Bonnefoye shrugged and poured out more wine. ‘Still – glad enough to have them as suspects two and three. I like to collect a good hand.’
Joe raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Your first suspect?’
Jean-Philippe was suddenly grave. ‘Sir George, of course. I don’t like it any more than you do but the man’s up to his neck in whatever’s going on. You’d have to be blind not to see that.’
Joe produced the doctor’s copy of Le mort qui tue from his pocket and slapped it down on to the table between them. ‘Look at the title, Jean-Philippe. If we work with your suppositions, Sir George will die. An innocent man guillotined for a corpse we haven’t the wits to account for. Somerton will be the death of him, and with our cooperation. I can’t shake off the feeling that someone’s pulling our strings, playing the tune we’re dancing to. And that puts my back up! The pathologist, Dr Moulin, had some interesting observations to pass on. He’s formed theories which support Francine Raissac’s strange ideas.’
He took the small box from his pocket and revealed the contents. ‘Exhibit B. He passed this on too. And listen, will you, to the story the doctor had to tell.’
Bonnefoye listened, wholly involved in the story, turning the gold amulet between his fingers, his face showing fascination and revulsion at the ugliness of the features of the god. Finally: ‘The God of Evil, you say? Brother of the good God, Osiris? And his murderer?’
‘Yes. Set was worshipped throughout Egypt for many centuries. But as a god of goodness. He and Osiris were peas in a pod. But then, apparently, he turned to wickedness and was struck off everyone’s calling list. His subsequent career plumbed the depths of iniquity, you might say. A recognizable myth – in many cultures you find a reference to the evil obverse of a coin. Cain and Abel . . . And take Lucifer – after all, the name means “Bringer of Light”. He started off on the side of the angels. Was one of the angels.’
Bonnefoye picked up the crime novel and began to riffle through its pages. ‘Have you seen it yet? The link between your book and your amulet?’
Joe shook his head.
‘Good stories, these! The theme still fires the imagination, you see? Down the centuries and right through into the twentieth.’
Joe didn’t quite see.
‘The evil Fantômas is pursued in each story by a police inspector from my own outfit, the Brigade Criminelle, no less. Inspector Juve, the good guy! And no prizes for guessing Juve’s secret identity. He’s the long-lost twin brother of Fantômas.’
‘Juve and Fantômas, Osiris and Set?’
‘Two minutes, boys! Heavens! Is this how you waste your time? The Série Noire? Don’t you have enough real life crime to occupy your time? And who’s your ugly friend? Not sure I want him in my drawing room.’
‘He’s the man we’re looking for, Maman, and who’s looking for us! Let me introduce you – he’s the God of Evil. And our nameless killer I think now has – according to Joe – an identity. Let’s call him Set, shall we?’
Madame Bonnefoye considered for a moment and then said soberly: ‘Well, if Set comes calling, he’ll run into some fire-power! Your Lebel, Jean-Philippe, the pistol I see the Commander has on his right hip, the Luger Sir George has tucked in his upper left-hand inside pocket and my soup ladle. Come to table now!’
After a long and delicious meal, Jean-Philippe’s mother herded the men back into the salon with coffee and brandy, closed the door on them and began to clatter her way through the clearing up.
Sir George put on an instant show of affability and frank co-operation. ‘Now – I’m sure you chaps must have a question or two of your own to . . .’ He was expansive, he was slightly wondering why they had held off for so long from questioning him. He knew he was cornered.
‘Indeed, we do, George, and this time you’re not ducking them,’ said Joe firmly. ‘People’s lives – including, I do believe, your own – depend on your answers. So you must stop all this bluffing and circumlocution and come clean. I will know if you’re lying. Now, I have a list of questions to put to you.’
Sir George nodded.
Joe decided to catch him off balance by launching an easy throw but from an unexpected quarter. Start them on the easy questions; establish a rhythm of truthful responses and the slight hesitation before a lie is told will be picked up by a keen ear.
‘John Pollock?’ he said. ‘Or Jack Pollock – whichever you prefer. Tell us about him.’
‘Cousin Jack? Oh, very well. Son of my father’s very much younger sister, my Aunt Jane, who married a man called Pollock. Only son: John Eugene. He was never a friend, you understand. Twenty-year age gap. Looks on me more as an uncle. Little Jackie! A delightful child! Clever boy and with the Jardine good looks! He must be in his mid-thirties by now. He’s working in Paris, as you remember from Fourier’s notes. He was keen on a diplomatic career when he came out of the army and I was able to put his name in front of someone who was, in turn, able to give him a leg up. Find him a niche, you might say. And they haven’t regretted it. Doing well, by all accounts. Haven’t seen him since a year or two after the war ended. 1921? Possibly. I remember he wasn’t looking too sharp then – recuperating in London. But he had a good war. Quite the hero, in his way.’