Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [106]
‘Not planning on helping us with our enquiries,’ said Bonnefoye with mock resentment. ‘I was watching her. She tore into the café and spoke to the barman. He handed that stuff to her from under the bar.’
‘My exit bag. I always have it to hand,’ she explained sweetly.
‘And what were you intending to do at the Gare de Lyon, Gateway to the South? From where so many adventures start?’ Joe asked. ‘Return to your old haunts on the Riviera?’
‘Change taxis? Head north . . . or east . . . or west,’ she said, tormenting him. ‘You’ll never know. Not sure I do myself. Joe, are you ever going to introduce me to your charming young colleague? He seems to have the advantage of me.’
‘No. You don’t need to know him. You just need to do as he says.’
He had counted on annoying her, but Joe was taken aback by the fury in the glare she directed at him.
A small black police car screamed to a halt a few inches in front of them.
‘Here he is,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘My associate in Vice. I’ll just leave you for a moment while I fill him in then we can leave. We’ll make for a nice quiet place and put a few questions to the lady. If she answers correctly and reasonably, it may be that she can go free – after signing a statement, of course. If we’re concerned by what she has to say then she may have to proceed as far as Commissaire Fourier. Won’t be a minute.’
‘How long will he be?’ Alice’s voice was strained. He could hardly see her face. She had flung the hood over her head and was shrinking down into the upholstery. Her eyes were scanning the crowds milling about on the pavement. ‘We must leave now, Joe! Call him back! He – you – have no idea . . .!’
Joe was reminded of George’s remark about Alice’s strange behaviour. ‘. . . eyes quartering the room like a hunter,’ he’d said and then corrected himself: ‘No – more like the prey. There was someone out there in the auditorium . . .’
And there was someone out there at this moment on the pavement, coming closer. He began to catch Alice’s fear. He spoke softly to her. ‘Alice, we are surrounded by at least a dozen assorted flics. You’re quite safe. For the moment.’
She looked at him, incredulous. ‘You think that will stop him?’
Uneasy, he muttered, ‘Damn! I haven’t got a gun. I really did remember to wipe the Luger and drop it a suitable distance from the body. And – oh God! – I didn’t get my Browning back. No time, even if I’d thought of it.’
Alice bent and fished about in her bag. ‘Here. Take this. It’s only a .22 but it’s a little more effective than pointing a wagging finger.’
He took it warily, resting it along his thigh between them, finger on the trigger.
‘You make me nervous, Alice,’ he said finally. ‘As nervous as you made Sir George on Saturday night at the theatre? And for the same reason perhaps? I’m afraid for my life. Should I be afraid for my life? What are your instructions this time? The same as last? Kill the Englishman?’
She looked at him, eyes darkening with suspicion inside her silk hood. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean that I know, Alice. I know that you’d gone to the theatre that night, not for the pleasure of seeing Sir George again, but to kill him.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘To kill him. At the very least, to participate in his killing.’
She swallowed but remained silent, still staring through the windows.
‘Sir Stanley Somerton was never the target, was he? His death has brought freedom, much relief and even unholy joy to a good number of people but it was never intended, was it? No one put cash in an envelope and asked for him to die? Am I getting this right, Alice?’
She nodded her head. ‘As usual.’
‘Do you want to know how I guessed?’
‘No. Not particularly. I assume you to be omniscient.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Because I shall enjoy the satisfaction of making you and your filthy organization aware that you’ve been tripped up by no more than a couple of bystanders, neither of them connected in any way to the murder that went wrong but both sharp-eyed,