Folly Du Jour(101)

Joe began to breathe fast, steadying his nerves. Two men. He didn’t fancy his chances much. He thought, on the whole, he’d go for the toff first. The leader. Though by the time he’d closed with him, the Zouave would have sunk his knife into his back. Take the Zouave first and the Fantômas figure would be ripping his throat out from behind. He remembered Dr Moulin’s hands in the morgue, clutching his hair, demonstrating the hold, and his skin crawled. That’s how it would happen.

No gun, he’d have to fight with his fists and feet. Then he remembered the doctor’s parting concern and his strange gift. He felt in his pocket, encountering the cold steel of the surgical instrument. Better than nothing and they wouldn’t be expecting it. These creatures only attacked the defenceless and the unready, he told himself. ‘It’s razor-sharp,’ the doctor had warned. But all Joe’s instinct was pushing him to explore, to handle his weapon. To decide – slashing or stabbing? Which would be the more effective? His safety – his life – depended on the quality of the steel implement. By the time he closed with his assailant, it would be too late to find out. Worth a cut thumb to be certain. And the quick flare of pain would jolt his senses fully awake. Tentatively he ran a thumb along the cutting blade. He repeated the gesture, more urgently, pressing his thumb down hard, the whole length of the cutting edge. And moaned in distress.

There was no edge. It was blunt. Not a scalpel. It was as much use to him as a fish knife. He held it in his hand anyway because he had nothing else. It would still glitter in the gaslight. It might fool them into thinking he was armed. And then, with a rush, with a flash of insight that came hours too late, he realized.

He could deceive no one. He was himself the fool. No mistake had been made when he was handed the useless tool. It was a stage prop. He was standing here, gaslit from both sides, at the stone prow of the island, framed up for his audience below, a modern-day Mr Punch. The only thing lacking was the cap and bells on his head and the hurdy-gurdy musical accompaniment.

Strangely, he felt a compulsion to play the part handed to him. To let them know that, however belatedly, he had worked it out. He held up the instrument before his eyes in a parody of a scene from Macbeth. ‘Is this a scalpel which I see before me?’ he mused. ‘Or could it be an earwax remover?’

He looked to the right again and saw the smile start in the masked eyes, the nod that acknowledged his moment of understanding. He looked to his left and the Zouave with panther stride began to close on him. He pushed the scalpel back into his trouser pocket, took a deep breath, put both hands on the parapet and vaulted over, leaping as far out into the void as he could manage, hoping he’d miss the built-up quayside and hit the water.

The cold of the spring surge waters knocked the breath from his body and he struggled to the surface gasping and choking. The stench of the river water was sickening. An open sewer, Bonnefoye had called it. He stared as a dead dog, bloated and disgusting, swept towards him and then bobbed away before it made contact. He struck out for the bank, glad enough to be carried by the current at an angle to the Pont Neuf, away from the two creatures on the bridge. He wasn’t a strong swimmer and his jacket was heavy with the weight of water, dragging him down. He spent a few moments treading water while he struggled out of it. Noises behind him. A gunshot rang out. He ducked under the surface and allowed himself to drift a few more yards.

They could with ease plot his course downstream, he thought, with the treacherous moon now lighting up the river like a satin ribbon. One could remain on the bridge watching for him to break surface, the other could intercept him at any point along the quay, and be there, standing waiting, while he struggled on the greasy cobbles that revetted the quayside. He would have to slip and slide and claw his way up over the green scum only to find a fresh and armed adversary looking down on him. Might as well drift straight down the centre and head for – what had Bonnefoye said – Le Havre?

And then anger took over. He’d been fooled. Completely fooled. He raged. His aggression mounted. He kicked out for the bank again. They could at least only take him one at a time now. And he wasn’t intending to go down easily. Whichever man had run down to confront him there on the quay was going to take his life at some cost. He didn’t want his body to be pulled, leaking water and bodily fluids, from the Seine miles downstream. To fight and die up there in the open air had, in a few short minutes, become his only goal.

A dead rat floated by, brushing his face. Retching with horror, Joe trod water, waiting for it to pass, but then, on an impulse, he reached out and seized it and squashed the swollen body down inside the front of his shirt. A gassy eructation burst from the rat and Joe gagged and spluttered. Then he gritted his chattering teeth. ‘Brother Rat!’ he muttered, knowing he was on the verge of hysteria. ‘More where that came from? Let’s hope so!’ He was as prepared as he could ever be for the confrontation. He just hoped that his enemy would feel impelled, as most villains did, to explain himself. To talk. To give Joe time to get his breath back and plan his retaliation.