Folly Du Jour(93)

‘I’m sure Sir George will be most relieved to hear that he survived!’ He grinned. ‘And doubtless pleased to hear that Miss Alice did what she could to divert the knife from his throat on to a more deserving one. Can’t wait to tell him! But, Joe, there is one detail in this nasty piece of entrapment that puzzles me. The tickets and the note that drew him in – I’d like to hear her account for that.’

‘You’d shudder if you knew how much they cost, those tickets! But Somerton was determined to have his fun – you might almost say, desperate – and offered to pay well over the odds for a good performance.’

‘And the note? The note that lured George to the theatre? How did you know about his relationship with his cousin at the Embassy? Did he speak of it in Simla?’

A trap.

She looked puzzled. ‘Why no. I believe I must have left India before ever his cousin took up a post here . . . Not certain. He never mentioned a cousin at any rate.’

Then she looked at him and smiled. And Joe felt the furry feet of the spider easing their way up his spine. Selecting a soft place for her fangs.

‘My boss, as you call him, wrote the note himself.’

‘Taking a reasonable shot at the handwriting, it would appear?’

‘Why would it not be an entirely reasonable shot? Not necessary to fake one’s own handwriting, Commander!’





Chapter Twenty-Five


‘Before I say another word, Commander . . . Inspector . . . I want your reassurance that I may walk free from here when I’ve told you what you want to know. I came here as a witness and will leave as a witness. I’ll sign any statement you care to draw up but I must go free. I will give you an address at which I may be reached. If you require me to attend a magistrate’s hearing or a trial I will, of course, do that. So long as the man I denounce is in custody.’

‘And if we don’t agree to that?’

‘Then, one morning, you’ll find me dead in my cell in the women’s prison. His reach is a long one. And the killings will go on. Is that the proof you will be looking for?’

‘Up to you, Bonnefoye. I don’t trust her.’

He could see his young colleague had been fired by the chance of landing a male suspect. A foreigner, a well-to-do foreigner. Fourier would not have hesitated. Was it likely that the madame of a brothel, no matter how successful, could devise these murderous attacks? No, there must be a male intelligence and will underpinning everything. And who was to say he was wrong? Here was Alice on the verge of trading a devastating betrayal for her freedom.

‘I agree to your terms,’ Bonnefoye said after a long pause. ‘And, madame, please do not think of deceiving me. I too have a very long reach.’

‘John Pollock,’ she said simply and held out her mug for more coffee.

Joe got to his feet, agitated, barely able to keep his hands off her. He wanted to shake her until she told the truth. A different truth. ‘I don’t believe a word of this. Nonsense! I’ve met the man. A cousin of Sir George’s would never . . .’ He stopped himself from further reinforcing her jaundiced view of men. He was quite certain that she resented the easy camaraderie between them. Why should he trust John Pollock after a half-hour’s interview and herself not at all after five years, was her flawed reasoning.

‘Pardon me, madame,’ said Bonnefoye, icily polite, ‘but to clarify: you are accusing Sir George’s cousin not only of masterminding a series of improbable murders in the French capital and now we must understand in London also – but of accepting a commission from a fellow countryman to kill his own cousin? You say he did not question the projected crime but went along with it, planned it, and had it not been for your intervention, would have executed it?’

Alice considered. ‘Yes. That’s just about it. Well done. Will you write that down or shall I?’

‘I think we ought at this point to mention the word “motive”. Why on earth would he do that?’

‘Oh, come on! Can you be so unaware? What sort of detectives am I dealing with? Must I do all the work?’

‘Be kind, Alice,’ warned Joe.

‘Very well. George doesn’t talk much of it but he’s actually filthy rich, you know. Stands to reason! The man had a finger in every pie in India and many of them are full of plums. That’s what India was all about, you know. John Company . . . exploitation . . . Empire . . . it all boils down to cash. In accounts in Switzerland in many cases. George, with his knowledge of the way things would go – and he it was who pushed them where he wanted them to go on occasions – was well placed to make the most spectacular investments. He’s retired and come home to enjoy the fruits of his labours. He has no heir. For many years his cousin has been – still is – named in his will as recipient of his wealth. But John has lately become concerned about his cousin’s intentions . . . his state of mind . . . Unleashed from the stifling routine of India, he seems about to plunge into a world of gaiety. Who knows? Perhaps he might even be entrapped into marriage by some girl on the make? And produce an heir of his own within the year? It happens a dozen times a season in Paris! Pity I didn’t think of it myself! Much safer to accept Somerton’s timely commission. After all – the responsibility lies with the client, doesn’t it?’