Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [83]
No one spoke. The sergeant stopped writing. Fourier turned to him and advised: ‘Sergeant, why don’t you put down – “The suspect was observed at this point to make a life-threatening gesture announcing his intention of cutting the victim’s throat.”?’
The sergeant noted it down.
Jennings knew enough French to take alarm at the twist Fourier had put on his words. ‘Look here! That’s a bit strong, don’t you know! Sandilands, put him right! I wasn’t implying that . . . Oh, Good Lord! He wasn’t in my House but I didn’t come here to drop old Jardine in the quagmire . . .’
‘Did you not?’ drawled Joe. ‘Well, you’ve made a very good fist of it. But before we ask you to check and sign your statement, just tell us, will you – what was the reaction of the second man playing this game? Did he appear alarmed? Did he seem menaced by Jardine’s gesture?’
‘Well, no. Not at all. Most odd. He laughed. Damn near slapped his thigh, he thought it was so funny.’
* * *
When Jennings had been thanked and escorted from the premises by the sergeant, Fourier turned to Joe and Bonnefoye with a pitying smile. ‘The case firms up, it seems,’ he said. ‘And unless you two are about to produce some late entrant like a jack-in-the-box to surprise me . . .’ He left a pause long enough to annoy the younger men. ‘No? Well, there is one more amusing little excursion I’ve laid on for you.’
He gestured to his sketch of the theatre layout. ‘Forget the audience. What no one else seems to have observed is that there were a hundred or so other potential witnesses and all much closer to the scene of the murder at the moment of the murder. The cast! Lined up for the finale, their eyes would have been on their audience. They say that Miss Baker herself is always acutely aware of the reactions of the crowd before her and responds to their mood. Dark, of course, out there, I should imagine. Up to you to see how much you can make out. How close the boxes are to the stage. Which performer was standing underneath.
‘I’ve arranged with the man in charge – Derval’s his name, Paul Derval – for you to be given an hour to scrounge around before the matinée performance this afternoon. I guaranteed you wouldn’t get in anyone’s way. He’ll send someone to open up for you if you present yourselves at the stage door. That’s about it . . . Jardine behaving himself, is he?’
He started to collect up his papers. As they reached the door he said: ‘Oh, I fixed a ten-minute interview for you with Mademoiselle Baker. Thought you’d make a better impression on her than I would. She wants to help, apparently. Tender-hearted girl – keeps a menagerie of fluffy animals in her dressing room backstage, I’m told. She was upset to hear some admirer had bled to death while she was singing her heart out a few metres away. See what you can do.
‘We may be getting closer to that headline,’ he added with a chuckle they left.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Some time to kill before our two o’clock tryst in the avenue Montaigne.’ Joe emerged with relief into the sunshine. ‘The theatre’s not all that far from my hotel . . . Why don’t I take you to lunch there first – Pollock assures me the cuisine is excellent. And I think we’ve earned it! But first – a short walk. What is it about this place –’ he stabbed a thumb backwards over his shoulder – ‘that makes me want to burst out and run ten miles in the fresh air?’
‘Fourier?’ grunted Bonnefoye. ‘Medieval architecture . . . medieval mind? Know what you mean, though. Which direction do you want to take? I’ll gladly trot alongside.’
‘Let’s cross over into the Tuileries, cut through the gardens and make for the place Vendôme.’
‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘Off the place Vendôme, running north towards the Opéra, we’ll find the rue de la Paix. Not a street I’ve frequented much. Wall to wall with modistes, I’m told.’
He took Francine’s scrap of blue fabric from his inside pocket. ‘Well, you never know. This is from the House of Cresson, according to Mademoiselle Raissac. It’s a lead we ought to follow