‘Jean-Philippe! A glass of wine for the Commander! It’s one from our home village in Burgundy. We bring it back in quantities. You boys have ten minutes to exchange information before you present yourselves at table. It will be a very simple supper: I made some soup to start with, then the butcher had some excellent veal which will be good with George’s petits pois à l’étuvé, followed by cheese and, since Jean-Philippe tells me you Englishmen are fond of sweet things, I’ve got some chocolate éclairs from the pâtissier.’
Joe decided he’d died and gone to heaven and, as he’d always thought it might, heaven smelled of herb soup and rang with a woman’s laughter.
He went to sit in the small salon of the apartment with Jean-Philippe, listening to the chatter from the kitchen. George’s stately but adventurous French sentences rolled out, to be punctuated by sharp bursts of amusement and exclamation from Madame Bonnefoye.
‘First things first,’ said Joe. ‘Security. I’m as sure as I can be I wasn’t followed here. You?’
‘Sure. But we mustn’t reduce the level of precaution. A message came by telephone late this afternoon. From Miss Watkins, I’m afraid. One of my staff took it down and I’ve translated it but I think it’s very clear. All too clear!’ He passed Joe a scrap of paper.
My new boyfriend very keen! He even came shopping with me. Was compelled to go on the offensive. He has a two-inch red scar on his left jaw.
Joe was aghast. He picked out the word which most alarmed him. ‘“Offensive”, she says?’
Bonnefoye cleared his throat. ‘This ties in with a report we had from the Galeries Lafayette,’ he said. ‘To be precise – from the ladies’ underwear department. A customer lodged a complaint against a man she alleged was following and threatening her. Two assistants, who remarked the young lady grappling with a tall man in a dark overcoat, went to her aid and attempted to detain him. Unfortunately he was able to effect an escape.’
‘And the scar? I hardly dare ask!’
‘. . . was already a feature of his physiognomy before he encountered Miss Watkins.’
‘Thank goodness for that! But we should never have involved her.’
‘I agree. And it’s too late now to uninvolve her.’ Bonnefoye sighed. ‘But look – if these people are as good as we think they are, they’ll make enquiries and discover that she has absolutely no connection with Sir George and leave her to get on with her hearty tennis life. They’ll assume that she was just spooked by an over-zealous piece of shadowing. He’ll probably get a ticking off from his boss – should have had more sense than to follow her into the lingerie section. And Miss Watkins has certainly got closer – physically at any rate – to the tool they’re using than we have.’
‘That scar? Any use to us?’
‘Yes, could be. I’ve reported it to the division that keeps our Bertillon records. All marks of that kind are listed, classified and kept on card. If the chap has committed a crime before, his features will be on file and indexed. They ought to be able to come up with a few suggestions.
‘The thing that’s worrying me, Joe, is their apparent preoccupation with Sir G. They seem to have him in their sights. But why? Did he see something he’s not told anyone yet? Does he know something he ought not to know? You’ll have to grill him. I can’t seem to get near him. Any attempt on my part at putting a few questions gets batted aside – with the greatest good humour of course. Genial, avuncular, smelling of roses – and he’s as slippery as a bar of soap. But tell me – how did you get on with the widow?’
After a draught or two of the Chablis he was handed, Joe launched into an account of his evening.
‘She was off to Fouquet’s, eh?’ Bonnefoye was entertained by the thought. ‘I’ll make enquiries. We’ll know tomorrow who she met, what they ate, what time they left and where they went afterwards! Are you thinking – there’s one lady who is delighted that old Somerton was done to death?’
‘She told me she had no idea her husband was in Paris – they hadn’t communicated for years. And, of course, she was hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime . . .’ Joe began dubiously.
‘Well, if your mad theory about the crime-order-catalogue business is correct, she would be. That’s the whole point of it. They have the telephone in England and the wires run as far as Paris, remember.’
‘Not sure she fits the frame,’ said Joe. ‘Glad enough, yes, to be rid of the old boy. As, indeed, might be the son I discover she has. The one who succeeds to the title. And who knows what else! We might check on him and the size and nature of his inheritance. But why would she or he or they bother with all the palaver? I mean the showmanship element? The theatre . . . the dagger. I watched her examine the knife. I’ll swear it meant nothing to her. She was curious, fascinated even in a ghoulish way, but there was no flicker of recognition. Just an element of his past life she’d rather not think about. Why didn’t they simply have him pushed under a bus or off a bridge? And why wait all these years?’