Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [20]
George gathered himself together, preparing to battle his way to the exit through the still over-excited crowds. He fought against his sense of duty but it won. Suppose the girl didn’t speak English? That she didn’t know the identity of her escort? That she had just abandoned him to be swept up with the discarded chocolate boxes? His diplomat’s antennae for international scandal were sending him signals he could not ignore. The villain was, after all, a baronet, now possibly a dead baronet, and if the gutter press were to get hold of the circumstances, he could imagine the headlines. But the other news of the evening, luckily, George argued with himself, would squeeze the plight of an English aristocrat off the front pages. Nevertheless, and cursing his compulsion always to take charge of any delicate or dangerous situation, George hesitated and then, mind made up, turned resolutely to shoulder his way against the tide flowing towards the bar and the exits and headed for Somerton’s box.
He gave a perfunctory tap and walked straight in. Somerton was indeed by himself and, to all appearances, fast asleep, head comfortably cushioned on the padded upholstery. George cleared his throat noisily and followed this with a sharp exclamation: ‘Somerton! Come on, wake up! Show’s over!’
The absolute stillness and lack of response confirmed all George’s fears. He moved over to the man and knelt by his chair placing a finger behind his right ear where he might expect the absence of a pulse to tell him all. He snatched his finger away at once. He looked at his hand in horror. Black and sticky in the discreetly dim light of the box, there was no mistaking it. With a surge of revulsion, George seized hold of the chair-back to hoist himself to his feet. He had not thought to calculate the effect of his considerable weight being applied in a desperate manoeuvre to the elegant but insubstantial modern chair. It tilted and the body of Somerton heeled over, threatening to land in his lap. The expressionless face was inches from his own, eyes staring open but focused on a presence beyond George. George’s hand shot out in an instinctive attempt to support the back of the lolling head which seemed about to roll away. A wide slash across the throat had almost severed the head from the rest of the body and quantities of blood had gushed all the way down his shirt and evening dress.
Ignoring the protests of his arthritic old knees and gargling with disgust, George staggered upright, taking the weight of both the chair and the lolling body against his chest, struggling to right them.
A gasp and a squeal made him turn his head in the middle of this black, Keystone Cops moment and he saw ‘his’ ouvreuse standing huge-eyed and speechless in the doorway.
Chapter Six
The hammering on the door of his room at the Ambassador Hotel had been going on for a while before Joe Sandilands swam up to consciousness. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. The last thing he’d done before his eyes closed was put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his doorknob. He’d planned to sleep until midday at least. And now, only three hours after he’d slumped into his bed, here was some lunatic going against all the well-oiled discreet tradition of a French hotel.
Joe cleared his throat and reached for his voice. ‘Bugger off! Go away!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know it’s Sunday morning?’
A silence was followed by another fusillade. More peremptory this time, sharper. An authoritative voice called out to him: ‘Monsieur Sandilands. This is the manager here. You are requested to come down at once to the lobby. We have England on the telephone. Long distance and they are holding. Scotland Yard insists on speaking to you.’
Joe was alarmed. Always cost-cutting,