Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [24]
Bonnefoye was waiting by the policemen’s entrance. The two men greeted each other ruefully. A painted sign announced: Direction de la Police Judiciaire. Escalier A it added over an unimpressive door. Ancient, narrow and battered, it would not have looked out of place in any Paris back street. The stone slab under the door was worn to a hollow in the centre, witness to the thousands of nailed boots that had clumped their way over the threshold during the centuries. Nostalgically, Joe placed his Lobb’s black half-Oxford right in the centre. Putting down a marker for Scotland Yard. Marking out new territory.
Bonnefoye looked at him through bleary eyes. ‘What a night, eh? I’ve seen you look sharper!’
‘Do I look as bad as you do, I wonder?’
‘Twenty years worse!’
Bonnefoye pushed open the door and hesitated. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he asked. ‘It’s a hundred and forty-eight steps up to the fifth floor. And no lift! But I think we may find out what we want to know by the third floor.’ The building smelled rather unpleasantly of new paint, old linoleum and stale air, with, far in the background, a waft of coffee. Apart from the swish of brooms, the flick of dusters and the mumbled conversation of the cleaning ladies, it was very quiet. Joe could hear the peremptory toot of a barge on the river and the distant ringing behind a closed office door of a telephone that went unanswered. He silently compared his surroundings to the marble-tiled magnificence of the vestibule of Scotland Yard with its mahogany reception desk manned by helpful, uniformed constables and the ceaseless movement of policemen in and out whatever the time of day or night.
‘Where is everyone?’ Joe asked as they began to climb the staircase.
‘It’s early.’ Bonnefoye shrugged. ‘Night shift’s left and the morning crowd won’t get here for another hour.’
They stopped off at the third floor and Joe followed his escort into a green-painted waiting room which seemed to have been furnished by the local junk shop. They settled on two mismatched chairs and Bonnefoye asked for a further report on Joe’s telephone conversation. He listened to Joe’s brief background details on Sir George and smiled.
‘As you say, Sandilands – quite obviously a misunderstanding. I’m sure you’ll be able to clear it up in no time. I don’t expect that I’ll be of much help. I’m very recently arrived here, remember. They don’t know my face yet. But I’ll do whatever I can. And I’ll start by marking your card over the Chief Inspector. If it’s who I think it is, his name is Casimir Fourier and he’s an unpleasant bastard. Sour, forties, unmarried, fought in the war, very ambitious. Said to have clawed his way up from lowly origins. What else can I tell you? No known virtues. Except that he’s reputed to be very efficient. He has an exceptional record for extracting confessions.’
‘Confessions?’
‘You know our system! You can be discovered by a dozen independent witnesses – and half of them nuns – with your hands about a victim’s throat and the state will still demand a confession. The magistrates expect it. It absolves them of any guilt should any contradictory evidence arise after the event. And by “event” I mean execution. Monsieur Guillotin’s daughter still does her duty in the courtyard at La Santé prison. There’s no arguing with her. I imagine your friend is busy providing Fourier or his deputy with a procès-verbal of the events.’
‘But, taking down a written statement . . . I can’t imagine that would last ten hours, can you?’
Bonnefoye looked uncomfortable. ‘Depends on whether he’s saying what Fourier wants him to say. Perhaps he’s not such a co-operative type, your friend?’
‘Oh, he is. Very much the diplomat. Experienced.