Folly Du Jour(23)

George described with accompanying gestures the scene of discovery. The Chief Inspector scribbled.

At last when George fell silent, Fourier put down his pen, a look of triumph rippling across his features. ‘And this story meshes splendidly with the eyewitness account we are given by the helpful ouvreuse, but only up to a point.’

With a generous gesture, he peeled off another police witness sheet and allowed Joe and Bonnefoye to read it.

‘The lady says . . . I say, shall we call her by her name since she seems to be playing rather more than a walk-on role in this performance? Mademoiselle Francine Raissac states that she came upon the two Englishmen in Box B in the course of her nightly clearing-up duties. The man she refers to as “the ten franc tip” – the large good-looking one (Sir George) – was in close contact with the smaller weaselly one (“the five franc tip”) and she took the former to be in the act of cutting the throat of the latter since the blood was flowing freely between the two and Sir George, who turned and looked up on hearing her scream, was covered in his compatriot’s blood.

‘The men were alone in the box, the partner of the five franc tip being no longer present. Mademoiselle Raissac declares she is unable to furnish us with a full description of the lady. She had never seen her before. She remembers she was young – less than twenty-five years old – and had fair hair. Mademoiselle Raissac further declares the girl must have been speaking French since she (Mademoiselle Raissac) was not conscious of any accent. Mmm . . .’

‘A second elusive fair beauty. How they cluster around you Englishmen! I do wonder what the attraction is,’ scoffed Fourier.

As George seemed to be about to tell him, Joe changed the subject with a warning scowl. ‘I should very much like to see the corpse,’ he said, ‘and hear the opinion of your pathologist . . .’

‘But certainly,’ agreed the Chief Inspector. ‘And perhaps you would also like to examine the murder weapon? Oh, yes, it was discovered. At the feet of the corpse on the floor of the box where Sir George dropped it. A finely crafted Afghani dagger.’ He turned and looked for the first time at George. ‘I understand, Jardine, that you were, at one time, a soldier in Afghanistan?’

‘A long time ago,’ said George. ‘As was Somerton. We both served for a spell on the North-West Frontier. The blade was most probably his own. He had a fondness for knives. And a certain skill with them. It definitely wasn’t mine. I have an abiding aversion for them. I favour a Luger these days for self-protection. Though I make a point of never going armed to the theatre. Too tempting to express an over-critical view of the performance. And these closely tailored evening suits – anything more substantial than a hatpin completely ruins the line, you know.’

Joe was reassured to hear a flash of the old Sir George but was becoming more anxious for his safety as the sorry tale evolved. His old friend, the man he admired and trusted above all others, was in serious trouble.

Fourier clearly didn’t believe a word he said and was looking out for a quick arrest. Possibly within the twenty-four-hour limit he prided himself on achieving. If George had killed this man, Joe was quite certain Somerton had deserved it. But he determined to know the truth. His compulsion was always to go after the truth using any means at his disposal; he had no other way of functioning. And having found out the truth? And supposing it didn’t appeal to him? He smiled, recalling the wise words of an old member of the Anglo-Indian establishment . . . what had been her name? . . . Kitty, that was it. Mrs Kitson-Masters.

‘What could be more important than the truth?’ he’d asked her one day some years ago in Panikhat, at a moment when he was being, he remembered, particularly officious, annoyingly self-righteous. And, gently, she’d replied: ‘I’ll tell you what: the living. They’re more important than the dead and more important than the truth.’ And, as long as George was among the living, Joe would lay out all his energy and skill to keep him there.

But there was bargaining to be done. Agreement to be reached. Feathers to be smoothed and arms to be twisted. Joe grinned. He was going to have to discount the pathetic and confused old person sitting next to him and call on all the skills he’d learned from the man he’d first met as Sir George Jardine, Governor of Bengal, Adviser to Viceroys and discreet Spymaster of India.

And the first of these skills had been: never to lose your temper, and the second: to deploy what Joe had always thought of as a type of mental ju-jitsu. Identify and assess your opponent’s strength and, under the guise of accommodation and reason, use its energy against him to propel him arse over tip on to the nearest dung-heap.