He took out a notebook and checked a page. ‘A message came to headquarters. I ring in every hour and there’s usually something for me. Six o’clock at the British Embassy. Can you pick the lady up there? The Embassy’s just down the road from here. Very convenient. Oh, they stipulated number 39, rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. That’s the residence of the Ambassador – not the offices next door. That gives you forty minutes to smarten yourself up. No time to go back to your hotel . . . Why not borrow one of Sir George’s shirts? You’re about the same size. He’s got a drawer full of them over there. And a hat? Never did get your louche fedora back but you’ll find something suitable if you look in the wardrobe.
‘And look, Joe . . .’ Bonnefoye weighed his next announcement, suddenly unsure of himself. ‘You’ll probably think I’m overreacting to circumstances . . . put it down to Gallic hysteria if you like . . . but I think we should move Sir George out of here. To a safer place.’
‘I agree. Sensible proposal,’ said Joe. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘The rue Mouffetard,’ he said. ‘My mother’s apartment. She’s used to soldiers. My father and uncles were in the army. She’ll take good care of him. I’ll take him out the back way through the kitchens. When you’ve finished at the morgue why don’t you come along and check his accommodation? He’s technically in your custody, after all! It’s above the baker’s shop halfway down. Got a map? Here let me show you . . .’
‘Before you start dressing to impress the widow, Joe, why don’t you get acquainted with my razor?’ George’s jovial voice was brisk. Not in the least sleepy. ‘No newfangled patent safety razor on offer, I’m afraid. I always use an old-fashioned cut-throat. You must pardon the expression in the circumstances.’
Bonnefoye shrugged and grinned and went with the smooth efficiency of a valet to select a shirt.
‘Let me mark your card, Joe.’ This was the old Sir George, good-humouredly in charge, presiding. ‘Now, the present Ambassador is the Marquess of Crewe. Can’t help you there. Never met the chap. Though I was well acquainted with his predecessor. Hardinge. Viceroy of India for many years. And a good one. Anyway, play it by ear and if it seems appropriate to do so, convey my respects and good wishes to whoever seems to be expecting them . . . you know the routine, Joe.’
‘I don’t suppose the top brass will be parading for a mere Scotland Yard detective and a widow on a lugubrious mission, sir.’
George pursed his lips for a moment, assessing the social niceties of the situation. ‘You’re probably right, my boy. Six o’clock. Dashed inconvenient time for them to be landed with handing a distraught old lady over to the bluebottles. They’ll be preparing to welcome guests for whatever shindig they’ve got planned for tonight. Sociable lot at the Embassy! Always some sort of soirée on. You’ll probably find they’ve tethered the old girl to a gatepost outside, awaiting collection.
‘No, Bonnefoye! Not that one! Wherever did you get your training? He’s not bound for the golf course! Find a boiled shirt, my dear chap! Yes, that’ll do. Collars top left. Grey felt hat in the cupboard. Nothing grander. Don’t want to look as though you’ve turned up for the canapés.’
At five minutes to six Joe stood, getting his breath back, in front of the Embassy, transfixed by the perfection of the Louis XV façade. Balanced and harmonious and, in this most grandiose quarter of Paris, managing to avoid pomposity, it smiled a welcome. He almost looked for George’s gatepost but of course there was none. An elegant pillared portico announced the entrance; doors wide open gave glimpses of figures dimly perceived and moving swiftly about in the interior. As he watched, electric lights flicked on in all the windows of the first two floors. The reception rooms. Obviously a soirée about to take place.
He collected his thoughts and strode to the door.
The liveried doorman barely glanced at the card in his extended hand. ‘You are expected, Commander. Will you follow me?’
He passed Joe on, into the care of an aide in evening dress who came hurrying into the vestibule to shake his hand. ‘Sandilands? How do you do? So glad you could come. Harry Quantock. Deputy assistant to the Ambassador. You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid, sir. His Excellency sends his greetings – he’s at the moment rather tied up with the string band.’ At the upwards flick of an elegant hand, Joe caught the sounds of a small orchestra essaying a piece of Elgar somewhere above their heads. The deputy assistant grimaced. ‘French band, English tunes . . . not a good mix. I sometimes think they do it on purpose.’