‘They have indeed.’ The Assistant Commissioner was once again deadly serious. ‘And this is where you come in, Joe. You will want to be involved in whatever capacity you can contrive for yourself when I tell you that the suspect they’ve arrested is George. George Jardine. Friend of yours, I understand? When we heard, someone said straight away, “Get Sandilands out there.”’
Joe mastered his astonishment and disbelief to reply firmly: ‘Terrible news. But not the disaster you suggest, surely, sir? It must be a misunderstanding . . . a mix-up with the language . . . failure to communicate one way or another at any rate – Sir George is a diplomat. And a top one at that! He has immunity. He might have shot dead the whole front row of the chorus and he could be lounging at ease with a reviving cup of tea in the shelter of the British Embassy out of reach of the Law. Why is he in a police cell? This is outrageous!’
‘Ah, you don’t know . . . you hadn’t heard?’ Agusty sigh down the telephone and then: ‘George no longer has diplomatic status, I’m afraid. He resigned his post a couple of months ago. He’s retired. Hasn’t quite severed his links – talks of returning – but, officially (and that’s all that counts with the French), he’s a free agent, no longer employed by HM Government and no longer under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity. Unlisted. A huge loss. One might have expected them to show some respect for his past position and let the matter drop. But the chap I spoke to who seems to be handling the case is one of those heel-clicking martinets you trip across sometimes over the Channel. Brittle. Self-important. You know the type. We’re not short of a few over here . . . Anyway, I see from your file, Sandilands, which I have before me, that you have experience in dealing with this style of Gallic intractability . . . interpreter during the war, weren’t you? We must have a drink when you’ve sorted all this out – I’d like to hear your slant on old Joffre. Anyway. Mustn’t keep you. Get on down there, will you? Let me see . . . their HQ is at . . . now where did I . . .?’
‘36, Quai des Orfèvres, sir,’ said Joe. ‘Staircase A. I’ve visited before. Makes our HQ look like Aladdin’s palace. I’ll do what I can and report back, er, this evening.’
‘Very well. Oh, and, Sandilands – feel free to reverse the charges, will you? No expense to be spared on this one. Better take down my home number. Got a pen?’
Joe replaced the hand-set and stayed on in the booth for a moment or two, deep in thought. He went to the reception desk where the manager was still hovering nervously with a solicitous eye to the English gentleman now revealed to be an agent of the British police force. Joe spoke in a reassuring undertone requesting more telephone time. He needed to put a call through to this number. He handed him a card, carefully avoiding using the word ‘police’. Guests were beginning to trickle through on their way to breakfast in the dining room and Joe recollected that hotel management the world over had a horror of any suggestion of police activity, even benign activity. Luckily Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye’s card simply gave his name and telephone number.
Joe went back into the booth and waited through several clicks and bangs for the ringing tone that told him the manager had successfully made contact with the number. Disconcertingly, it was a young woman’s voice that answered sleepily. He asked to be allowed to speak to his colleague Jean-Philippe.
‘Colleague? If you’re a colleague you should know better than to ring him at such an unearthly hour! He’s only just gone to bed. Push off!’
He shouted something urgently down the telephone to prevent her hanging up on him and unleashed a torrent of words in which ‘distress . . . emergency . . . international incident . . .’ played a part.
At the words ‘entente cordiale’ she finally hooted with derision and gave in. A few moments later Bonnefoye grunted down the phone. He recovered his wits rapidly as Joe concisely and twice over conveyed the information he’d just had from the Yard.
‘Martinet?’ he said. ‘Know who you mean. He’s a bastard. But most of the blokes in the Crim’ are good guys. Look – why don’t you give me time to get myself organized and I’ll see you down there. I’m not involved . . . yet . . . but I can at least perform a few introductions and blather on about international co-operation. Ease your path a bit. In one hour? I’ll see you at the coppers’ entrance. You know it? Good! I’ll just go and soak my head and drink a gallon of coffee. Suggest you do the same.’