Folly Du Jour

‘I agree to your terms,’ Bo

‘John Pollock,’ she said simply and held out her mug for more coffee.

Joe got to his feet, agitated, barely able to keep his hands off her. He wanted to shake her until she told the truth. A different truth. ‘I don’t believe a word of this. Nonsense! I’ve met the man. A cousin of Sir George’s would never . . .’ He stopped himself from further reinforcing her jaundiced view of men. He was quite certain that she resented the easy camaraderie between them. Why should he trust John Pollock after a half-hour’s interview and herself not at all after five years, was her flawed reasoning.

‘Pardon me, madame,’ said Bo

Alice considered. ‘Yes. That’s just about it. Well done. Will you write that down or shall I?’

‘I think we ought at this point to mention the word “motive”. Why on earth would he do that?’

‘Oh, come on! Can you be so unaware? What sort of detectives am I dealing with? Must I do all the work?’

‘Be kind, Alice,’ warned Joe.

‘Very well. George doesn’t talk much of it but he’s actually filthy rich, you know. Stands to reason! The man had a finger in every pie in India and many of them are full of plums. That’s what India was all about, you know. John Company . . . exploitation . . . Empire . . . it all boils down to cash. In accounts in Switzerland in many cases. George, with his knowledge of the way things would go – and he it was who pushed them where he wanted them to go on occasions – was well placed to make the most spectacular investments. He’s retired and come home to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He has no heir. For many years his cousin has been – still is – named in his will as recipient of his wealth. But John has lately become concerned about his cousin’s intentions . . . his state of mind . . . Unleashed from the stifling routine of India, he seems about to plunge into a world of gaiety. Who knows? Perhaps he might even be entrapped into marriage by some girl on the make? And produce an heir of his own within the year? It happens a dozen times a season in Paris! Pity I didn’t think of it myself! Much safer to accept Somerton’s timely commission. After all – the responsibility lies with the client, doesn’t it?’

‘Jack Pollock earns a perfectly decent salary. He may well be e

Again he was rewarded with the pitying, world-weary gaze. ‘Do you have any idea how much it costs to underpin the life of a titled man? The estate? The household? The ceremony? The motor cars? The city house? The upkeep of a future Lady Pollock? He is like, yet not like George. Don’t be deceived. They are opposite sides of the same coin. Made from the same metal but the features are different. Jack is extravagant, fast-living. Ruthless, they are both ruthless, but, unlike George, his cousin has no conscience.’

‘Set and Osiris,’ Bo

Alice looked from one to the other in puzzlement. They didn’t bother to explain.

Half an hour later, a document had been drawn up to Alice’s satisfaction and she signed it.

‘My gun, Joe? May I?’

He took it from his pocket and handed it over hurriedly as though it would burn his fingers.

‘Well, I think I’ll be off now. Don’t bother to get up. I’m sure I can find my way out. I’ll mind my ma

* * *

‘Moulin keeps his brandy in a bottle behind The Man in the Iron Mask,’ said Joe heavily. Bo

‘Which of us is going to tell George?’ asked Bo

‘I will. You must be getting pretty fed up with all this palaver. Foreigners messing about in your life, murdering each other on French soil. Jolly bad form, what!’ he finished in an imitation of Wilberforce Je

‘And we’d better watch our backs on the streets. I haven’t forgotten there’s a pet Zouave slinking about.’

‘Well, well! Who’d have thought Fantômas, stalking the streets of Paris, would turn out to be a blue-eyed Englishman reciting the latest cricket scores!’

On their way through the morgue, Joe averted his eyes from the busy scene at three of the marble tables. He’d had enough of death for one day. But he was not to be allowed to ignore it entirely. Moulin called out to them as they appeared. He was holding something bloodstained up to the light in pincers and, carrying on with his work, said: ‘Somerton. Your last customer but one. The toxicology report came through. No, he wasn’t poisoned but they mentioned that he had a very high level of an opiate in his system. A pain-killer. I took a further look at the body. And there it was. A cancer. Well developed. I’d say he had no more than a month at the most to live. Pity the killer didn’t know that. He could have saved himself a tidy sum.’

Quietly Joe absorbed the news and, going to stand at Moulin’s shoulder while he worked on, murmured: ‘The killer did know. The killer, the instigator of the crime, was Somerton himself. He knew, then, he hadn’t got long and was determined to treat himself to a variety of luxuries before he snuffed it. He wanted to see Sir George suffer and in the most dramatic way . . .’ He filled in the story as far as it was known to them.

‘Mon Dieu! But – what a lucky escape! You must take your friend out to celebrate his good fortune.’

‘He’s not going to be much in the mood for celebrating when he learns the identity of the man we’ve been calling Set.’

‘Great heavens! You managed to get it out of her? I heard no squeaks of outrage, no rattling of irons?’

‘In the end she was all co-operation. Largely, I think, because the information she was giving us, she knew was most unwelcome to our ears. Set is, in fact, the alter ego of Sir George. The obverse of the medallion – his young cousin. Very sad and disturbing. And it’s not over yet. We’re just off into the night to find and arrest Set. Can’t say I’ve ever tangled with the God of Evil. Any suggestions? Ah well . . .’

‘Do I need to prepare a few more slabs?’ said Moulin lugubriously. ‘For goodness’ sake, take care, Sandilands. What gun are you carrying? Are you armed?’

‘Not so much as a toothpick,’ said Joe.

‘Here, take this,’ said Moulin, selecting a shining silver tool from his tray and rather embarrassed by his gesture. ‘Put it away in your pocket. It’s my best scalpel. Razor sharp. Don’t touch the edge! Handle with extreme care.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

They stepped out into the grey and gold light of a spring evening. There was a faint glimmer in the sky to the west and, across the river, dying rays were caught up and given a last flicker of life by the open windows of high attic rooms, still hot from the day. But a mist was already begi