Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [38]
‘I agree. The finale?’
‘Yes. Clapping and cheering and, these days, with such a large foreign element in the audience, you tend to hear whistles and squeals of a very un-French nature. And that theatre is the largest in Paris. There must have been close on two thousand people creating a din. Now, if his companion for the evening had been there during the murder she would have been an accomplice or – if a witness – would have been, I presume, made off with – eliminated? – by the guilty party. In some other place, at some other time, as there were no signs of further violence in the box, I understand. I would fear for the young lady’s safety, wouldn’t you?’
‘Accomplice? Witness? Not necessarily,’ said Joe. ‘She might have been the killer. What would you say?’
‘A woman?’ The doctor was taken aback. ‘Physically it’s certainly possible, I suppose . . . if she approached him from behind as I’ve demonstrated. You’d need a considerable rush of energy – determination, hatred . . .’ His voice tailed off doubtfully.
‘You don’t like the theory?’
Moulin smiled. ‘No more than I observe you do, Commander! We both know this is not a woman’s method.’
‘True. In my experience, when women plan a murder – and from whatever rank of society they come – they choose more subtle methods. Poison and the like. Anything from rat poison to laudanum. When the killing is done on the spot and the result of an overriding urge, or a desperate attempt at self-protection, they use the nearest weapon to hand – usually a domestic tool which, depending on their circumstances, may be a frying pan . . . a silver sconce . . .’
‘Contents of a theatre box not much use, I’d have thought. Could you throttle someone with all that gold braid?’
‘I wouldn’t want to try it. No. Someone chose to take this dagger into the box and use it. And leave it behind for all to see. This particular dagger. It’s distinctive. Meaningful. Personal, I’d say. The victim had fought in Afghanstan, his fellow soldier tells me. There’s a possibility that it may be from his own collection. Carried there by the victim himself and turned against him in an unpremeditated attack?’ Joe sighed. ‘Much work to be done yet, I’m afraid.’
Rising from his chair, Joe was struck by a sudden thought. He walked over to the corpse and lowered his head to sniff the improbably dark hair. He looked up and said: ‘Pomade?’
Moulin joined him and repeated the process. ‘Certainly,’ he agreed. He sniffed again. ‘Unpleasant. Not French. Much too heavy. I’d say something like Bay Rum, wouldn’t you? And it’s sticky.’ He took off a glove and tested a strand of hair between thumb and forefinger.
Joe did the same. He peered at the crown of the man’s head. ‘Well-barbered hair though a little long for most tastes, I’d have thought. Plentiful and would give a very good grip to anyone choosing to sink his fingers into it. As you demonstrated. Left parting and – look – it’s disordered on top. Could have happened involuntarily at any moment after the death of course, during the manhandling of the body by the authorities. But if your theory’s right, doctor, the killer must have had a disgustingly sticky left hand – and not sticky with blood. It’s not much but . . .’
He accepted Moulin’s offer of soap and water and towel in a side room and they washed their hands in a companionable silence together, each deep in thought. ‘I thank you for working through all this with me, doctor,’ Joe said, walking back to pick up his briefcase. He hesitated and then made up his mind to ask: ‘Shall I hope to see you later on today when I bring the widow Somerton? Or will you have handed over to a colleague by then?’
Moulin smiled. ‘I shall arrange to be here, Commander. More dead than alive myself by that hour but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You’ll find me here. I’m very bad about delegating. Particularly when a case has caught my attention as this one has.’
Emerging from the depths of the stone Palais de Justice building, Joe experienced again a rush of relief and pleasure. He took a minute