Folly Du Jour

‘And, taken with the strange behaviour of Somerton, the behaviour reported both by Sir George and by a treacherous school friend of his who happened to be in the audience, it all began to pull together. They said the same thing. George, compassionate man that he is, attempted in the only way open to him to ensure – not the virtue – but the well-being of your little tart across the way. Before the show started and you showed up, he got to his feet and in soldier’s hand language told Somerton to back off. “Or else!” he added. Accompanying his threat by a very familiar gesture. This!’

Joe performed the slow dragging of the index finger across the throat.

‘George was relieved to see his old enemy signal: “Message received and understood.” He was puzzled, though not disturbed, by the man’s further reaction. He fell about laughing. The witness in the stalls, Wilberforce Je

‘And it was fu

Joe didn’t care that she was barely listening to him. His outrage pushed him to try to make an impression, to make her admit an understanding. Regret and shame were out of the question, he supposed.

‘The vile Somerton discovered that Jardine, the man who’d disgraced him and ruined his life – as he saw it – was to be in Paris at the same time as himself. He wanted the satisfaction of watching while his old enemy was filleted in front of his eyes. But a solitary viewing is not an entirely satisfactory experience for a man like Somerton. He wanted to share it. He arranged to be seen, flaunting female company of the choicest kind, knowing that this would a

‘You know that’s not what happened, Joe.’

‘No. And I’m wondering what went wrong – or should I say right? It seems to me that someone threw a sabot into the works and put all the cogs out of mesh. Are you going to tell me?’

‘Me! It was me! You know that! He didn’t tell me, for once, the name of the target as he usually does. Sometimes he allows me a veto when he’s getting his schemes together. He trusts my judgement. But in this case, he must have been offered a great deal of money and he didn’t care to hear my objections.’ Alice paused and bit her lip, still working through her reasoning. Not quite happy with her thoughts, Joe guessed. ‘He might have expected me to balk at killing off someone I knew from India. And he was right. I would never have agreed to harming George. He confided in Cassandre – that’s the girl’s name – and set up the whole theatre episode with her. The assassin had been told to kill the Englishman in Box A, the one sitting alone. The client himself would have one of our girls with him, a protective marker, so there was no chance he would get it wrong.

‘Cassandre consulted me about the outfit she should wear that evening and I discussed it with her. I was concerned that I’d been sidelined in this – suspected Cassandre herself of making a try for my own position. No such thing – the girl was just as much in the dark as I was. I got the whole thing out of her. It wasn’t difficult, she assumed I knew. I was horrified. I knew nothing of this Somerton but I did know I wasn’t going to let Sir George die. I thought by arranging for the other man to be killed in his place, I could put it down to a ghastly mistake on the part of the knifeman. And there’d be no client left behind to complain that he hadn’t had his show, after all! No consequences!

‘At the appointed time – the killing was fixed for the moment when the applause for the finale rang out – I left and went down the stairs. I met our man coming up and berated him. “Idiot! The bloke you want is over the other side! B, not A. Don’t you listen? Or don’t you know your alphabet? I’m with this chap, can’t you see? The other, the dark one, is the one sitting by himself. Go quickly!”

‘Cassandre had got away by then, leaving the door ajar, and the fiend got in and did the business. So long as he had someone to carve up, he wouldn’t give a damn. If someone had made a mistake it wasn’t his fault. He would put it down to a management mix-up. He isn’t paid to think. But stupid Sir George! Why the hell did he have to go over and foul everything up?’

‘Because he’s got what you’ve never had, Alice – a kind heart and a conscience. But . . . here comes Bo

‘Dim glimmerings? Fool! I saved his life! And now see where it’s got me, my human kindness! Sharing a taxi with two rozzers and on the way to prison.’

‘You took your time,’ Alice accused Bo

‘Fun’s nearly over,’ he reported, settling back in again and easing out into the traffic. ‘Didn’t entirely go to plan. A problem. Apart from the corpse – four armed security, you said? We’ve got three of them. Two dead, two injured, trying to shoot their way out. They loaded the lot into the police ambulance and headed off for the Quai. At the first halt, corner of the boulevard, one of the wounded leapt from his pallet, bashed the attendant on the head and jumped out into the traffic. He’s covered in blood – his or someone else’s. We should be able to pick him up with no trouble.’

Alice groaned. ‘You’re saying you’ve left one of the wolves on the loose? He’ll go straight to . . .’ She teetered on the edge of a name.

Finally Joe had thought she was about to give him what he wanted but she caught herself in time. Losing patience, he said: ‘To whom, Alice? Who is this bogeyman you’re so frightened of? Who’s out there? How many of them?’

‘Not many. He likes to keep it small. Very small now, but there are always men available to swell the ranks. There’s the one you’ve allowed to escape, the knifeman, and the boss. But they’ve got a network that runs all through Paris. And beyond. They’ll track us down wherever we go . . . Where are we going?’

‘Yes – where are we going?’ Bo

‘Follow that ambulance!’ said Joe, suddenly coming to a decision. ‘I wonder if you knew . . . in times of danger, the Parisii tribe who settled here – before the Romans arrived and spoiled things for them – would make for the central island and pull up the drawbridge, so to speak. We’ll do the same. Ile de la Cité, please, driver.’

‘Oh, Lord! Not Fourier, Joe! Not sure I’m quite prepared for that yet!’

‘I’m certainly not! No, I have in mind a different location. In the law enforcement buildings, but not involving a trip up Staircase A. A quiet spot . . . none quieter. We’re off to the morgue!’

Moulin was already gowned, gloved and masked, standing ready. He was accompanied by three young assistants, similarly clad, sorting through trays of instruments. At their approach, he removed his surgical mask and gave them a puzzled smile of welcome. ‘I was just on my way out for the evening,’ he grumbled. ‘Under this,’ he indicated his white starched gown, ‘I’m dressed for the opera. We were alerted by telephone. Rush job on. Someone warned us to expect incoming dead.’