Folly Du Jour(97)

‘I understand, sir, that you have met your cousin at long intervals . . . people change . . . similar men may have just one slight distinction which sends them spinning off in different directions. You’ve heard of the villain Fantômas? Bonnefoye tells me his twin brother was the police inspector Juve of the Brigade Criminelle. Two men incredibly alike in their cunning, perseverance and energy. But at some point in their history, their paths diverged and their similar qualities carried them off towards opposite ends. One good, the other evil.’

George considered this. ‘Balderdash!’ he concluded. ‘Psychological piffle! Fiction! This is real life we’re considering.’

‘But real death also, George,’ murmured Madame Bonnefoye.

‘Amélie,’ he said. ‘My coat! Only one way to settle this. I’ll go and find Jackie and ask him.’ Catching her dismay, he hesitated and then added gently, ‘But not, perhaps, before we’ve sampled the navarin d’agneau printanier. I’ve put a bottle of Gigondas to breathe. Hope that was all right?’

‘Perfect! But, listen! It’s a stew. It will reheat beautifully,’ she said comfortably. ‘Tomorrow, or later this evening. Just come home for it. All of you.’





Chapter Twenty-Seven


‘Sir George! At last! Welcome, sir. How good to see you out and about again . . . Gentlemen . . .’

Beneath Harry Quantock’s bluff greeting Joe sensed a trickle of tension flowing.

‘To see Pollock? Well, of course . . . and yes, he is in the building at the moment. Um . . . look – why don’t you come along to his study and wait for him there? I’ll have him paged. He’s upstairs in the salon dancing attendance on the Ambassador’s lady. Actually,’ he confided, ‘this could be rather a bad moment. They’re just about to take off for the opera. His Excellency can’t abide the opera so John usually undertakes escort duties. Are you quite certain this can’t wait?’ Oh, very well . . .’

They went to wait in the study, choosing to stare at the cricket photographs rather than catch each other’s eye. George was looking confident, in his element. Bonnefoye was looking uncomfortable. Joe was just looking, taking in the neatness and utter normality of everything around him. All papers were filed in trays and left ready for the morning’s work. The flowers in one corner of the desk had been replenished. On the mantelpiece, the photograph frame surrounding his mother’s smiling Victorian features had been polished up. In the bin, a week-old copy of The Times, open at the crossword puzzle. Completed.

Pollock swept in a few minutes later, handsome in evening dress. He surprised Joe by heading at once for George, who had risen to his feet, and enveloping him in a hug. The two men muttered and exclaimed together for a while, holding each other at arm’s length to verify that, yes, both were looking in the pink of good health and Paris was obviously agreeing with them.

He turned his attention to Joe and Bonnefoye, and George introduced the young Frenchman. Pleasantries were exchanged. Joe had the clear feeling that Pollock was trying hard not to look at his watch.

‘I’m sorry to disrupt your evening, Pollock . . .’ Joe began.

‘So you should be!’ he replied with an easy grin. ‘I’m just off to hear René Maison singing in Der Rosenkavalier. A first for me – do you know it?’

‘Yes, indeed. Charming entertainment. Full of disguises, deceit and skulduggery of one sort or another. The police dash in and solve all the problems in the end, I recall. I think you’ll like it.’

George threw him a withering glance and took up the reins. ‘We have a problem, Jackie. Or rather, these two Keystone Cops have a problem. Which you can solve. I want you to tell them you’re not a degenerate and a multiple murderer.’

‘I beg your pardon? I say, George, old man . . . what is going on? I really do have to rush off, you know. Look – can you all come back and play tomorrow?’ He looked uneasily over his shoulder, hearing a party forming up in the foyer.

‘I’m afraid it’s no joke, Pollock,’ said Joe. ‘A certain accusation has been made . . .’ He abandoned the police phrasing. ‘Alice Conyers has shopped you. She’s told us everything. Her – your – organization has been shot to pieces, literally, while you’ve been sipping sherry and humming arias in Her Excellency’s ear. It’s over. The crew in the boulevard du Montparnasse are stretched out either in the morgue or on a hospital bed.’

Pollock tugged at his starched collar and sank on to a chair. ‘Alice?’ he murmured. ‘Is she all right?’