Folly Du Jour(96)
His eyes narrowed in cunning. ‘You!’ he said, addressing Joe. ‘These are your countrymen. You can gain access. Go in there and get him out. As soon as he’s out of protective custody, so to speak, he can be provoked into a rash act and you can shoot him. We’ll back you up – swear it was self-defence. There’ll be an almighty stink but they’ll just have to accept it. And better if the whole thing is set up by one of their own. It’s the only way. What do you think?’
‘You’re suggesting I enter the Embassy, slap his face with my glove, and call him out? “The Bois de Boulogne at dawn, Pollock! Your choice of weapon,”’ Joe drawled. ‘Oh, very well. It’s a plan, I suppose. Just leave it to me, old man.’
As they made their way over the courtyard to pick up a taxi Bonnefoye spoke, concerned. ‘Sandilands, you’re not –’
‘Of course not!’ said Joe. ‘But, all the same, I’d rather Fourier left it to me. Not that he has much of a choice. You know how slow these negotiations with embassies can be. It was crudely put but Fourier was right. There’d be representations, accusations, rebuttals, counter-accusations . . . oh, a mountain of work for the eager young tail-waggers they employ over there. And it would all end exactly as he forecast. Pollock would disappear in the night and the French would retaliate by blackballing the English entrant in the Gold Cup race at Longchamp. Or even worse – withdrawing the loan of their string orchestra. We’ve got to sort this out ourselves. And we’ll take advice from the best-placed source.’
‘Sir George?’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Oh, my God! Right then. It’s back to the Mouffe!’
Sir George and Amélie Bonnefoye were playing a game of piquet at the kitchen table and attending to what smelled like a lamb stew when the two men arrived.
After a shrewd look at their expressions, George put his cards down and said quietly: ‘Would this be a good time to have a drink of wine or do you have to maintain a clear head for the rest of the evening?’
‘Both,’ said Joe. ‘So – one glass would be most welcome, Madame Bonnefoye.’
She brought a bottle and four glasses and a dish of olives and settled down with them in the salon.
‘Maman, if you don’t mind . . . we have some disturbing things to reveal . . . ‘ Bonnefoye started to say.
‘I don’t mind. So, go on then – disturb us.’
‘Sir,’ Joe began, ‘I have now met and interviewed your cousin at the Embassy. He is well and sends his warmest regards and hopes to see you when this is all over and you come out of hiding. Though whether such a reunion will ever take place now remains to be seen . . .’
Sir George listened calmly to the account, occasionally shooting a question to Joe or Bonnefoye, but without exclamation or hand-wringing or hair-tearing.
‘So that’s why she was there, at the theatre,’ said Madame Bonnefoye. ‘Your guardian angel! She was protecting you. Fearful for your life, not her own. Thank God she was there!’ She patted his hand comfortingly.
Confidences, it seemed to Joe, had been exchanged over culinary activities at the kitchen table.
‘But where is she now? You let her go like that, unescorted, friendless, into the night? She must be feeling very uneasy at large in the city with two men pursuing her. I’d have taken my chances with you and Jean-Philippe,’ Amélie Bonnefoye said loyally.
Finally George spoke up. ‘You’re right, Amélie, so we must assume that she, in fact, is not in any danger. She’s a calculating woman. Always comes out on top. I admire her for it. Wouldn’t want to see a woman of her quality humiliated by the likes of this pair of hounds, in fact. And, to look at this positively – of whom exactly does she have to be afraid? I think she’s been pulling the wool over your eyes, you fellows. Her Zouave? Saved his life, did you say? Well, there you are! Sounds like an eternal ally to me. He was probably waiting for her on the street corner. Seen this with the roughest, toughest fellows you can imagine in India – give their lives to protect the Memsahib.’
Bluster, Joe thought with a stab of pity. Even Amélie looked away, uneasy.
‘And her other nightmare is, as she and you would have it – my cousin. My cousin! Little Jackie. No, he’s a good fellow. Self-opinionated, over-active, too clever by half and something of a bounder in his early years but – by God! – the man’s a gentleman!’ He thought intensely for a moment and added: ‘I think you’ll probably recognize me in that description? And you’re right. He’s very like me, you know. Do you seriously believe I would go about taking orders for bespoke crimes?’ He put on the unctuous tones of a Savile Row assistant: ‘“And does Sir have a style in mind? We can offer the assisted leap from the Eiffel Tower, the dagger in the ribs at the Garrick, and, on special offer this week, blood-letting in the Louvre? A snip at two and six!”’