‘And quite obviously something going on between him and the star, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Good luck to them! How did he say they met? Stage-door Johnny, didn’t he say? Just turned up on the off-chance?’
‘Yes. But not empty-handed,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ‘Said he brought her a bunch of roses. Roses . . . lilies . . .’ He looked about him. ‘We’re a long way from a florist’s shop here. But there must surely be some enterprising merchant out there catering for star-struck young men on their way to the theatre?’
‘Place de l’Alma,’ said Bonnefoye, turning to the right and walking towards the river.
‘Lilies? Two dozen? Yes, of course. Not every day I shift two dozen in one go! Lucky to get rid . . . they were just on the turn. I told him: “Put them straight away in water up to their necks.” Must be nearly two hours ago. That’s right – the bell on the Madeleine had already rung two. But not the half past . . .
‘What did he look like? Oh, a handsome young chap!’ The fleuriste turned a toothless smile on Joe and cackled. ‘To my old gypsy eyes at least. Rather like you, monsieur. Your age. Young but not too young. Tall, well set up. Dark skin. Southern perhaps? North African even? Mixed probably. Sharp nose and chin. Well dressed. Nice hat. Lots of money.
‘You’d need lots of money to buy all those lilies! His wallet when he took it out to pay for them was stuffed! Wished I’d asked double! He didn’t really seem interested in the price. Some of them haggle, you know. This one didn’t. Paid up, good as gold.
‘Scar? Can’t say I noticed one . . . I did notice the bristles though. He’s growing a beard. It’ll be a fine black one in a few weeks’ time.
‘Where? Oh, he walked back up the avenue towards the theatre.’ The old woman grinned. ‘Probably spotted some young dancer on the front row. He’ll certainly impress her with those flowers anyway!’
Sensing they were about to close up the interview, she recalled their attention: ‘Do you want to know what he was doing before he came to my stall?’
A further five francs changed hands.
‘He was wandering about on the bridge. Looking at the statues,’ she said. ‘Now, gentlemen, I’ve got some lovely red roses fresh in from Nice this morning if you’re interested . . .’
‘Heard enough?’ said Bonnefoye using English, in a voice suddenly chilled. ‘She’s scraping the barrel now.’ And then: ‘He’s not exactly hiding himself, is he? He must have known we’d trace him here to this stall.’
‘He’s watching us at this moment,’ said Joe, managing by a superhuman effort not to look around. ‘Down one of those alleys, at one of those windows. Under the bridge even.’
Bonnefoye carefully held his gaze and Joe added: ‘So, let’s assume that, just for once, it’s we who have the audience, shall we? And give him something to look at.’
He turned to the flower seller. ‘Thank you, madame. I’ll take two dozen of those red roses from Provence.’
The old woman stood and moved a few yards to watch them as they went down to the river. When she saw what they were about, she shook her head in exasperation. Idiots! Mad foreigners! Had they nothing better to waste their money on? They’d taken up their position halfway along, leaning over the parapet, and, taking a dozen blooms each, were throwing the roses, one at a time, downstream into the current.
She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and crossed herself. She watched on as the swirls of blood red eddied and sank. How would those fools know? That what they were doing brought bad luck? Flowers in the water spelled death.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bonnefoye had returned to the Quai des Orfèvres to pass on instructions for the fingerprint section and to check whether they’d made any progress with the Bertillon records of scarred villains. He’d been reluctant to let Joe turn up unaccompanied at the jazz club on the boulevard du Montparnasse, offering, as well as his own company, the presence of a team of undercover policemen in reserve.
Joe had reassured him. ‘Don’t be concerned . . . Just think of it as a visit between two old friends . . . Yes, I think I can get in. I’m prepared.’ He patted his pocket. ‘A bird has led me to the magical golden branch in the forest. I only have to brandish it and the gates to Avernus will swing open. As they did for Aeneas.’
Bonnefoye had rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘The gates can swing shut as well. With you inside. And I’m not too certain that Aeneas had a very jolly time. Full of wailing ghosts, Avernus, if I remember rightly. If you’re not out by eight, I’m storming the place. I mean it! Now here’s what I’m offering . . .’