‘Tell you what . . . pointless kicking our heels here . . . why don’t we nip out and get some breakfast? The Halles are a short walk away. The blokes normally go there at the end of a night shift. There’s a good little café where you can get onion soup, wonderful strong coffee, croissants, fresh bread . . .’

Joe was already heading for the door.

He reckoned it was not so much the onion soup that fortified him as the dash of brandy that the waiter stirred into it. But whatever it was, he returned with Bonnefoye, fully awake and having got his second wind. They repeated their ascent to the waiting room and stood by the open door. Distantly the bell of Notre Dame sounded ten and, taking a deep breath, Bonnefoye invited him with a gesture to accompany him to the Chief Inspector’s room.

The Frenchman tapped on the door and listened. A peremptory bark was interpreted as a signal to enter. As the door swung open, Joe was taken aback by a wave of used air, over-warm and sooty, thick with rough tobacco and rancid with perspiration. At a desk too large for the room lounged the Chief Inspector in his shirtsleeves, tie pulled loosely aside. His stare was narrow and truculent, dark eyes hooded in a sallow face. Joe was gratified to note the dark stubble on the broad jaw. Fourier looked rather less appetizing than himself or Bonnefoye and was clearly still finishing off his night’s work. Not yet into the new day. He made no effort to greet them, merely watching as they came in to stand in front of him, raising his eyebrows as though to enquire what could possibly be the reason for this interruption to his day.

‘A moment, please,’ he said before they could speak and rang a bell.

A young sergeant entered from the room next door and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do you want me to take over, sir?’

‘Not just yet. I’m still going strong. Good for a few more hours yet,’ Fourier said, ignoring his guests. ‘Just check the stove, would you? Oh, and get me another cup of coffee.’

The sergeant went smoothly about his duties, pouring out a cup of badly stewed coffee from an enamel pot simmering on the stove and finding a space for it on a tray alongside a green bottle of Perrier water and an empty glass by the Chief Inspector’s hand. No offer of refreshment was made to the men standing in front of him. And as there was no chair in the room but the one on which Fourier sat, stand was all they could do.

All Joe’s attention had been for the silent prisoner in the middle of the room but he forced himself not to react to what he saw and turned back to the Chief Inspector as Bonnefoye performed the introductions. He handed over his warrant card and waited patiently while Fourier read it with exaggerated care, turning it this way and that. ‘If he holds it up to the light, I shall certainly smack him one,’ Joe thought, relieving his tensions with a pleasing fantasy.

‘I see. And you claim to be . . . what am I supposed to assume? . . . a Commander of Scotland Yard?’ The voice was dry and roughened by years of cigarette smoke. Joe glanced at the ashtray stuffed full of yellow butts and wondered if he should advise the use of Craven A. Kind to the throat, apparently.

‘Your deduction is correct,’ Joe replied mildly. ‘I am a Commander. You may not be familiar with the hierarchy in the Metropolitan Police? I direct a department of the CID – the equivalent of your Brigade Criminelle – specializing in military, diplomatic and political crime of a nature sensitive to His Majesty’s Government. I report to the Chief Commissioner himself.’ As well as clarity and exactness the statement also carried the underlying message that Commander Sandilands outranked Chief Inspector Fourier by a mile.

Fourier dropped the card carelessly on to his desk amongst the disordered piles of papers cluttering the surface. ‘But a commander who has no crew, no ship and has entered foreign waters. Seems to me you’re up the creek without a paddle, Commander.’ Fourier’s hacking, gurgling cough, Joe realized, was laughter and a sign that he was enjoying his own overworked image. ‘You seem to have a turn of speed at least though, I’ll grant you that! How in hell did you manage to get here so fast? Crime wasn’t committed until late last evening.’

Joe decided to ignore the slight and respond to the human element of curiosity. ‘Wings,’ he said with a smile. ‘Wings across the Channel. The night flight from Croydon. We landed a second or two before Lindbergh. I was coming to Paris anyway. I’m to represent Britain at the Interpol conference at the Tuileries.’ Joe’s smile widened. ‘I’m due to give a paper on Day 3 ... You might be interested to come along and hear . . . It’s on international co-operation, illustrated by specific examples of Franco-British liaison.’

A further bark expressed disbelief and scorn. Joe held out his hand. ‘My card? Would you? I’m sure I saw you drop it into this rats’ nest.’ He kept his hand outstretched and steady – an implied challenge – until his card was safely back in his grasp.

‘And now, to business,’ he said briskly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to introduce me to your prisoner and outline the grievance you have with him.’

At last he felt he could turn and look at George with a measure of composure. Had he reacted at once according to his gut instinct, he would have hauled Fourier over his desk by his greasy braces and smashed a fist into his face.

George was almost unrecognizable. Old and weary, he had been put to stand in the centre of the room, back to the window, in bloodstained undervest and drooping evening trousers. Braces and belt had been taken away, his shoes gaped open where the laces had been removed. A familiar procedure. But used here, Joe guessed, not so much to prevent the prisoner from hanging himself as to humiliate him. One eye was blackened and a bruise was spreading over his unshaven jaw. He seemed uncertain as to how to greet Joe and embarrassed by his own appearance. His slumped shoulders straightened when Joe and Bonnefoye turned to him and he shifted slightly on his feet, planted, Joe noticed, in the soldier’s ‘at ease’ position. But there was nothing easy about George’s circumstances.

Joe decided to play it unemotionally and by the book. ‘Sir! How very good to see you again after all this time. My sympathy and apologies for the plight in which you find yourself. I’m at your service.’

George licked his lips and finally managed, in a ghost of his remembered voice, to drawl: ‘Jolly good! Well, in that case, perhaps you could rustle up a glass of water, eh? Perhaps even some breakfast? Hospitality around here not wonderful . . . I’ve eaten and drunk nothing since a light pre-theatre snack yesterday. Though I discern . . .’ he said, waving a hand under his nose, ‘that you two boulevardiers have been at it already. Onion soup, would that be?’

Bonnefoye looked down at his feet, unable to meet Joe’s eye.

If he gave way to the explosion of rage that was boiling within him, Joe realized he would be thrown off the premises at best, perhaps even arrested and lined up alongside. At all events, he might expect a damning report on his conduct to be winging its way to Scotland Yard in a mail bag aboard the next Argosy with all the predictable consequences for his future career with Interpol. A passing expression of cunning on the Chief Inspector’s face, the proximity of his finger to the bell on his desk, told him that this was precisely what he was anticipating.

For George’s sake, he calmed himself. His old friend, he calculated from the evidence of his senses, had been kept standing here in this ghastly room for twelve hours with no water or food while his interrogator lounged, coffee in hand, taking time off from his questioning through the night, relieved by his sergeant at intervals. Joe imagined Fourier had a camp bed somewhere about the place to which he could retire when the proceedings began to bore him.