Chapter Eleven

With a crowded lift just taking off upwards from the lobby, Joe ground his teeth and dashed for the stairs. He arrived panting and took a moment outside the door of George’s room to ease and check the Browning revolver in his pocket and to put his ear to the woodwork.

‘Liar!’ George’s voice boomed. ‘You’re not getting away with that! Lying cheat!’ he added.

Joe burst in, revolver in hand.

‘Oh, I say! Great heavens! Don’t shoot! I was just about to come clean anyway!’ Heather Watkins put her hands in the air and shook with laughter. The playing cards she was holding began to slide from her hands and flutter on to the counterpane between herself and Sir George.

George was sitting up in bed, rubicund with rage or good humour or bruising, it was hard to tell. He was crisply dressed in nightshirt and dressing gown. ‘Ah! Commander!’ he said. ‘There you are. What an entrance, my dear fellow! As you’re positively bristling with authority, you may as well arrest this young lady. Cheating at cards is the charge.’

‘What . . . what in hell’s going on here?’ Joe blustered, slipping the Browning away in confusion.

‘Good afternoon, Joe. I see you are well,’ said Miss Watkins, primly ignoring his loose language.

‘But . . . Heather . . . You weren’t at your hotel when I called . . .’

‘I imagine not. I was summoned this morning by Jean-Philippe to come to the assistance of a fellow countryman. He’s very persuasive, your French friend, Joe.’ She smiled and Joe saw for the first time that she had a very pretty dimple in her left cheek. ‘Well, in less time than it takes to tell, I was here receiving instructions in the nursing care of a distressed old gentleman.’ She waved a hand at George who put on a pathetic face. ‘Not so old, not very distressed and I’m not so sure about the gentleman bit of the billing either. He’s ruthless when it comes to cards! We were playing Cheat. Do you know it?’

Joe could only nod in reply.

‘I was told to bring a book and to expect to sit by his bedside while he slept and be there, all cool hands, reassuring smile and soothing words when he woke. Which I was led to believe might be in eight hours or so. Hmm! It was difficult to get him to agree to go to bed at all and he only slept for three hours and then snapped awake. It’s taken a lot of ingenuity and force of character to keep him where he’s supposed to be – in bed,’ she huffed in a nannyish way.

The warm smile she exchanged with her patient told Joe all he needed to know about the developing relationship.

‘An inspired idea! And what luck Jean-Philippe had your telephone number, Heather,’ he said innocently. ‘Thank you indeed for giving up your day to ride herd on my old friend. Did the Inspector tell you – we had to wrest him from the hands of the Police Judiciaire who were determined to wring something – anything – from him by means of the third degree?’

‘He did!’ Heather reached over and squeezed George’s hand. ‘Monsters! If I ever get hold of that dreadful Fourier, I’ll give him what for! If only I could be trapped in a lift with him with a tennis racquet in my hand! How could he? And Sir George already distressed by the death of his friend . . . So unfeeling!’

George grimaced, trying and failing by a mile to look pitiable. ‘Well, Joe, with all this female sympathy deployed, how could I not have perked up and made a full recovery? Miss Watkins has been wonderful! A breath of crisp English air in all this overheated foreign nonsense.’ He looked sideways at Joe and added: ‘And – as it seems you’re counting, Joe – she’s been good enough to give me her address too. Her address in England. Look forward very much to continuing our acquaintance, my dear,’ he said, turning to Heather, ‘when you get back from your tennis tournament. You must tell me all about it . . . show me your medals, swap gossip from the Riviera. I shall want to know the truth behind that liaison we were speaking of . . .’

‘The gigolo and the English countess?’

‘Shh! Discretion, my dear Miss Watkins!’

‘Of course!’ Heather Watkins stood up and began to collect her things together into the small travelling bag she’d brought with her. ‘Well, it would seem my work is done here, for the time being at any rate. Look, Joe, Sir George, I consider myself on hand if required, for the rest of my stay in Paris. Don’t hesitate and all that . . .’

‘Heather, you don’t have to rush off?’ Joe began.

Her eyes twinkled as she looked from one to the other. ‘I’m quite certain you have things to discuss. Serious things. Crime things. I’m very happy to go about my business which – you won’t be surprised to hear – involves a quick trip to the Galeries Lafayette. I saw a darling little day dress in their window on my way here in the taxi.’

After an affectionate goodbye to George she tucked him up again under his covers, ran a hand over his brow and spoke gently to him: ‘Why don’t you try to take another forty winks now that Joe’s back? You’re quite safe, you know.’

She paused, bag in hand, by the door and Joe went to open it for her and show her out. ‘Hang on a minute! Gosh, I wouldn’t make a good agent, would I – I nearly forgot! Jean-Philippe told me to tell you he’d be back by French teatime.’

‘Five o’clock, then.’ Joe grinned.

‘Oh . . . and you might like to tell him that he was quite right to warn me about attempted incursions by strangers.’

Suddenly chilled and alert, Joe asked quietly: ‘What was that, Heather? Are you saying someone tried to force his way in here?’

‘Not force, no,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Much more subtle. And I’m probably being over-suspicious in the light of Jean-Philippe’s warning . . . Well, you can judge, Joe. About a quarter of an hour after he’d left, there was a tap on the door. I looked around. George hadn’t gone to bed – he was in the bathroom with the door shut. Avoiding me, I think. Hoping I’d go away. The bed was made up, the room neat. I chucked that mucky old trench coat away behind the chair, picked up my bag, looking for all the world as though I’d just that minute arrived, and opened the door a crack. There was a stranger there. A man. Thirties? Forties? French, I’d say. Dressed in black jacket and trousers. Room service, you’d have said. Except that no one had called for room service.’

‘Go on!’ Joe could hardly bear the pause as she mar-shalled her impressions.

‘Well, I took the initiative. “Yes? Who are you and what do you want?” I said in English.

‘“Reception, mademoiselle, I have a message for the gentleman,” he said. He was trying to speak English. And doing it well, I thought.

‘“What gentleman?” I asked. And without looking up at the number on the door I said: “This is Room 205. You must have got the wrong number.” At this point I opened the door properly . . . didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything . . . or anybody. His eyes darted . . . yes, they darted . . . inside. I thought for a moment he might try to get in so I squared up to him, barring his way.

‘“Sir George Jardine,” he said. “It’s very urgent. I must deliver the message directly and into his hand.” He was holding something in his right hand which was stuffed into his trouser pocket, I remember.

‘“Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said. “But, hard luck – you’ll have to enquire elsewhere. I’ve just been shown to this room which of course has been vacated. There’s no one under the bed – I always check. Silly, I know! And now if you wouldn’t mind – I’m just about to take a bath. Look – obvious question, but you did check with Reception before you came up, didn’t you? Perhaps,” I suggested helpfully, “your Sir John was here last night? But he’s not here now. Perhaps they gave you the wrong floor? Yes, I’d go back to Reception and ask them what on earth they think they’re doing. They’ll set you straight.”’