Folly Du Jour(91)

Relishing their sudden wariness, she added: ‘No, gentlemen – you won’t be pleased.’





Chapter Twenty-Four


‘The Zouave, I’ll start with him,’ she said, accepting a china mug of coffee.

‘The knifeman as you call him, though he’s more versatile than the name suggests. He was in the same regiment as the dear departed Flavius. Yes, I think you’ve detected that there’s a military thread running through all this. I met him nearly five years ago when I arrived here from India. Alone and friendless and trying to establish myself in a hostile city . . .’

She caught Joe’s eye and went on hurriedly: ‘The man tried to rob me! There in the boulevard, in broad daylight. A scarecrow! A heap of rags and bones, he suddenly appeared in front of me with his hand held behind him, like this . . .’

She got to her feet and, with a frisson, Joe recognized the Apache gesture.

‘He put his other hand out and demanded that I give him money. He wasn’t thinking clearly or he’d just have snatched my whole bag and run. He seemed on the point of collapse . . . wobbling rather. I realized he was incapable of running anywhere. The man was at death’s door. Desperate. I opened my bag as though to look for money and took out the gun I always keep by me. You still have it in your pocket, Commander. He wasn’t worth a bullet, I thought. Certainly not worth the time it would take making statements, having my pistol confiscated and all that rigmarole, so I hesitated. And then he did something rather extraordinary. He brought his knife hand forward and showed me it was empty. Too poor even to possess a knife. And then he smiled, his chin went up and he saluted. I could hardly make out what he was saying at first but he repeated it. “Vive la France!”

‘He thought he really was living his last moment. “Don’t be so silly,” I told him. “When did you last eat?” I took him to a pancake stall. He wolfed down about six. I made him walk ahead of me to a park bench and sat him down at the opposite end. Perfectly safe – I had my gun in my pocket, covering him the whole time. He told me his story. Perfectly ghastly! He’d drifted back from the war where he’d been badly wounded and was searching for his mother in Paris. He hadn’t seen her for eight years. He’d been reported missing, presumed dead, and she’d moved on. He was destitute. Dying of neglect. A common story. They sweep up a dozen like him from under the bridges every morning. But there was something about this one . . . the tilt of his chin, the glare in his eyes. It was like finding a rusty sword by the wayside. If I polished it up, sharpened it, I would have a weapon worth owning.’

‘So you bought yourself a Zouave, Alice? For an outlay of six pancakes? Were you aware of the reputation of these men? I’d be more comfortable in the close proximity of a mad bull terrier with a stick of ginger up its backside!’

‘I had a use for his skills. I know they are fierce, implacable, terrifying fighters and none more effective with a knife. And there was someone in my world at that time that I needed to terrify. I gave him food, drink, money and a purpose in life. I asked him to undertake a small task for me in return. He was happy to repay my kindness. Loyalty is another of their virtues, you know. And he has never been asked to do something he has not been delighted to do. Clean work compared with what his wartime commanders expected of him. He re-established himself and in time introduced some old army acquaintances. They became the core of my organization.’

‘Your organization?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes. Initially it was mine. I bought the premises in the boulevard du Montparnasse. Girls need protection, you know that. And I needed to show a tough face to the world to make it understood that my affairs were not to be interfered with. There was a power-shift going on at that time. Corsicans killing each other, North Africans moving in . . . an unsettled and dangerous time for one in my business.’

‘Alice, couldn’t you have set yourself up in a tea shop and bought a pair of poodles?’ Joe burst out.

Alice and Bonnefoye both turned a pitying glance on him.

‘A cup of tea brings in one franc,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘A girl, between a hundred and a thousand. A dirty business but a calculatedly short one, I’d guess. Five years . . . I’d say you were pretty well poised to make off with your ill-gotten gains?’ he guessed.

‘I am,’ she said with a confident smile.

‘So – tell us about the moment when your organization became his.’

‘Ah! A sad story! And one you will have heard many times before. I became friendly with one of my clients. Over-friendly. I fancied myself in love with him. He reminded me very much of someone I had been fond of in my past and I allowed him to get too close to me. He also was recently arrived in the city, finding his feet, totally without female companionship. Someone introduced him to the establishment. We were a comfort and a support to each other.’