‘Sandilands, the audience were there by invitation, I’d swear it. Someone had arranged the whole thing. A ringmaster of sorts. Set the scene, knowing it would go down well. A much-hated man had got his just deserts.’
‘Would it be too fanciful, do you think, to assume that this, um, ringmaster had gone on cracking his whip? Organizing spectacles of this kind? Perhaps this wasn’t the first? Perhaps it wasn’t the last?’ Joe suggested tentatively as though the idea had just occurred to him. He spoke with the diffidence of one putting such a ridiculous suspicion into words.
Pollock was astonished. Then he smiled. ‘You didn’t know? Well, how could you be expected to know? Just nipped over the Channel for a few days . . . no access to records . . . Oh, I do beg your pardon! How rude of me! It’s just that . . . you’ve shown such insight . . . delved so deep in no time at all – the temptation is to assume Scotland Yard is omniscient. It takes a diplomat with fingers in many pies, a nosy bugger like me, someone with months to reflect on it, to get the full picture.’
Joe’s easy smile showed that he was not at all put out by Pollock’s frankness.
‘The murderer was indeed in the room. Enjoying his little show. When I thought about it, I was only surprised he didn’t take a bow or lead the applause.’
Pollock became suddenly serious and Joe caught sight of the tenacity and moral muscle that lay beneath the insouciant surface. ‘There were several nationalities involved, you understand, Sandilands. At least three Englishmen present and participating. There were men I had had dealings with in the past and with whom I could expect to deal in the future, men whose hospitality I would be accepting, men on whose good will I would have to count. But I hadn’t been so long in the business that I no longer cared whether the hand I was shaking had blood on it. I made a few enquiries, put two and two together and came up, I believe, with the right answer.’
‘You have his identity?’ Joe tried to keep his voice level.
‘Certainly have! And the excellent Maybelle White confirmed my suspicions!’
Chapter Seventeen
Joe waited, allowing him to savour his moment of intrigue.
‘The murderer wasn’t concealing himself or his motive with very great care. What a show-off! I expect you, sharp fellow that you are, would have been waiting by the door to finger his collar.’
The ball had been patted back into his court and Joe wondered whether he was being tested in some mildly playful way. Readying himself to provide an entertaining belly-flop, he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and checked that what he was seeking was there. He remembered the details of Dr Moulin’s story and plunged in. ‘It was, of course, the jocular prestidigitator who pulled the gold amulet of the god Set out of his victim’s mouth! Rather in this manner . . .’
Joe flourished the trinket he’d palmed, holding it between finger and thumb, enjoying Pollock’s astonishment. This was followed swiftly by a burst of laughter.
‘You’ve got him! Good Lord! I never would have expected to see that piece of nonsense again! Wherever did you come by it? And the murderer produced it that day in front of that learned crowd, just as you’ve demonstrated! Probably with a wink for his admirers, but I’ll never know – he had his back to me at the time. And, like everyone in the room with the exception of Harland C. White, I was able to interpret the symbolism of the gesture: here was a man who was opening his mouth one last time to Spew Out Evil. Mrs White had a good deal of interesting remarks to make about the Egyptian burial rite of “The Opening of the Mouth” but we decided that line of thought might be a little over-adventurous.’
‘And what’s become of your ringmaster?’ Joe asked. ‘Your entrepreneur of crime? Is he still flourishing? I should very much like to talk to him. Is he still here in Paris?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes, he is! He’s in Père Lachaise. The cemetery. Committed suicide last year. Down in the south somewhere . . . Cannes, that’s it. Left a full confession. More tea, Sandilands?’
Joe accepted a fresh cup using the mechanical gestures to disguise his surprise and disappointment.
‘The murder in the Louvre wasn’t the only thing he had on his conscience.’ Pollock shook his head, in distaste. ‘A really terrible man! Almost the equal of the man he’d had done away with. Two of a kind! But then, the profession, which it now claims to be, has always attracted unscrupulous rogues of all nationalities. And all ranks of society. From Napoleon to the ten-year-old native tomb-robber.’
After a carefully calculated interval, Joe put down his teacup and began to draw the interview to a close, thanking Jack Pollock for his help and interest: formulaic phrases cut short by Pollock’s bluff response: ‘Think nothing of it, old chap!’ His warm hand reached again for Joe’s and gripped it firmly. ‘If there’s anything – the slightest thing – I can do, I’m your man. Keep me informed, won’t you?’