Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [125]
The day after, which must have been a Wednesday, he spent in Fourier’s office making statements, colluding in the fabrication of various pieces of subterfuge. Nodding in agreement as the Commissaire outlined the dashing attack of the Brigade Criminelle officer (trained and directed by Fourier himself) who had gone in against great odds to the rescue (from an attack by a gang of Apaches) of two theatregoers, one a visiting tourist, his companion a Parisian and a distinguished doctor. Sadly, the latter had succumbed to a bullet fired by one of the gang, the former was lucky to survive being hurled into the river by his assailants.
This lively scene was, as they spoke, being worked up by an artist into a cover for Le Petit Journal. Under Fourier’s direction, of course, he reassured them. These creatures were attacking in the very heart of the city now! But thanks to the bravery of the aforementioned police officer, two had been shot dead and would trouble the peace of the city island no more. Patrols on the Square du Vert Galant had been doubled.
‘Seems to be paying off, Fourier,’ said Joe. ‘Though I’d have preferred on the whole not to be summoned down to the river on a wild-goose chase on Monday night.’
‘Ah, yes. Clever devils! Some bugger diverted the two agents on duty down there. And rang directly through to my office, someone knowing my number, leaving a message so official-sounding my sergeant passed it straight on. Moulin. He knows . . . knew the numbers, knew the tones that get attention. Probably expected to catch you while you were still up here sitting in front of me.’
He frowned and fiddled with his pen. ‘I can make this sound convincing enough, Sandilands, for general consumption, I mean, on paper. But I can’t make any sense of it –’ he gestured to his head – ‘up here. What in hell did the stupid bugger think he was doing? Clever man. Reliable. Thorough. My best.’
‘Well placed to cover up a whole crime wave of his own creation?’ Joe suggested. ‘You’ll never know now.’
‘And who’s going to take his place? Good Lord! He’s down there on the slab as we speak! I haven’t been to see him yet . . . I don’t suppose . . .? No?’
‘Who’s going to perform the pathology on the pathologist?’
Fourier burst out laughing. ‘Quis medicabitur ipsum medicum?’ he said, surprisingly. He rose to his feet to show Joe to the door.
‘And I’ll add a second thought on similar lines,’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘Who will police the policeman? I’ll tell you – I will!’
In a moment his foot had come out to trip up the Commissaire and his hand simultaneously pushed him hard between the shoulder blades. Fourier’s head banged against the corner of his desk as he went down and he swore in pain and confusion.
‘Bad luck,’ said Joe. ‘You really ought to have that rug tacked down, Fourier. There was a loose end there somewhere, I think.’
‘Poor old thing! You look jolly peaky still,’ said Heather Watkins, pouring out a cup of tea for Joe at Fauchon’s. ‘But I can’t understand why that woman would do such a thing . . . I mean . . . Well, I can just about see why she would undertake . . . um . . . the profession she undertook . . .’ Heather blushed and hunted about for the milk jug. ‘But how could she have let herself be led into a life of crime by that appalling villain?’
‘I think what she gave me and Bonnefoye was a true bill. Ninety per cent of it. The client who insinuated himself into her establishment probably had some strong hold over her . . . blackmail . . . contrived involvement in one of his early excursions . . . I think he took over her life like a cancer, eating it away. He was using her girls as agents in his schemes. Alice was left only nominally in charge and beginning to realize she was herself replaceable. Good liars tell the truth as far as they possibly can and slip in one big falsehood. She told us truthfully what happened – just gave us the wrong name. Picked an entirely innocent Englishman, knowing he would be able to talk his way out of