Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [124]
‘No fool! Madman perhaps? Moulin. The doctor. The pathologist.’
‘Pathologist? Is he so short of customers he has to . . . oh, sorry, Joe. It just seems very peculiar to me. So, he’s the one who fancied himself as Set, is he? But why on earth is he got up like this? Was he on his way to a masked ball?’
‘He didn’t have time to explain. I’m just guessing this was his last commission. Someone paid to watch me die, George. But where on earth has Jean-Philippe got to? He was down in the square, whistling . . . Oh, my God! There were three of them!’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Joe doubled over and vomited up a litre of river water before he was ready to run on unsteady legs back along the bank, up on to the bridge and then down again to the level of the small park, calling out Jean-Philippe’s name. In his exhaustion, he found that George was well able to keep stride with him. They paused by the statue of Henry IV. The dashing young monarch, Le Vert Galant, the Green Sprig himself, peered majestically down from his horse at the panting old man and the drowned rat as they battled to get their breath and take their bearings.
‘There was a third man on the loose. One of the wolves. Got away during the raid. I heard Jean-Philippe whistling down here on this side. We’ll split up and search.’
‘No we won’t,’ said George firmly. ‘You stay by me. I’m not losing sight of you again. No telling what you’ll get up to. Fancy dress balls . . . midnight swimming parties . . . some fellows live for pleasure alone,’ he muttered, checking his pistol. ‘Six left. Should do it. And in the dark I don’t want to put one of them into you by mistake. Eyes not what they were, you know.’
Back to back, they quartered the ground, working their way out towards the pointed tip of the park.
They found them under a willow tree.
Bonnefoye had had no time to draw his revolver, his hands were empty, thrown out one on either side of his body. The handle of a zarin gleamed in the half-light, sticking out of his back.
George groaned. ‘Ambushed. Taken from behind.’ He expressed his grief and rage, cursing in a torrent of Pushtu.
Joe was on his knees, feeling for any sign of life. ‘George, do shut up! He’s trying to speak! He’s alive . . . just. It’s all right, old man. We’re here. Look, try to stay still. You’ve been stabbed . . . I expect you noticed . . . yes. What we’ll do, if you can bear it, is leave the blade where it is – it’s actually stopping the blood from flowing. We’ll summon up a stretcher party and get you to the hospital . . . it’s only a step or two away.’
He bent his ear to the chill mouth which was barely able to move, yet determined to convey something. ‘What’s that? Oh, yes, you got him. Or someone got him . . . The wolf. He’s lying here right beside you.’ Joe glanced down. ‘Shot through the back of the head. Small calibre bullet, I’d say. .22? But well placed. Not you, I take it? No? Ah, there’s a puzzle . . . Sorry, what did you say? . . . Yes. I’ll send George in a taxi to tell her. I’ll stay by you . . . What day? It’s Monday, old fruit . . . We’ve just had what we call in England a long weekend.’
He was grateful for the soldierly presence of Sir George, still covering the pathways with his Luger. Gently, Joe removed Bonnefoye’s police revolver from its holster and held it at the ready. But he knew the flourish was in vain. The wolf’s killer had made off into the night and was a mile away by now.
The next three days gurgled their way down life’s plughole, barely distinguishable from each other by Joe. A day of sickness and shivering, spent in Bonnefoye’s room in the rue Mouffetard, being Amélie’s replacement son while her own boy was in hospital, passed like a bad dream. He remembered the bowls of chicken soup, the cool hands on his forehead, George’s gruff voice from the doorway: ‘Just back from the hospital. Thought you’d like to hear – the lad’s going to be all right. Blade went in at an angle – the thought is that the attacker was disturbed before he could place his blow more accurately. No vital organs