Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [60]
For whose nose? For whose lips? Joe smiled to himself. He hoped Fouquet’s had got the champagne on ice.
The car rolled to a halt, held up by the press of early evening traffic fighting its way across the Pont Neuf on to the island. On an impulse, Joe spoke to the driver again. ‘Look – I’ll get out here. With the traffic as it is, Lady Somerton will find herself late for her assignation in the Champs-Élysées if she makes a detour to drop me off. I’m happy to take a taxi.’
She made no demur, not even noticing his slight reproof, even thanking him for his consideration. Mind elsewhere. Impatient to be off. In the advancing headlights her eyes flashed, her pearls gleamed, and although nothing about her appearance had substantially changed, Joe suddenly saw, where had been the downcast widow in her weeds, a sophisticated woman, elegantly dressed and eagerly looking forward to an adventure.
‘Give my regards to the Duke,’ he called to her before he slammed the door shut. ‘I trust his olfactory powers will be in fine fettle this evening.’ He enjoyed her puzzled expression.
Joe watched the car crawl away again and turned on his heel, trotting back across the bridge to the morgue. Hoping he wasn’t too late.
The lights were still switched on. Moulin was there, putting away instruments and equipment, when Joe burst in. He seemed pleased to see him.
His cheerful voice echoed the length of the room, dispelling the shadows. ‘Oh, hello there! You managed to escape? I’m glad of that! Wouldn’t want to find you on one of my slabs with a mysterious mark on your throat. It can be pretty poisonous, the bite of Latrodectus mactans, I’ve heard. The black widow spider. Its venom is thought to be sixteen times more virulent than the rattlesnake’s.’
‘I leapt out of the car! If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d have been tempted to go along to Fouquet’s, bribe someone to give me a table in a corner, and lurk to see who she’s got caught up in her web.’
Moulin eyed Joe with concern. ‘You do look all in, Commander. Come and have a mug of coffee in my lair. I’ve just put a pot on. Take the weight off your feet. Get your breath back and ask me the question you’ve passed up an evening at Fouquet’s to come back and ask.’
They sat clutching mugs of strong coffee in the small and calculatedly bright study across the corridor from the morgue building. Not so much a study as a retreat, an affirmation of his humanity, Joe thought, looking around with pleasure. And wouldn’t you need one! He’d sunk gratefully into the depths of one of a pair of old-fashioned armchairs piled with cushions and topped off with lace antimacassars. Thoughtfully, Moulin kicked up a footstool for him. The room had probably, in its first use, been some sort of torture chamber, Joe calculated, but no signs of a lugubrious past lingered after the determined application of rich lengths of drapery to the walls, Tiffany shades to the lamps, rows of books, and a gently puttering gas fire warming the room. On a desk and smiling out into the room, the silver-framed photograph of a very pretty dark-haired woman. The ticking of a deep-throated clock soothed Joe to a point where he had to shake himself awake and take a sip or two of his coffee.
Under the influence of the strong brew, the good company and fatigue, Joe recounted his day to a pair of willing ears. But the warm smile, the understanding comments and the ready humour dried up at the mention of Francine Raissac’s flight of fancy. Joe caught the sudden stillness.
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve come to ask. I try not to leave any accusation unchecked however ridiculous it sounds on first hearing. The girl’s theories began to sound less crazy when I heard – from another source – that her brother is a customer of yours. Filed away in a steel