‘No. I’m busy,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Do I look like a life guard? We have a two-man detail down there from nine o’clock onwards for these eventualities. This is for uniform. They’ll deal with it.’
‘That’s the point, sir,’ said the sergeant, puzzled. ‘Can’t be found. They’ve buzzed off somewhere. What should I do then, sir? You’d better tell me . . . just so as it’s clear.’ He evidently didn’t want to go back upstairs and report the Inspector’s refusal of an order.
Bonnefoye groaned. ‘I’ll go and take a look. But I warn you – looking’s all I intend to do. I won’t get my feet wet!’
Turning to Joe: ‘Look – not sure I like this much, Joe. It’s . . . irregular. I’d rather deal with it myself. I’m not so quixotic as you – you’d jump in to save a dog! You go on back with Sir George. I’ll grab another taxi when I’ve found those two sluggards who ought to be here.’
‘No – I’ve a better idea,’ Joe replied. ‘I’m coming with you. But we’ll send George home as advance warning that we really are serious about supper. George!’ he shouted, opening the back door. ‘Slight change in arrangements. Something to check on down by the river. You carry on, will you? Jean-Philippe and I will be along in say – half an hour. Driver, take this gentleman to the address he will give you as soon as you’re under way.’
He banged peremptorily on the taxi roof to deny George a chance to argue and watched as the taxi made its way out of the courtyard.
They began to run along the Quai des Orfèvres towards the bow-shaped point of the city island beyond the Pont Neuf. A romantic spot, green and inviting and dotted with willow trees, it was a magnet for the youth of the city with proposals and declarations to make but also for the many drunken tramps who seemed to wash in and out with the tide. A hundred yards. Bonnefoye gave warning of their approach by tooting insistently on the police whistle he kept in his pocket. No duty officer came hurrying up to join them with tumbling apologies.
‘Why us?’ Bonnefoye spluttered. ‘A whole bloody building full of cops behind us and who’s rushing for a dip in this open sewer? We are. Must be nuts. Where are the beat men? I’ll have their badges in the morning!’
They paused to get their breath back on the Pont Neuf. The loveliest bridge, Joe thought, and certainly the oldest, it spanned the Seine in two arms, divided almost exactly by the square. Centuries ago it had been a stage as well as a thoroughfare and market place, a paved space free of mud where comedy troupes could perform. The Italian Pantaloon, the clown Tabarin, uselessly flourishing his wooden sword, had drawn the crowds with burlesque acts of buffoonery. In an echo of the rather sinister jollity, each rounded arch was graced with a stone-carved gargoyle at its centre, grinning out over the river. Joe and Bonnefoye added their own stony profiles to the scene as they peered over the parapet into the gloom, searching the oily surface of the fast-flowing water, the only illumination the reflections of the gas lamps along the quays and a full moon dipping flirtatiously in and out of the veils of mist rising up from the river.
‘Spring surge,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Quite a current running. If anyone’s fallen in there, they’ll be halfway to Le Havre by now. Hopeless. Listen! What can you hear?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Exactly. No one here. Not even a clochard. At the first sign of trouble they’re off. So there has been some trouble, I’m thinking. Sod it!’
A strangled scream rang out from below in the park and to the right. Male? Female? Impossible to tell.
‘Here we go,’ groaned Bonnefoye. ‘I’ll go down and investigate. You stay up here and be spotter. Give me a shout the moment you see something.’ He clattered off down the stone staircase to the lower level, still tooting hopefully.
Left alone on the bridge, Joe clung with tense fingers to the stonework of the parapet, steadying himself. It always hit him like an attack of vertigo. A combination of height and the insecurity of seeing a dark body of water sliding, snakelike and treacherous, beneath his feet. He closed his eyes for a moment to regain control and heard Bonnefoye’s whistle cut off in mid-blast.
Joe looked anxiously to his left, aware of a slight movement along the bridge. A tall figure was approaching. He moved nearer, coming to a halt ten yards distant, under a lamp, deliberately showing himself. Dark-jawed, unsmiling, chin raised defiantly to the light, right hand in pocket. The Zouave. Waiting.
Angrily, Joe looked to his right to check his escape route and his second nightmare hit him with the force of a bolt of electricity. His body shook and he fought to catch his breath. A figure, also ten yards distant. Not so tall as the first but infinitely more terrifying. He could have been any gentleman returning from a show, shining silk top hat on his head, well-tailored evening dress, white waistcoat, diamond studs glittering in his cuffs. Urbane, reassuring, romantic even, until you noticed the black mask covering the upper half of his face. In a theatrical gesture, he raised his left hand, white-gloved, to cup his chin, looking speculatively at Joe. His right hand, ungloved, went up and slightly behind his back. Slowly enough to show the gleaming zarin it held.