Folly Du Jour(90)
‘Oh, Lord! Not Fourier, Joe! Not sure I’m quite prepared for that yet!’
‘I’m certainly not! No, I have in mind a different location. In the law enforcement buildings, but not involving a trip up Staircase A. A quiet spot . . . none quieter. We’re off to the morgue!’
Moulin was already gowned, gloved and masked, standing ready. He was accompanied by three young assistants, similarly clad, sorting through trays of instruments. At their approach, he removed his surgical mask and gave them a puzzled smile of welcome. ‘I was just on my way out for the evening,’ he grumbled. ‘Under this,’ he indicated his white starched gown, ‘I’m dressed for the opera. We were alerted by telephone. Rush job on. Someone warned us to expect incoming dead.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘That was me. Sorry to foul up your evening, doctor. Gangland fracas in the boulevard du Montparnasse. They’ll be a few more minutes yet. They were told to drop the wounded off at the hospital before coming on here. When you check your laundry list, you’ll find you have three bodies, unless another succumbed en route. There’s one commander and two soldiers. Gun shots, all three.’
‘Ah. Anything to do with you?’
‘It’s all right, doctor. The commander, a person with the proportions of a small whale, died first with not a scrap of police-issue hardware in him. Luger bullets from the house gun. That’s what started it all. The other two . . . were reckless enough to fire on the officers sent to arrest them.’
‘I say, excuse me, but is this an entirely suitable conversation for a lady’s ears?’ They heard the slight reprimand in his voice as Moulin turned a concerned face to Alice. She had been standing listening, not, apparently, looking for a formal introduction. ‘I’m sorry, mademoiselle? Madame?’ He broke off with a bemused and reproving glance at Joe.
‘Don’t worry, Moulin. The lady’s seen and heard and, indeed, perpetrated much worse. May I introduce you to a genuine example of Latrodectus mactans? We’re here seeking sanctuary. Her life may be in danger – from the villains who are responsible for all this mayhem. I don’t think they’ll be looking for her in the morgue. Though that is where they’d like to see her. She has certain confidences of an intimate nature she’s bursting to make, confidences including the identity of the gentleman we have been calling Set.’
‘Indeed? Set? I wondered if he’d bob to the surface again!’
‘The interview is to be an informal one, for the moment. Moulin, I wondered if we might impose on you for an hour? May we borrow your room?’
After a flash of astonishment, the doctor did not hesitate. ‘Certainly. You remember the way? Coffee’s on the stove. Help yourselves. Oh, and before you go off, Bonnefoye, Sandilands – a word with you, please. Something’s come up about Somerton . . . Ah! Here’s our delivery!’
They settled Alice in the armchair furthest from the door and positioned themselves in front of her, Joe to her right, Bonnefoye perching on the footstool to her left. She smiled slightly, watching their manoeuvres. ‘What a simply ghastly room!’ she said, staring around her with a particular look of distaste for the tacked-up theatre posters. ‘Don’t you think? Looks like Quasimodo’s idea of a snuggery. Dr Moulin’s? How can he bear it?’ She removed the antimacassar from her chair between delicate fingers and dropped it to the floor.
‘He doesn’t like it any more than you do but people will keep sending him corpses to be dealt with,’ said Joe, angrily. ‘This is his attempt at a retreat from your handiwork. Six bodies you’ve fed him over the last three days . . . how can you bear it? The alternative is Fourier’s office. Shall we take you there? It’s not far. No lace frou-frous there, no common thespian mementoes to curl your toes and shrivel your sensibilities. Spartan, you’d say. Entirely functional decor. But what you wouldn’t like is the spot marked in the centre of the room where he will make you stand.’
Alice shrugged her shoulders, unimpressed.
‘And stand . . . and stand . . . Have you any idea how much stress that puts on the body after a few hours? George is still suffering. So, be thankful you’re sitting in an overstuffed armchair being served with coffee, talking to two understanding chaps making notes.’
‘I’ll have mine black with one lump of sugar, please, Inspector,’ she said, capitulating. ‘And you can put your thumbscrews away. I’m going to talk to you. Look on this as a practice run. You must advise me regarding the contents of my official statement. If, that is, you are still requiring me to make one when I’ve got to the end of what I have to say. You may be begging me to tear it all up by the time I reach that point. And hustling me aboard the next transatlantic liner with my head in a bag.’