are very useful to us. They’re a cha

‘And quite obviously something going on between him and the star, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Good luck to them! How did he say they met? Stage-door Joh

‘Yes. But not empty-handed,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ‘Said he brought her a bunch of roses. Roses . . . lilies . . .’ He looked about him. ‘We’re a long way from a florist’s shop here. But there must surely be some enterprising merchant out there catering for star-struck young men on their way to the theatre?’