Folly Du Jour(38)

‘Exactly! You’re getting there! From afar – you’ve said it! Perhaps the victim was no pushover? A soldier might be expected to fight back? Your elderly friend not too keen to get close enough to sink a blade in him? I wonder how much your Sir George laid out for the distancing? Money can take you anywhere in this city, Inspector. If you know where to go. The right address. A thousand francs will buy you a night of passion you never dreamed of . . . If your desires are of a more sinister nature, the same sum will buy you a death.’





Chapter Ten


‘And if all I hear is correct, both may be obtained at the same establishment,’ she whispered.

‘Établissement?’ he queried, apparently not understanding the word, and waited for her explanation. A trick he must use sparingly, he thought. She was clever and would soon realize that, in offering a simplified and expanded version of her comments, she was giving away more than she had intended. He listened carefully to her reply and nodded his understanding.

She made an effort not to look about her and Joe was aware of a lowering of her voice even though they were unobserved. Was this done for effect? He thought he’d better be prepared to reserve judgement on Mademoiselle Raissac.

‘If this is an agreement you’re offering, Inspector,’ she went on, ‘I have to accept, but I want your assurance that it will not be known that this information comes from me. Nor will I involve others. They don’t like loose ends. They cover their tracks and they don’t leave witnesses.’

‘They?’ he questioned lightly. ‘Did you mention a name? Did I miss it?’

‘They have no name but they have a reputation, amongst those who need to know these things, for efficiency and even –’ she shuddered – ‘a certain style.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ He glanced around at the couturier’s silk and satin confections. ‘An element of design in their deaths? Bespoke killing? Made-to-measure murder?’

‘Don’t scoff! You have no idea!’

The words burst from her, raw and vehement. What emotion inspired them, he wondered – fear, despair or fury at his wilfully obtuse comments? He had a knack of making people fizz with rage when he chose to use it. Anger frequently knocked down carefully erected defences and left his suspect exposed. But this girl had not yet reached that pitch. Her emotion – whatever it might be – was still surging and gathering. In an anxious effort to impress on him the gravity of her situation, the gestures accompanying her words became intense and urgent.

‘If they found out I’d spoken of this . . . I’d be discovered dead, my mouth sewn up with scarlet thread and a pair of scissors through my heart. Do you understand?’

He affected dismay. ‘Am I to suppose, then, that the – shall we now call it “assassination”? – of Somerton was a commercial undertaking? That someone approached the nameless organization you have in mind and ordered up his death?’

‘Yes. The dead man was probably lured there by this blonde girl who at an agreed moment abandoned him to his fate. At the finale, I’d guess, the killer entered and cut his throat, leaving the knife behind. They usually take the weapon away with them. This knife must have been significant, wouldn’t you say? I caught a glimpse of it. They picked it up with a handkerchief from the floor at the man’s feet. It looked foreign to me. And it wasn’t a zarin, which is the most popular knife in use in Paris.’

‘Zarin?’

‘It’s like a stiletto. The street gangs use it. For ripping and stabbing. Like this.’ She held an imaginary weapon in her hand using a backwards grip and demonstrated. Her face was impassive but her breathing was increasingly fast and shallow.

‘I’ve seen just that action somewhere,’ he said vaguely.

‘Well, this weapon was no zarin. It was short . . . fancy carved hilt.’

‘Ivory. Very distinctive. The dagger in this case was from Afghanistan,’ he said calmly. ‘A country in which Somerton had served some years ago, before the war.’ He calculated he was giving nothing away. It would be all over the newspapers tomorrow. And her response would tell him what he needed to know about Mademoiselle Raissac. Would she fall for the stimulus of the exotic blade he was offering and be inspired to spin out her story?

Yes, she would. Her eyes gleamed, her hands fluttered in expressive embroidery of her tale: ‘Well – there you have it, then! You should be looking for someone with a grudge going back to that time. A clear case of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Someone with enough money and enough hatred, after all these years, to have the man very publicly killed. Payback for something murky in the past? That’s what the scene would have shown if your poor old friend hadn’t stumbled into the box prematurely. And now he’s got himself arrested and it all looks like an exhibition of jealous rage between two old codgers who ought to know better. A fit of rage that got out of hand.’