He turned a tentative smile of relief on Fourier when he looked up from the notes which were now flowing fast from his pen.
‘I’d say this is going rather well, wouldn’t you, Fourier? But if you’re thinking the magistrate is not going to be happy to accept so much conflicting and inconclusive evidence without the underpinning surety of a confession – well, then, I’d be the first to agree with you.’
Fourier scowled at him suspiciously.
Joe leaned forward in his chair, hands on his knees, fixing his opposite number with a keen stare. He spoke to him with quiet force. They could have been the only two people in the room. ‘I’m an ambitious man, Chief Inspector,’ he confided. ‘You’ve seen my card. You are aware of how I am currently . . . placed –’
‘Poised, I’d have said,’ interrupted Fourier.
Joe smiled. ‘As you say – “poised” will do very well . . . poised for advancement. I make no secret of the fact that I have my eye on the directorship of one of the more interesting divisions at the Yard. “Assistant Commissioner” would not be out of the question. There is much competition, many excellent candidates. Not a few are military men who know how to plan an effective campaign. I expect it’s the same over here? And it’s the man who can forge a reputation for himself who will win out. The one who can make himself stand out from the rest. “Ah, yes – Sandilands. Isn’t he the bloke who cleared up that killing in Paris?” I believe I have a nose for an interesting, attention-grabbing case. And we have one here!’ He paused for a moment to allow his excitement to be caught on the other side of the desk.
Fourier yawned.
‘A front-page, sell-every-copy story that could rival the Whitechapel murders. On both sides of the Channel. It has everything one could ask for! Pretty girls, daggers, gallons of blood spilt in the most spectacular of settings . . . And – cherry on the cake – the victim is a rosbif – an Englishman for whom we need feel no sympathy. Probably got no more than he deserved . . . I challenge you to invent three possible headlines for this case. Go on, man!’
Joe took out his notebook and pencil and began to scribble. Before Fourier had a chance to call a halt to his games, he rushed on. ‘Got it! I’ve got one for the English press. Not sure that it will do much for you. You’ll have to invent your own. Death du Jour,’ said Joe. ‘What do you say?’
‘Not bad. I’d use something a bit longer and more dramatic – that’s the style of our papers. They like to involve a famous person: Did the Black Venus witness the Angel of Death? They’re bound to pick up the fact that the star of the show could well have been onstage at the very moment when Jardine struck the blow – only a few feet away as it happens,’ Fourier speculated.
George tensed, preparing to object, but stayed silent, aware of Joe’s tactics.
‘They might use Throat-slashing at the Folies . . .’ Fourier went on with ready invention and it occurred to Joe that his mind had already been running in just such a direction. He wondered if George, his mentor, had seen it? Joe had rightly guessed the Chief Inspector’s imperative, his motivation. He’d judged Fourier’s craving for advancement to be at the same time his strength and his weakness and, by ascribing the same ruthless ambition to himself, Joe had made it appear acceptable in his eyes. More than acceptable – commendable. He had bracketed them together, two like-minded cynics ready to exploit a situation for their mutual benefit. Somerton, Sir George, even Bonnefoye were marionettes, their strings in the hands of two hard-eyed professionals.
Joe wasn’t quite there yet but he was on his way to using the power of Fourier’s forward rush to kick him into space.
‘Two Englishmen fight to the death for the favours of a mysterious fille de joie. Plea for the blonde beauty to come forward.’ The Chief Inspector was enjoying himself. He shrugged. ‘Well, these news editors – they’ll say whatever they like. Of course, sometimes they respond to a confidential suggestion in their ear.’
He looked at the clock and glared at Sir George. The obstacle between him and his story. ‘Pour the man another glass of water, Bonnefoye,’ he said. ‘It seems to loosen his tongue.’
‘Fourier, may I have a word in private?’ Joe asked.
He left the room with the Chief Inspector, a companionable hand on his shoulder. They returned a minute or two later and Joe went to stand almost to attention by Fourier’s desk, alongside him and facing the other two men.
Fourier cleared his throat and gathered up his documents. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the Commander and I have come to a decision. In order to pursue the case further, I will be releasing the prisoner from police custody into police custody. Jardine is to be handed over to Sandilands with the assurance that he will not attempt to leave the city. I retain his passport and his documents. I require him to attend for a further interview as and when I deem it necessary.’