Joe glanced with concern at George’s legs. Long, strong old legs, a polo player’s legs, but he was aware of an involuntary twitching in the region of the knees. There were shadows of exhaustion under his eyes. One of those eyes was almost closed now by the spreading purple bruise. The other bravely essayed a wink. With a stab of pity, Joe determined to make a clandestine but close inspection of the knuckles of both Chief Inspector and sergeant. Whichever had done the damage to George’s face would pay.

Fourier gave him sufficient time to absorb the prisoner’s condition and to spring an attack and, as it did not materialize, he added further fuel to Joe’s anger. ‘Breakfast? Not quite sure where milord thinks he is . . . the Crillon, perhaps? As he seems to be prepared to react to you perhaps you could convey my regrets. No information, no refreshment. I can keep him here for a further twelve hours, though I would not like to mar my reputation with the magistrate for speed and efficiency.’

The scornful ‘milord’ had given Joe an insight into Fourier’s character. He had already noted the countryman’s accent. He was not experienced enough to identify it but it quite definitely was not a Parisian voice and it was not the voice of a man who prided himself on his culture as did most of the Frenchmen Joe had met. This implacable, humourless man could, in a past century, have taken his place on the Committee of Public Safety alongside Danton, Marat, Robespierre and the other bloodthirsty monsters who had spawned the Revolution. Only three generations separated him from his sans-culotte ancestor, Joe supposed. And here was the descendant, still flaunting his traditional twin hatreds: the aristocracy and the English. George was doubly his target.

Joe’s fists clenched at his sides but it was Bonnefoye who cracked first.

Chapter Seven

Joe had been aware for some time that shame had been doing battle with disciplined deference in his friend. But the young Inspector was a Burgundian by birth and possessing the Burgundian traits almost to the point of caricature. Merry, deep-drinking, wily and – above all – proud.

Bonnefoye stalked to the desk, seized the Perrier bottle by its elegant neck and proceeded to fill the water glass with the deft movements of a waiter. ‘The Crillon it clearly is not,’ he said affably, ‘nor yet is it the Black Hole of Calcutta.’

He presented the glass to George and watched him empty it with one draught, bubbles and all. George handed it back with an appreciative belch.

‘Eternally grateful, young man.’

‘George, this is my colleague Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye. Inspector Bonnefoye,’ said Joe. ‘Though not for much longer,’ he added to himself with an eye on Fourier. Expressionless, the Chief Inspector had unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen and was making a note on a pad at his elbow.

Was recklessness a Burgundian characteristic? Or was it Gascon? Joe wondered. Whichever it might be, Bonnefoye was demonstrating it with relish. His next act of defiance was to reach over and ring the bell. The sergeant came in at once. ‘We need some chairs in here. Fetch three,’ said Bonnefoye.

‘Yes, sir,’ muttered the sergeant. He looked sideways for a countermanding order, but, receiving none, bustled out.

Another note was scratched on the pad. Fourier’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant grimace which Joe was alarmed to interpret as a smile.

A moment later three stacked chairs made their appearance and Joe and Bonnefoye took delivery, lowering Sir George with creaks and groans down on to one of them. They seated themselves one on each side of him, protective angels. Joe sighed. He feared Fourier’s pad was going to be overflowing with damning comments before the hour was up. He exchanged a grin with Bonnefoye. Ah well . . . in for a penny . . .

‘And now, Fourier, if you wouldn’t mind – your procès verbal. How’s it coming along? The sooner his statement’s in, the sooner we can get it to the clerk’s office . . . le greffe? Is that what you’d say? And then we can all get out of your hair and you can get back to the business of arresting someone for the killing in the theatre.’

‘I have him. The killer sits between you,’ said Fourier in a chilling tone. ‘Here’s what Jardine has confided. Here – why don’t you take it. Read it. Come to your own conclusions.’

Joe was alarmed to hear the certainty verging on gloating in his voice. He took the meagre account, amounting to no more than two sheets of paper, and began to read. He was quick to pass the report to Bonnefoye who ran through it and looked up, disturbed.

‘Sir George,’ Joe began, ‘I’d like you to go through this with me, confirming, if you would, that the Chief Inspector has not misinterpreted anything you had to say. Adding anything you feel has been overlooked. Bonnefoye and I between us ought to be able to hack together something solid. Now . . . you detail your reason for attending this particular performance . . . The gift of a ticket, you say?’

‘Not actually a ticket,’ corrected George, opening in the voice of the meticulous witness, ‘one of those annoying tokens they issue. A sort of ticket for a ticket – you cash the first one in for the real thing when you get to the theatre. It’s a ridiculous system for extracting more francs from –’

‘Sent to you by a cousin, you say?’ Joe set him back on course.

‘No, I don’t say. Not for certain. I kept the note that came with the token. Fourier has it,’ he said.

Fourier passed over a torn envelope and a short note.

‘John? Just “John”? Could be anyone, surely? Does this help?’ Joe asked.

‘No help at all. I must know about two dozen Johns and most of them likely to be passing through Paris sometime during the year. I took it to be my young cousin John who’s posted to the Embassy here though I didn’t at first catch on – always call him Jack, you see. These people,’ George waved a gracious hand in the direction of the Chief Inspector, ‘allowed me a phone call at least though they insisted on doing it for me. They got hold of him at the Embassy and I’d guess it’s due to his efforts on my behalf that you’re here, Commander.’

‘You may also wish to see this,’ smiled Fourier. He passed over a scrawled report on a sheet of Police Judiciaire writing paper. ‘I sent out an officer to interview the gentleman, of course.’

Joe summarized the statement, reading aloud: ‘“Confirm Sir George Jardine my cousin . . . no knowledge of any gift of theatre tickets. Didn’t even know he was in Paris.” Ah. Some mystery there, then. Well, moving on: you arrived at the theatre –’

‘Where he was ambushed by a second mystery,’ Fourier interrupted. ‘Are you now, in this welcome rush of revelation, going to disclose the identity of the lady who joined you in your box, monsieur?’

Enjoying Joe’s surprise, he added, ‘The ouvreuse in attendance on the boxes yesterday evening is a lively young woman and very alert. She it was who discovered your friend in the act of slitting his compatriot’s throat. She identified him as the gentleman from Box A across the theatre. She was able to tell us that, moments before the performance started, monsieur was joined by a woman. A Frenchwoman, she thought, from their brief conversation, and wearing an opera cape. The hood was up and she would be unable to identify her or indeed, remember her face. From the closeness of the chairs in that box, when I examined it, the two knew each other well, I’d say. Or at least were friendly. The bar reveals that both occupants drank a glass of whisky in the interval. And – I would ask you to note – the drinks order was placed before the lady arrived. She was clearly expected. By Sir George.’

‘George? This is nothing but good news! If we can find this lady, she will provide your alibi, surely? Who on earth was she?’