Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [82]
Fourier looked carefully at the number on the ticket. He took a pencil and a sheet of paper and in a few quick strokes sketched out a floor plan of the theatre. He placed it on the desk in front of Jennings. ‘Can you confirm you were sitting where I have marked an X?’
‘Yes. You’ve got it exactly!’ said Jennings. ‘I say – you know your way about, Chief Inspector! A regular yourself at the Folies, are you then?’
Joe didn’t attempt a translation.
‘I now add two boxes,’ said Fourier, supplying them. ‘Take my pencil and mark in the box where you understand the murder to have taken place.’
Jennings obliged.
‘Well done! Quite correct! Box B.’ Fourier’s attempt at bonhomie was unconvincing. ‘Now, tell us who and what you observed in that box.’
Jennings’ account was disappointing. He was quite obviously doing his best but his best was not pleasing Fourier. An unknown man (dark-haired), an unknown girl (fair-haired), had been noted before the lights went out and again when the lights came on again in the interval. Between and after those times – nothing of interest.
‘Of course, had one only known, one would have . . .’ Jennings burbled. ‘Tell you what, though! Why don’t you ask the chap opposite? May I?’ He took the pencil again and marked Box A. ‘Now, if you can find me, I’m jolly certain you can find him. He had a perfect view of the deceased. And he knew him,’ he announced.
‘And I understand the witness in Box A was known to you also?’ said Fourier with mild interest.
‘I say! This is impressive! Yes, he is known to me. Only seen him once or twice since we were at school together – reunions and so on – but there’s no mistaking that nose. Jardine. It was George Jardine. I’ll bet my boots. Something important in India, I believe. Showing off as usual. In the Royal Box. But where else? Wouldn’t find him rubbing shoulders with hoi polloi in the stalls.’
‘And you think he was acquainted with the man opposite?’
‘Oh, yes. Undoubtedly. They were talking to each other.’
Fourier stirred uneasily. ‘Across the width of the theatre, sir? Talking?’ His strong witness was showing signs of cracking. He looked to Joe to correct his interpretation but Joe shook his head.
‘“Communicating”, I ought perhaps to have said. Exchanging messages. Just the sort of showy-off Boy Scout stuff Jardine would have indulged in. He always enjoyed an audience, you know. Incapable of fastening his shoelaces without turning round to acknowledge the plaudits of the crowd.’
Joe summarized this and added, ‘Fourier, may I?’
Fourier spread his hands, amused to delegate.
‘Would you mind, Jennings, demonstrating the form this communication took?’
‘Certainly. As the lights were being lowered . . .’ Jennings got to his feet and went to stand, back to the wall, looking down at an imagined audience. His face froze in a parody of George’s lordly style. ‘He put on his white gloves . . .’
On went the gloves.
‘And then he did this sort of tick-tack nonsense with his hands.’
The hands flashed rhythmically, fingers stabbed, thumbs were extended.
‘You’d have thought he was leading the Black and White Minstrels in the show at the end of the pier. People were beginning to think he was the first act.’
‘And did the man opposite take any notice? Did he reply?’
‘Yes. Same sort of thing but a shorter response and he wasn’t wearing gloves so it wasn’t so obvious. I thought, at that moment, it was a game. Yes, I was sure it was a game. He was laughing, joining in the fun.’
‘You thought?’ asked Joe, picking up the tense.
‘Yes. Changed my mind when I saw the last gesture though!’
‘Describe it,’ said Fourier.
‘He did this,’ said Jennings.
Face twisted into a threatening mask, he gave a flourish