Folly Du Jour(53)

Sensing that his guest was ready to leave and on the point of exhaustion, Moulin got to his feet. ‘Wait here, Sandilands, while I nip out and whistle up a taxi for you. Oh, and thinking of the rogue Somerton . . .’ He tapped the cover of the book Joe was still clutching. ‘Le mort qui tue. Read the title again. That’s le mort, not la mort. Dead man – not Death itself. The corpse that kills. Be warned! Have a care for your friend. We don’t want an innocent man, blundering in on a sorry episode, to pay for his well-meaning interference on the guillotine. I suspect this man, Somerton, has caused enough havoc in his life, I don’t want to think that, from the depths of the morgue, he has the power to kill again.’





Chapter Fourteen


He chose a dark side street behind the place de la Contrescarpe to pay off his taxi. Feeling mildly foolish but in no way allowing this to make him lower his guard, he waited in a doorway until he was sure he hadn’t been followed. When he was fully confident, Joe wandered into the small square lined with cafés and restaurants. The aperitif hour was swinging to a close and the tables were rapidly filling with diners. He browsed the menus displayed on boards outside or scrawled on the windows and made his choice. The Café des Arts, being the biggest and noisiest, had claimed his attention and he went inside to the bar, ordered a Pernod and paid for a telephone connection.

He’d committed Bonnefoye’s number to memory and destroyed the card and, in his state of fatigue, hoped he’d got it right.

The same lively female answered his tentative: ‘Umm . . . allô?’

‘There you are! Just in time for supper. You know how to get here? Good. See you in two minutes! Bye!’

No names, no details, he noticed. And none asked for. Whoever she was, Bonnefoye’s female was well trained. And hospitable.

Joe was conscious of the unusual honour the Inspector was doing him and Sir George by extending this invitation to take shelter in his own home. The French rarely asked friends to dinner at their flat or house. Friendships were pursued in the café or restaurant or at shooting weekends in the country. If the Englishman’s home was his castle, the Frenchman’s was a keep with the drawbridge permanently up to repel invaders or visitors.

Bonnefoye had been surprised and enchanted with his first taste of British hospitality the previous winter. Welcoming the Frenchman on an official visit to London, Joe had taken responsibility for the young officer and invited him to spend a long weekend with him at his sister’s house in Surrey. An instant love-affair had flowered. The English family had fallen for Bonnefoye at first sight and Jean-Philippe had been equally smitten. He probably considered he was in Joe’s debt in the hospitality stakes but Joe was, nevertheless, surprised and charmed by the gesture.

And concerned. The man kept his address a close secret and doubtless for excellent reasons. Joe had no intention of bringing danger within his orbit. He was keeping up his guard. He ambled around the square again, marking his exit, and when he was sure he was unobserved, he slipped off into the rue Mouffetard. A lamp-lighter was moving down the street creating romantic pools of light and Joe hurried to get ahead of him, hugging the shadows. He was looking for a baker’s shop. In the alleyway to the side of it he found a door which opened at his tap.

He was greeted by Bonnefoye who closed and bolted the door behind him. ‘We’ve got him settled in,’ he told Joe as he led the way up a flight of stairs. ‘All’s well! Through here – it’s a bit crowded and you’ll have to share a room with me if you want to give the Ambassador a miss tonight. I gave Sir George our only guest room.’

Sir George was sitting at a kitchen table shelling peas. He was under instruction from a middle-aged woman who, with her striking dark looks, could be no other than Bonnefoye’s mother, and he appeared to be doing well at his task. His manicured thumbnail was slicing along with skill, making short work of the pods. When his mentor turned to greet Joe, he stuffed a podful of peas into his mouth and was sharply rapped on the knuckles.

‘Now add the spring onions and the butter . . . more lettuce leaves on top . . . tiny drop of stock . . . don’t drown it . . . and there you are! Put it on the stove. Back burner . . . So glad to meet you at last, Commander!’ The voice from the telephone. Youthful, bossy and eager. ‘I’m running a little late this evening and I’ve had to call up reinforcements.’ She flashed a devastating smile at George. He grinned and mumbled a greeting across the table, content to take a back seat in the proceedings.

Madame Bonnefoye was much younger than George – perhaps fifty years old but, in the way of Frenchwomen, still attractive. She whisked off her grey pinafore to reveal a black widow’s dress enlivened by a pink scarf draped at the neck. Bonnefoye’s father, he had told Joe, had fallen at Verdun.