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Folly Du Jour(40)

By:Barbara Cleverly


Joe relaxed. A street walker after all. All was well. Training made him keep up his pretence of Englishman eminently satisfied by his experiences in Montmartre and he said politely: ‘Awfully sorry, my dear. Couldn’t possibly! I’m afraid you’ve picked just the wrong moment . . . if you understand me? Ha! Ha! Some other time?’ He rolled his eyes in an expression meant to convey both satiety and anticipation of a pleasure deferred and walked on.

Francine’s nervousness must be affecting him. ‘They don’t leave witnesses,’ she’d said, wide-eyed. Once round the corner, Joe’s pace increased. Belatedly catching her anxiety, he broke into a trot. Witness? He was thinking of another witness who’d had a clear view of the murder box. The chief witness, you might say, and one who had yet to make his full testimony. One he’d personally removed from the protection of police custody and left behind asleep in a hotel room. He began to run. Had he abandoned, unguarded, a loose end to be tidied up?





Chapter Eleven


With a crowded lift just taking off upwards from the lobby, Joe ground his teeth and dashed for the stairs. He arrived panting and took a moment outside the door of George’s room to ease and check the Browning revolver in his pocket and to put his ear to the woodwork.

‘Liar!’ George’s voice boomed. ‘You’re not getting away with that! Lying cheat!’ he added.

Joe burst in, revolver in hand.

‘Oh, I say! Great heavens! Don’t shoot! I was just about to come clean anyway!’ Heather Watkins put her hands in the air and shook with laughter. The playing cards she was holding began to slide from her hands and flutter on to the counterpane between herself and Sir George.

George was sitting up in bed, rubicund with rage or good humour or bruising, it was hard to tell. He was crisply dressed in nightshirt and dressing gown. ‘Ah! Commander!’ he said. ‘There you are. What an entrance, my dear fellow! As you’re positively bristling with authority, you may as well arrest this young lady. Cheating at cards is the charge.’

‘What . . . what in hell’s going on here?’ Joe blustered, slipping the Browning away in confusion.

‘Good afternoon, Joe. I see you are well,’ said Miss Watkins, primly ignoring his loose language.

‘But . . . Heather . . . You weren’t at your hotel when I called . . .’

‘I imagine not. I was summoned this morning by Jean-Philippe to come to the assistance of a fellow countryman. He’s very persuasive, your French friend, Joe.’ She smiled and Joe saw for the first time that she had a very pretty dimple in her left cheek. ‘Well, in less time than it takes to tell, I was here receiving instructions in the nursing care of a distressed old gentleman.’ She waved a hand at George who put on a pathetic face. ‘Not so old, not very distressed and I’m not so sure about the gentleman bit of the billing either. He’s ruthless when it comes to cards! We were playing Cheat. Do you know it?’

Joe could only nod in reply.

‘I was told to bring a book and to expect to sit by his bedside while he slept and be there, all cool hands, reassuring smile and soothing words when he woke. Which I was led to believe might be in eight hours or so. Hmm! It was difficult to get him to agree to go to bed at all and he only slept for three hours and then snapped awake. It’s taken a lot of ingenuity and force of character to keep him where he’s supposed to be – in bed,’ she huffed in a nannyish way.

The warm smile she exchanged with her patient told Joe all he needed to know about the developing relationship.

‘An inspired idea! And what luck Jean-Philippe had your telephone number, Heather,’ he said innocently. ‘Thank you indeed for giving up your day to ride herd on my old friend. Did the Inspector tell you – we had to wrest him from the hands of the Police Judiciaire who were determined to wring something – anything – from him by means of the third degree?’

‘He did!’ Heather reached over and squeezed George’s hand. ‘Monsters! If I ever get hold of that dreadful Fourier, I’ll give him what for! If only I could be trapped in a lift with him with a tennis racquet in my hand! How could he? And Sir George already distressed by the death of his friend . . . So unfeeling!’

George grimaced, trying and failing by a mile to look pitiable. ‘Well, Joe, with all this female sympathy deployed, how could I not have perked up and made a full recovery? Miss Watkins has been wonderful! A breath of crisp English air in all this overheated foreign nonsense.’ He looked sideways at Joe and added: ‘And – as it seems you’re counting, Joe – she’s been good enough to give me her address too. Her address in England. Look forward very much to continuing our acquaintance, my dear,’ he said, turning to Heather, ‘when you get back from your tennis tournament. You must tell me all about it . . . show me your medals, swap gossip from the Riviera. I shall want to know the truth behind that liaison we were speaking of . . .’