Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [120]
George wasn’t listening. ‘Look – Jackie’s got the telephone,’ he announced. ‘Why don’t you use it to ring up your mother, Jean-Philippe? She’ll be concerned. Tell her we’re all coming home safe and well.’
‘But I never ring my mother –’
‘Then I think you should start. Not easy being the mother of a policeman.’
Bonnefoye made no move to oblige and, with a snort of exasperation, George seized the receiver and took up the earpiece. He spoke in his Governor’s voice, friendly but authoritative: ‘Hello? This is Sir George Jardine here. I’m down below and I want you to connect me with this number. It’s a city number. Got a pencil to hand, have you?’
After the usual arrangement of clicks and bangs they heard Madame Bonnefoye reply. ‘Hold on a minute, will you, madame? I have your son on the line.’ He beckoned to Bonnefoye and held out the earpiece.
‘Yes, it is me, Maman. Oh – well! Yes, it went well. A waste of our time, I think. False alarm. Nothing sinister to report. Look, we’re all going to climb into a taxi and come back for supper. We’ll need to stop off for a minute or two at the Quai to brief Fourier . . . we don’t want him inadvertently to go laying siege to the British Embassy . . . and then come straight on home. Half an hour.’
As their taxi moved off, a second, which had been waiting across the road and a few yards down, started up and slid into the busy traffic stream behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They had left George sitting in the back of the taxi in the courtyard while they trudged up the stairs to confess to Fourier that they’d been given misleading information. They emerged fifteen minutes later, silent, dismayed by the Chief Inspector’s glee at their predicament.
Before they could cross the courtyard, they were alerted by the sound of running feet clattering down the stairs after them. Fourier’s sergeant shouted their names and they waited for him to catch up with them. ‘Inspector! Sir! Message just came through to the Commissaire. Emergency down by the Square du Vert Galant. Roistering. There’s been roistering going on. They will do it! Young folk got drunk and someone’s been pushed in the river. You’re nearest, sir. Can you go down and sort it out?’
‘No. I’m busy,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Do I look like a life guard? We have a two-man detail down there from nine o’clock onwards for these eventualities. This is for uniform. They’ll deal with it.’
‘That’s the point, sir,’ said the sergeant, puzzled. ‘Can’t be found. They’ve buzzed off somewhere. What should I do then, sir? You’d better tell me . . . just so as it’s clear.’ He evidently didn’t want to go back upstairs and report the Inspector’s refusal of an order.
Bonnefoye groaned. ‘I’ll go and take a look. But I warn you – looking’s all I intend to do. I won’t get my feet wet!’
Turning to Joe: ‘Look – not sure I like this much, Joe. It’s . . . irregular. I’d rather deal with it myself. I’m not so quixotic as you – you’d jump in to save a dog! You go on back with Sir George. I’ll grab another taxi when I’ve found those two sluggards who ought to be here.’
‘No – I’ve a better idea,’ Joe replied. ‘I’m coming with you. But we’ll send George home as advance warning that we really are serious about supper. George!’ he shouted, opening the back door. ‘Slight change in arrangements. Something to check on down by the river. You carry on, will you? Jean-Philippe and I will be along in say – half an hour. Driver, take this gentleman to the address he will give you as soon as you’re under way.’
He banged peremptorily on the taxi roof to deny George a chance to argue and watched as the taxi made its way out of the courtyard.
They began to run along the Quai des Orfèvres towards the bow-shaped point of the city island beyond the Pont Neuf. A romantic spot, green and inviting and dotted with willow trees, it was a magnet for the youth of the city with proposals and declarations to make but also for the many drunken