Back to back, they quartered the ground, working their way out towards the pointed tip of the park.
They found them under a willow tree.
Bonnefoye had had no time to draw his revolver, his hands were empty, thrown out one on either side of his body. The handle of a zarin gleamed in the half-light, sticking out of his back.
George groaned. ‘Ambushed. Taken from behind.’ He expressed his grief and rage, cursing in a torrent of Pushtu.
Joe was on his knees, feeling for any sign of life. ‘George, do shut up! He’s trying to speak! He’s alive . . . just. It’s all right, old man. We’re here. Look, try to stay still. You’ve been stabbed . . . I expect you noticed . . . yes. What we’ll do, if you can bear it, is leave the blade where it is – it’s actually stopping the blood from flowing. We’ll summon up a stretcher party and get you to the hospital . . . it’s only a step or two away.’
He bent his ear to the chill mouth which was barely able to move, yet determined to convey something. ‘What’s that? Oh, yes, you got him. Or someone got him . . . The wolf. He’s lying here right beside you.’ Joe glanced down. ‘Shot through the back of the head. Small calibre bullet, I’d say. .22? But well placed. Not you, I take it? No? Ah, there’s a puzzle . . . Sorry, what did you say? . . . Yes. I’ll send George in a taxi to tell her. I’ll stay by you . . . What day? It’s Monday, old fruit . . . We’ve just had what we call in England a long weekend.’
He was grateful for the soldierly presence of Sir George, still covering the pathways with his Luger. Gently, Joe removed Bonnefoye’s police revolver from its holster and held it at the ready. But he knew the flourish was in vain. The wolf’s killer had made off into the night and was a mile away by now.
The next three days gurgled their way down life’s plughole, barely distinguishable from each other by Joe. A day of sickness and shivering, spent in Bonnefoye’s room in the rue Mouffetard, being Amélie’s replacement son while her own boy was in hospital, passed like a bad dream. He remembered the bowls of chicken soup, the cool hands on his forehead, George’s gruff voice from the doorway: ‘Just back from the hospital. Thought you’d like to hear – the lad’s going to be all right. Blade went in at an angle – the thought is that the attacker was disturbed before he could place his blow more accurately. No vital organs damaged but he lost a lot of blood. He’s on his feet already and clamouring to come home.’
The day after, which must have been a Wednesday, he spent in Fourier’s office making statements, colluding in the fabrication of various pieces of subterfuge. Nodding in agreement as the Commissaire outlined the dashing attack of the Brigade Criminelle officer (trained and directed by Fourier himself) who had gone in against great odds to the rescue (from an attack by a gang of Apaches) of two theatregoers, one a visiting tourist, his companion a Parisian and a distinguished doctor. Sadly, the latter had succumbed to a bullet fired by one of the gang, the former was lucky to survive being hurled into the river by his assailants.
This lively scene was, as they spoke, being worked up by an artist into a cover for Le Petit Journal. Under Fourier’s direction, of course, he reassured them. These creatures were attacking in the very heart of the city now! But thanks to the bravery of the aforementioned police officer, two had been shot dead and would trouble the peace of the city island no more. Patrols on the Square du Vert Galant had been doubled.
‘Seems to be paying off, Fourier,’ said Joe. ‘Though I’d have preferred on the whole not to be summoned down to the river on a wild-goose chase on Monday night.’
‘Ah, yes. Clever devils! Some bugger diverted the two agents on duty down there. And rang directly through to my office, someone knowing my number, leaving a message so official-sounding my sergeant passed it straight on. Moulin. He knows . . . knew the numbers, knew the tones that get attention. Probably expected to catch you while you were still up here sitting in front of me.’
He frowned and fiddled with his pen. ‘I can make this sound convincing enough, Sandilands, for general consumption, I mean, on paper. But I can’t make any sense of it –’ he gestured to his head – ‘up here. What in hell did the stupid bugger think he was doing? Clever man. Reliable. Thorough. My best.’
‘Well placed to cover up a whole crime wave of his own creation?’ Joe suggested. ‘You’ll never know now.’
‘And who’s going to take his place? Good Lord! He’s down there on the slab as we speak! I haven’t been to see him yet . . . I don’t suppose . . .? No?’