Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [123]
A dead rat floated by, brushing his face. Retching with horror, Joe trod water, waiting for it to pass, but then, on an impulse, he reached out and seized it and squashed the swollen body down inside the front of his shirt. A gassy eructation burst from the rat and Joe gagged and spluttered. Then he gritted his chattering teeth. ‘Brother Rat!’ he muttered, knowing he was on the verge of hysteria. ‘More where that came from? Let’s hope so!’ He was as prepared as he could ever be for the confrontation. He just hoped that his enemy would feel impelled, as most villains did, to explain himself. To talk. To give Joe time to get his breath back and plan his retaliation.
If he encountered the Zouave he could rely on no such reaction. His only language was Death and he would deliver it in one unanswerable word.
Taking his time, steadying his breathing, he judged the moment and made for the part of the quay where a set of slippery steps had been made for the use of the river traffic. Panting, he pulled himself together, taking the useless scalpel in his right hand.
‘Thought you’d make for this place. How are you enjoying the show, so far, Commander?’ The remembered voice purred down at him from the top of the steps.
There was the Fantômas pose again. Eyes glittered through the holes in the mask.
Joe responded in short panting phrases, one for each step as he climbed. ‘Not the best evening I’ve spent in the theatre. Never been fond of melodrama. Overacting sets my teeth on edge. Kinder not to look, really. I’ve decided to bale out at the interval.’
He’d got almost to the top. Near enough. This would do. Affecting a gulping cough, he put his left hand to his chest and seized the rat, grasping its slimy fur in his fingers. ‘I was wondering, Moulin . . .’ he began and a moment later had hurled the squashy and stinking corpse into the masked face. The man took an instinctive step back, with an exclamation of disgust, hitting out at the creature with his left hand. In an instant Joe had closed with him, pushing him off balance, a frozen but iron-hard left fist closing over the knife hand and squeezing with the fury of a madman. The zarin clanged on to the cobbles and the man looked down and sideways to find it.
A moment of inattention which cost him the sight of his left eye. Joe brought up the blunt scalpel and drove the point through the nearest hole in the mask.
A yell and a curse broke from him but he struggled on, strong right hand breaking free from Joe’s slippery clutch. He scrambled to pick up his knife. With the scalpel still sticking out of his eye socket, he rounded on Joe, screaming, beside himself with fury, knife once again clutched in his hand. With both his feeble defences used up, Joe crouched and circled, only his fists left and his cunning. He was intending to work his way around his enemy, wrong-foot him and push him into the river.
Just as he was beginning to think he stood a chance, another shot rang out. The nightmare figure was hurled backwards away from Joe by the force of the bullet tearing into his chest. A dark stain was already spreading over the white waistcoat before he collapsed on to the cobbles inches from the drop into the river.
Joe, shaking with cold and effort and shock, could only turn his head and mumble, ‘Bonnefoye? Jean-Philippe, is that you?’ into the darkness.
‘Er, no. It’s me, my boy,’ said Sir George, emerging from the shadows, Luger in hand. ‘Thought you were up to something sending me off like that. Nosy old bugger, as I keep reminding you. Not so easy to shake off. Had to investigate. Who’s your friend?’
He moved over to the body, pistol at the ready, Joe noticed.
‘Who was your friend. He’s dead. Police not very popular in these parts, I see. I had to take strong action to disable the other bloke on the bridge who seemed to be taking too close an interest. Vévé, I’m assuming. He’s dead too, I’m afraid. But, Joe, who was this fool?’
George bent and tugged the mask off the dead face, carefully pulling it away from the