Folly Du Jour(43)

There it was again, that word. Francine Raissac had used it, hadn’t she? Or had he used it himself?

‘And a dashing image was what the Parisian Apaches aimed for! They wore hats with visors pulled low over their faces, red scarves, polished boots, waistcoat, black trousers and a stiletto. A uniform. Liked to see themselves and their exploits all over the front pages of the press. They swore undying loyalty to each other and, though gangs fought each other all over Paris, they’d always join forces to take on the police. There were those who found that sort of skulduggery attractive. Smart. Some romantic fool wrote a poem about them. It’s suspected that they actually hired themselves out to stage knife fights on the pavements in front of particular cafés to attract customers. Nothing like a little frisson with your absinthe!

‘And they had a very short way with informers. They didn’t take bribes and they didn’t squeal. Vermin! But stylish vermin. They disappeared in the war. Swept up for cannon fodder. And now it seems they’ve been reborn.’

‘The Sons of the Apaches?’ Joe’s voice was laced with irony.

‘Just so. They’re alive and kicking on the fringes of the boulevards. And this lot are tougher and smarter and less conspicuous. They don’t advertise themselves and they avoid being written up in the press but the crime figures speak for them. Never stray south of the boulevard St Michel after dark, Joe!’

‘And poor little Francine has a brother mixed up with this crew?’

‘Francine doesn’t acknowledge her brother. Claims to have cast him off. Never mentions him. Did she mention him to you? No! She pretends he doesn’t exist. But I’ve seen the records. She’s always there in court pleading for him with the magistrate, bailing him out, when things go wrong for him. I think he’s used up a lot of her money. Drug user when he can get his hands on the stuff. Do anything for the price of the next shot . . . you know the sort of thing. But if he’s not in the centre exactly of the criminal underworld, he hears things that ripple out. Might have passed them on to his sister. That’s probably the stuff she was spinning into a tale for you. The framework of a few authentic details and a lot of embroidery on top – she’s good at that. Send the impressionable copper away thinking he’s heard something useful from a helpful citizen when all he’s got is a headful of nonsense.’

‘Not a very flattering picture but I do hope you’re right,’ said Joe soberly. ‘Because the alternative might be to suppose that Heather and George were standing a whisker away from the stilettos of the Sons of the Apaches.’

Bonnefoye laughed silently.

‘But before you write off my fishing expedition as a trip down the garden path, answer me this – is there any reason why Francine Raissac might decide to confide in a bloke like me? I didn’t invoke my charm particularly, nor did I resort to strong-arm tactics . . . A little light coercion, perhaps, but nothing she couldn’t have seen through and side-stepped if she’d wanted to. I’d say she was playing my game. Why would she choose to pass on to a man she’s never met before, and a foreign policeman at that, a piece of information that might be vital to the solution of last night’s murder?’

Bonnefoye was silent, tugging at his moustache, unable to meet his eye.

‘What reason?’ Joe insisted.

Finally, ‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you I had three urgent cases on my books?’

Joe nodded.

‘I was supposed to shelve them or delegate them until the end of the week for this conference. But, you know how it is . . .’

Again Joe nodded. ‘Can’t be done. Especially when you see threads running through them which fresh eyes might not be able to connect.’

‘Right. Well, one of them involves this hooligan brother, this Alfred. It’s thought he was in a fight with three or four other men down by the Canal St Martin. Some bargees reported a scuffle and screams. Nightly occurrence! No one took much notice. Alfred disappeared on that night and hasn’t been seen again since. His sister reported him missing. She was supposed to be having coffee with him as she always does on a Sunday afternoon – passing on some of her wages no doubt. She gets paid on a Saturday. He didn’t turn up. She made an incursion – brave girl – into his territory and caught hold of one of his pals. He told her nothing but the terror in his reaction, she reports, was enough to make her fear the worst. And then, late last night, before I came out to meet you at the airport, on my desk, a note from the morgue.

‘A body of a young man fished from the canal. No identification but the description fits Alfred.’