Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [14]
‘How are you getting in to the city?’ Joe asked. ‘It’s quite a few kilometres distant . . .’
‘Oh, Jim’s ordered a couple of taxis. You?’
‘A colleague from the Quai des Orfèvres is coming to collect me. In a police car, I expect,’ said Joe. ‘All screeching sirens and flashing lights – that would be his style!’
He smiled at the mention of his colleague and relished the thought of the warm greetings they would exchange. Inspector Bonnefoye. Late of Reims. Now, thanks to his undeniable talent and his great charm, promoted to the Police Judiciaire squad in Paris. A useful contact. Relations between the English and the French police departments were not often easy. Joe had made known his plans for attending the conference and Bonnefoye, with Gallic insouciance, had set about pulling strings and calling in favours, making promises – who knew what? – to get himself appointed to the French contingent at the Interpol jamboree. Not that Bonnefoye seemed prepared to take it seriously. His telephone conversations had been full of plans of an entertaining nature which had little to do with international crime fighting.
The Argosy circled the Eiffel Tower, Joe judged for the satisfaction of the passengers rather than in response to any navigational imperative, then headed off to the northeast and lined itself up, head into the wind facing an illuminated landing strip, and made a delicate touchdown. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
It was the stewards’ odd behaviour that warned Joe. Suddenly unconfident, they advised the passengers to remain seated: ‘. . . until we have taxied up to the hangar. There appears to be an impediment on the runway,’ one of them improvised. The other climbed the stairs communicating with the cockpit to confer with the crew and he returned looking no less puzzled. The doors remained closed. No staff came forward to open the door and release them. And something was going on outside the plane.
Peering through the gloom, Joe saw, to his astonishment, shadows moving on the tarmacked runway, lights from torches and flares skittering everywhere. The passengers sat on, docile and puzzled.
Joe got to his feet and, with a calming gesture to the two stewards, made his way down the gangway to the front of the plane. With a bland smile he murmured: ‘I speak a little French.’ They nodded dubiously and made no attempt to remonstrate with him. No one ever challenged a man confident enough to make such an assertion on foreign soil, he found. He nipped up the steps and located the two pilots seated in the open cockpit.
‘Captain! Commander Sandilands here. Scotland Yard. What’s the problem?’
‘Problem? I’ll say!’ came the shouted reply. ‘People! It’s worse than a football crowd. Look at them! They’re standing ten deep up there on the viewing gallery. And they’re milling around everywhere, all over the runways. Damned dangerous, if you ask me! And where are the airport staff? Can’t move until they’ve cleared this mob away. What the hell’s going on? Some strange French Saturday night entertainment?’
‘Oh, no!’ Joe groaned. ‘I think I can guess what’s going on. It’s Charles Lindbergh! Attempting the transatlantic crossing. It was on the wireless – he was sighted over Ireland this afternoon. Made much better time than anyone expected and I’d guess this mob’s gathered to watch him land. We must have beaten him to it by a few minutes. Dashed inconvenient! And we’re a huge disappointment to all these idiots on the runway. It’s not us they’ve come out from Paris to see. Ah, look! At last – they’ve twigged. They’re pushing off, I think. They’ll leave us alone now.’
‘Lucky Lindy!’ said the captain. ‘Well, well! Never thought he’d do it! I can see a space now. Sir – would you mind returning to your seat? I think I can get through to the hangar.’
Joe made his way back to his place, passing on the news to the passengers as he moved down the aisle. Heather Watkins was thrilled to hear it and at once called forward to her brother: ‘Jim! I want to stay to see Charles Lindbergh!