‘Yes, I did. But tell me how you knew he was going to be here, Alice.’
‘No secret! You know my ways! In India I was always aware of who exactly was coming and going. It’s just as easy to keep track of people over here if you know the right man to ask. And the French are very systematic and thorough in their record keeping. A few francs pushed regularly in the right direction and I have all the information I need at my fingertips or rather in my shell-like ear . . .’ She glanced at a telephone standing on a table by the window. ‘Bribes and blackmail in the right proportions, Joe. Never fails. Tell me now – how did you find George? Is he all right? I heard a certain piece of nastiness was perpetrated after I left the theatre. I’m guessing that’s why you’re here?’
Alice shuddered. ‘I blame myself. If I hadn’t shot off like that, he would never have gone over and got himself involved with all that nonsense. Look, Joe, I’d rather not break surface and I’m sure you can understand why but if he’s desperately in need of help, then – oh, discretion can go to the winds – the man’s a friend of mine. I do believe that. I always admired him. If I can say anything, sign anything to get him out of that dreadful prison, then I will. That is why you’re here, Joe?’
‘No, it’s not. And don’t concern yourself about George. No action required – I’m sure I can manage.’
‘I’m assuming he is still over there on the island?’ she asked less certainly. ‘Or have you managed to get him out?’
‘He’s in police custody,’ said Joe, looking her straight in the eye. Alice had, he remembered, an uncanny way of knowing when she was being told a lie. And she was likely to have developed such a skill leading the dubious life she’d led. He wouldn’t have trusted himself to tell her anything but the truth. ‘Still in the hands of the French police,’ he said again. ‘He’s not enjoying the downy comfort of the Bristol which is where he ought to be but I’m pleased for him to be where he is. For the moment. I don’t believe Paris to be an entirely safe place for him. I’ve persuaded Commissaire Fourier, in charge of the case, to go more easily on him – the Chief Inspector seems to think he ought still to have the use of medieval methods of extracting a confession as well as the medieval premises.’
‘Poor, dear George! You must do what you can, Joe!’
‘Of course. I visit every day. I’m happy to report the bruises are healing. He enquired after you when I saw him this morning. Wanted to know that you are well and happy.’
‘Ah? You will reassure him then?’
‘Can I do that? Tell me – what should I report of little Alice in Wonderland? Business good, is it?’
For a moment she was taken aback. ‘My businesses always do well. You know that, Joe. Until some heavy-footed man comes along and stamps them into the mud.’
He decided to go for the frontal attack. ‘So – how do you get on with the management of the Sphinx? Your competitors can’t have been too enchanted when you came along and set up here in their rabbit patch. Have you come to some amicable agreement? Equable share of the lettuces? They have a Paris bank underpinning them financially, I understand. I wonder how you manage, Alice? A single, foreign woman?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Wouldn’t work, would it?’ And, abruptly: ‘Who’s your partner?’
He saw the moment when she made up her mind. Alice hadn’t changed. She was behaving as she had done years ago. Why not? It had deceived him then. Wide-eyed, she was about to plunge into a confession to a sin she knew would revolt him, a sin in his eyes so reprehensible it would distract him from and blind him to the deeper evil she must keep hidden at all cost.
‘Very well. I see you’ve worked it out. I run a brothel. The very best!’ She made the announcement as though she’d just made a fortune on the stock exchange and wanted him to share in celebrating her good luck. ‘Even you, old puritan that you are, Joe, could hardly object. My clients are the cream of society. The richest, at any rate . . . They demand and I supply the loveliest girls, dressed by Chanel, jewels by Cartier, conversation topics from the New Yorker.’
‘I understand. Expensive whores. Is that what you’re dealing in these days? But, of course, you learned a good deal from Edgar Troop, Brothel-Master Extraordinaire, branches in Delhi and Simla.’
‘These girls aren’t whores! They are hetairai – intelligent and attractive companions!’ Pink with anger, she put out her cigarette, creasing her eyes against the sudden flare of sparks and smoke. Calculating whether she was wasting her time in self-justification. ‘You are not in England, Commander. Are you aware of the expression maison de tolérance?’