‘Sell the fuse?’ said Joe, puzzled. ‘Oh, I see . . . Give away the vital bit? Squeal. Inform.’
‘The warning is reinforced periodically. Whether it’s called for or not, I sometimes think,’ he added with chill speculation.
‘Is that all you have for us? Aportentous warning empty of any substance?’ Joe’s voice was mildly challenging.
The reporter was spurred to make his point. ‘There’s a small group of villains – six at the most. Deadly. Discreet. For hire. When the Corsican gangs folded their tents and moved on after the war, a central core of bad boys, the survivors, stayed on. Licensed to kill, trained and encouraged to kill, they came out on the other side of it ruthless, skilled and, above all, older and wiser. They regrouped themselves. They’re careful. And that’s most unusual; gangsters have a touch of the theatrical about them as a rule . . . they like to have their names known, their exploits vaunted . . . there are even songs made up about some of the more flamboyant villains! But the men I have in mind are silent. Or else they’re being run by someone capable of imposing discipline on them. And when they work, it’s not in public, for a handful of francs in front of a Saturday night audience of voyeuristic merrymakers, it’s for thousands, in the dark. In secrecy. In anonymity.’
‘Well . . . Well, well!’ said Joe. ‘No name, perhaps, but every man has fingerprints. And he can’t change those every six months. You roundly declare our chap was not wearing gloves? Let’s see what we can do, shall we? Perhaps the officers who worked here on the night of the crime have, inadvertently, recorded his prints. Though, amongst this profusion of sticky dabs, they are not aware of what they have.’
Bonnefoye stared and sighed. ‘So many! It’s going to take a month to process this lot. If they haven’t given up already. And – really – are they going to bother when they have so many of Sir George’s on the victim’s chair?’
‘Ah! Le pigeon! Le gogo!’ was Simenon’s verdict on Sir George and Joe was encouraged to hear it.
‘The “patsy” you might say. Our supposition also.’
The beam of Joe’s torch illuminated the last section of the wall, to the left of the door, passed on and then jerked back again. ‘I wonder if we can reduce the area of search?’
He moved closer to a powdered print on the left door jamb. ‘Here’s a remarkably sticky print, wouldn’t you say? Just look at the detail there!’
‘Not blood?’ said Bonnefoye.
‘No, not blood. The greasiness is pomade! Hair grease. I had some of that muck on my fingers yesterday. It’s the pathologist’s theory that the killer seized Somerton by his hair with his left hand from behind to hold his head in the correct position and then slit his throat with his right hand. So, his right hand might well have been covered in blood and he was obviously at some pains not to touch anything with that but, possibly leaning out to check the corridor was free, he placed what he thought was his clean left hand here . . .’ Joe extended his hand without touching the wall into a natural position and found he had to move it up an inch. ‘Tall man,’ he commented. ‘Just over six feet tall? Bonnefoye? Could you . . .?’
‘As soon as I can get back up to the lab! Focusing! That could save them a bit of time!’
‘That policeman! Is he still in the building?’
The voice boomed out from the rear of the stage. Urgent. Powerful. Alarmed.
‘We’re up here, Monsieur Derval,’ Simenon called back. ‘Just finishing in the box. I have two inspectors with me – one Police Judiciaire, the other Scotland Yard.’
‘The more the merrier. Bring the Grand Old Duke of York as well if you’ve got him. Quickly! To Josephine’s room.’
The figure exited at speed, stage left, pursued, Joe would have sworn, by all three Furies.
Joe checked his watch.
Their escort turned an anxious face to them and he muttered something abstractedly, indicating that they should follow him. So evident was his concern, Joe speculated that the young man’s relationship with the star was warmer than he had declared. It wouldn’t have been surprising. Josephine was rumoured to enjoy a vigorous and fast-changing series of romantic involvements. But if the reporter had been a fixture in her frantic life for over a year, he must occupy a position of some trust and intimacy.
He led them at an ankle-breaking pace down staircases and along narrow corridors, burrowing always deeper into the vast unseen reaches of the theatre. They swept through gaggles of girls, practising steps and formations in any space they could find, skirted around others standing rigidly enduring the pinning up and repair of flimsy costumes. Someone threw a tap shoe along with a curse at them as they blundered by. Finally, they climbed a spiral staircase which brought them out on the level of the dressing rooms. The first three rooms were crowded with dozens of girls with sweaty towels round their necks, offering greasy faces to over-bright mirrors, dipping fingers into pots of Crowe’s Cremine or peering closely to apply layers of Leichner make-up. They were screeching at each other in English, breaking off to shout louche invitations to the three men as they hurried by. All perfectly normal behaviour. Joe felt he could have been backstage at the London Palladium. Nothing untoward going on here.