Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [97]
Simenon showed them to the side door and said goodbye. ‘You will let me know how all this turns out?’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been most intrigued . . .’
‘And helpful,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘We’ve been interested to hear your insights, monsieur.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Look. You’re a crime reporter. You must be keen to see how we live over there at the Quai? Take a peek inside? Have you ever been? Well, why don’t you come over and see me there when this is all over? I’ll fill you in. My turn to give you the tour!’
‘Bit rash, weren’t you?’ Joe commented as they walked away back into the avenue de Montaigne. ‘Fourier won’t like that.’
‘Sod Fourier! I can swing it! Anyway – with the ideas you’ve been stuffing into his head, a newsman might be just exactly what he wants to encourage . . . “Now, my dear Simenon, just take this down, will you?” Chaps like that are very useful to us. They’re a channel. They’re not exactly informers but – well, you heard him – he talks to people who’ll accept a glass from him and open their mouths but who wouldn’t be seen within a hundred yards of a flic. They can pass stuff to the underworld we can’t go out and shout through a megaphone. He seemed to be able to take a wide view of things. Man of the world.’
‘And quite obviously something going on between him and the star, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Good luck to them! How did he say they met? Stage-door Johnny, didn’t he say? Just turned up on the off-chance?’
‘Yes. But not empty-handed,’ said Joe thoughtfully. ‘Said he brought her a bunch of roses. Roses . . . lilies . . .’ He looked about him. ‘We’re a long way from a florist’s shop here. But there must surely be some enterprising merchant out there catering for star-struck young men on their way to the theatre?’
‘Place de l’Alma,’ said Bonnefoye, turning to the right and walking towards the river.
‘Lilies? Two dozen? Yes, of course. Not every day I shift two dozen in one go! Lucky to get rid . . . they were just on the turn. I told him: “Put them straight away in water up to their necks.” Must be nearly two hours ago. That’s right – the bell on the Madeleine had already rung two. But not the half past . . .
‘What did he look like? Oh, a handsome young chap!’ The fleuriste turned a toothless smile on Joe and cackled. ‘To my old gypsy eyes at least. Rather like you, monsieur. Your age. Young but not too young. Tall, well set up. Dark skin. Southern perhaps? North African even? Mixed probably. Sharp nose and chin. Well dressed. Nice hat. Lots of money.
‘You’d need lots of money to buy all those lilies! His wallet when he took it out to pay for them was stuffed! Wished I’d asked double! He didn’t really seem interested in the price. Some of them haggle, you know. This one didn’t. Paid up, good as gold.
‘Scar? Can’t say I noticed one . . . I did notice the bristles though. He’s growing a beard. It’ll be a fine black one in a few weeks’ time.
‘Where? Oh, he walked back up the avenue towards the theatre.’ The old woman grinned. ‘Probably spotted some young dancer on the front row. He’ll certainly impress her with those flowers anyway!’
Sensing they were about to close up the interview, she recalled their attention: ‘Do you want to know what he was doing before he came to my stall?’
A further five francs changed hands.
‘He was wandering about on the bridge. Looking at the statues,’ she said. ‘Now, gentlemen, I’ve got some lovely red roses fresh in from Nice this morning if you’re interested . . .’
‘Heard enough?’ said Bonnefoye using English, in a voice suddenly chilled. ‘She’s scraping the barrel now.’ And then: ‘He’s not exactly hiding himself, is he? He must have known we’d trace him here to this stall.’
‘He’s watching us at this moment,’ said Joe, managing by a superhuman effort not to look around. ‘Down one of those alleys, at one of those windows. Under the bridge even.’
Bonnefoye carefully held his gaze and Joe added: ‘So, let’s assume that, just for once, it’s we who have the audience, shall we? And give him something to look at.’
He turned