Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [52]
‘Go on!’ Joe could hardly bear the pause as she mar-shalled her impressions.
‘Well, I took the initiative. “Yes? Who are you and what do you want?” I said in English.
‘“Reception, mademoiselle, I have a message for the gentleman,” he said. He was trying to speak English. And doing it well, I thought.
‘“What gentleman?” I asked. And without looking up at the number on the door I said: “This is Room 205. You must have got the wrong number.” At this point I opened the door properly . . . didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything . . . or anybody. His eyes darted . . . yes, they darted . . . inside. I thought for a moment he might try to get in so I squared up to him, barring his way.
‘“Sir George Jardine,” he said. “It’s very urgent. I must deliver the message directly and into his hand.” He was holding something in his right hand which was stuffed into his trouser pocket, I remember.
‘“Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said. “But, hard luck – you’ll have to enquire elsewhere. I’ve just been shown to this room which of course has been vacated. There’s no one under the bed – I always check. Silly, I know! And now if you wouldn’t mind – I’m just about to take a bath. Look – obvious question, but you did check with Reception before you came up, didn’t you? Perhaps,” I suggested helpfully, “your Sir John was here last night? But he’s not here now. Perhaps they gave you the wrong floor? Yes, I’d go back to Reception and ask them what on earth they think they’re doing. They’ll set you straight.”’
Joe must have been looking shocked. With a wary eye on him, Heather asked anxiously if she’d done the right thing.
‘Exactly the right thing. Wonderful presence of mind, Heather!’
She was encouraged to ask quietly: ‘Who was he, Joe?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said and, displeased by his answer which, though true, was unsatisfying and unworthy for a girl who had, by her quick thought and courage, most probably saved George’s life, he added: ‘Someone sent to tidy up a loose end, I fear. Thank God you were here, Heather, holding the gate!’
When Heather had left, Joe turned from the door to survey the loose end. Sir George had fallen fast asleep again and a gentle, rhythmic rumbling suggested it might go on for a few hours.
Thoughtfully, Joe picked up the deck of cards and put them away, then settled to write up some notes in his book. He had depressingly little. He drew arrows from one word to another, isolated some in balloons, began again. Times might prove vital, he felt, and he reconstructed the day as accurately as he could from several perspectives. He looked again at his material, searching for links, threads, coincidences even and finding none. The only words that compelled his attention were the words Francine had used: ‘He . . . They . . .’
And an address in Montparnasse.
* * *
At precisely five o’clock, Joe was waiting by the door and heard Bonnefoye’s quick rap and his voice identifying himself. He entered, seemed reassured by the peaceful scene and said as much.
‘Yes, old mate, and it’s by the grace of God and Miss Watkins that George there is sleeping the sleep of the just and not the just dead. Why didn’t you tell me you knew his life might be at risk? I’d not have left him!’
‘What! You mean to say . . .? But tell me, man!’ Bonnefoye’s dismay was acute.
Joe repeated Heather’s account of her sinister