Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [72]
‘No, I can’t. But I’ll tell you what, Bonnefoye – the wretched man’s gone off to bed leaving us with a mass of things to do tomorrow. I say, will you . . .?’
‘Yes. I’ve arranged for a deputy to take my place and bring me notes of the conference afterwards. I’ll be of far better use to international crime-fighting if I pursue this case actively. We’ll allocate tasks in the morning . . . Though I leave the Embassy to you – I think you have the entrée!’
‘And, speaking of entrées – your evening, Bonnefoye. How did you get on in the boulevard du Montparnasse?’
‘Ah, yes! Mount Parnassus, home of Apollo and the Muses! Well, there was music and verse, certainly, but it wasn’t at all classical. The address Francine Raissac gave you turned out to be a jazz café. And, you know, Joe, I’d have gone in there anyway! The music I heard as I was passing was irresistible. The performers were a mixture of black and white. There was a guitar but a guitar played very fast, a violin and a clarinet and something else I can’t remember . . . a saxophone? Odd assortment of instruments – you’d swear they only just met and put it together. But brilliant! And the crowd was loving it.’
‘Did it have a name, your café?’ asked Joe, intrigued.
‘Oh Lord! Some animal . . . they’re all called after birds or animals, have you noticed? Le Perroquet . . . Le Boeuf sur le Toit . . . L’Hirondelle . . . Le Lapin Agile . . . And here’s another one – Le Lapin Blanc – that was it. It’s a bit further out than the Dôme and not as far as the Closerie des Lilas.’
‘What sort of people were in the crowd? Did you know any of them?’
‘No one on our books, if that’s what you mean. Upright citizens, I’d say. Large number of Americans – you’d expect it in that part of Paris. Poets, painters, photographers and their models and muses all packing the place out. Sixth arrondissement bohemian, to use an old-fashioned word! But living up to it – you know, a bit self-conscious and not the real thing. Every client looking over his shoulder spotting the latest outrageous artist. And every outrageous artist looking over his shoulder spotting the mouchards from the police anti-national department. Who’s likely to be snitching on them? The local commissariat is still on the alert for extreme views of one sort or another. Marxism, Fascism, intellectualism. Dadaism. Is that a word? They especially don’t like that! We’re supposed to be on the watch for it. Not sure what we’re expected to do with it if we find it . . .’
‘Anyone spot you?’
‘No, indeed! I thought I blended in rather well. And no one was making inflammatory statements. The clientele weren’t annoying anyone when I was there. Usual mixture of thrill-seekers and thrill-providers. Well-heeled but quirky. Silk scarves rather than ties, two-tone shoes, little black dresses and cocktail hats – you’d have felt very much at home, Joe.’
‘I’d never wear a cocktail hat to a café,’ muttered Joe.
‘Unless you were going on somewhere. No . . . the seediest customers were a couple of gigolos . . . nothing too flamboyant . . . and a pair of politicians. The rest were businessmen, rich tourists and poseurs, I’d say. It’s obviously the place to be seen this month.’
‘Nothing unusual? No dope? No under-the-counter absinthe?’
‘None that I noticed and I notice more than most. The only odd thing, and it didn’t occur to me until I was on the point of leaving, was that two of the men had gone off into the back quarters, separately, and neither had come out again. I followed the second of them after a discreet interval. Cloakrooms, as you’d expect. The gentlemen’s accommodation was impressive – as good as a top hotel – and I’d assume the ladies’ was of equal comfort. Nothing untoward going on. The man I was pursuing was not in the room. He’d disappeared. Alongside the cloakrooms was a carpeted staircase.’
‘You didn’t resist?’
‘Whistling casually, I followed on up to a landing. A table with a lavish