‘Everyone else is doing what they usually do an hour before the matinée. You may go wherever you please in the building – just try to keep out of the way as far as you can. I’ll come with you. You’ll be needing a torch, I think. And a guide. I know where the light switches are. Front of house is empty – the orchestra drag themselves in at the very last minute. The cast are thumping about backstage. Clattering up and down stairs and being drilled by Monsieur Derval. Soon they’ll be screaming and yelling, tearing each other’s hair and stealing each other’s lipstick! Oh, and you’re expecting to see Josephine?’ He paused for a second, and continued with a slight awkwardness. ‘Can’t promise anything as far as she’s concerned, I’m afraid. Not the most reliable . . . In fact, she’s usually late. She’s not arrived yet and may well drift in, still eating her lunch, and go straight onstage. We’ll just have to wait and see. I’ll give you a call when she gets here.’
He seemed to tune into the two policemen’s puzzlement. ‘You must be wondering what I’m doing here, answering for the star? Wonder myself sometimes! I’m not an employee of Josephine’s – more of a friend. I’m a journalist in fact. I met her last year when she arrived, fresh off the boat. I was a stage-door admirer, I’m afraid, turning up with a bunch of roses. She talked to me. I discovered she knew not a word of French.’ He smiled. ‘Her English isn’t wonderful either! She was an instant success and, as you can imagine, began to receive sacks full of mail. Every day there were invitations from some of the grandest people you can imagine, offers of hospitality of one sort or another, gifts, proposals of marriage – thousands of them. And, of course, the poor girl was unable to answer a single one of them. Couldn’t even manage a thank-you note for a diamond necklace or a De Dion-Bouton! I began to help her out. She’d tell me how she wanted to reply, I’d put it into suitable French – or English – and see that the notes were sent off.’
‘You’re her secretary?’
‘It’s not that formal. No. As I said – I’m a news reporter. And I’m a friend who writes for her. But – to business. I expect you’d like to inspect the scene of the crime first? The box? It hasn’t been used since the killing. Nor has the other one. All entry barred. The police squad didn’t spend a great deal of time up there . . .’ His voice was slightly quizzical. ‘Commissaire Fourier in attendance. The big gun! They hauled off the corpse and the weapon – and a suspect they claim to have caught red-handed – gave firm instructions to leave the site alone and that’s the last we’ve seen of them. Wondered when you’d be back . . . There must be much still to discover . . . Have they made an arrest? Have they charged their Englishman with murder? Did they have any success with the fingerprinting, do you know?’
‘Which branch of journalism are you employed in, monsieur?’ asked Joe with the air of one who knew the answer.
‘Crime,’ he replied, smiling.
‘Then you’ll never be without material in Paris,’ said Bonnefoye acidly.
‘And we’re working on the assumption that the suspect they carted off is an innocent man,’ Joe felt bound to assert.
‘I never thought otherwise,’ Simenon said graciously.
Their guide switched on the house lights and the inspection began. Joe and Bonnefoye opened up the two boxes and tick-tacked rude messages to each other over the void, agreeing that Wilberforce Jennings’ account was probably entirely accurate. The reporter went obligingly to occupy a position centre stage, confirming that he had a clear and close view of Joe in one and Bonnefoye in the other box, sight limited only by the available light. With nothing of note in Jardine’s box, the three men gathered at the murder scene and looked about them. The grey upholstery with its sinister dark stain was witness to the exact spot on which Somerton had breathed his last.
Simenon waved a hand at the walls where patches of graphite from the fingerprinting brush stippled the paintwork. ‘Dozens, you see! Not one of them bloodstained. I expect the ones they’ve taken belong to the world and his wife – and his mistress; everyone who’s been in here since it was last cleaned. And the knifeman could have been wearing gloves. Not much of a tradition with us, I understand, Inspector – fingerprinting? Chances are, if they can pick up the murderer’s prints on these surfaces, they’ll have no records to compare them with. You’ll have to catch him first and then match them up.’