After a carefully calculated interval, Joe put down his teacup and began to draw the interview to a close, thanking Jack Pollock for his help and interest: formulaic phrases cut short by Pollock’s bluff response: ‘Think nothing of it, old chap!’ His warm hand reached again for Joe’s and gripped it firmly. ‘If there’s anything – the slightest thing – I can do, I’m your man. Keep me informed, won’t you?’

At the door he paused. ‘French views of Law and Order not the same as ours, you know. Stay alert, Sandilands!

‘And where have you decided to have luncheon today? May I recommend somewhere?’ he asked as they crossed the hall on the way to the front door. ‘At your hotel? The Ambassador, I think you said? Excellent reputation for its cuisine. Good choice!’

So. Moulin and Francine Raissac – and he swiftly added himself to the list – had fallen victim to an over-coloured story, a lurid, crime-novel notion of villainy. Relief and disappointment were flooding through Joe, fighting for control. Of course Pollock’s theory was correct and it was supported by a confession. The scene at the museum had to have been staged by a man with influence enough to clear rooms, to lure in the victim, to have him dispatched with all that chilling ceremony, to arrange for an independent witness to stumble on the body, and to have the insider’s knowledge to invite just the right people to participate in the finding. No one but the Americans and Pollock was there by chance.

The whole presentation had been a work of art. A labour not of love but of hatred. And, with a final directorial twist, the case had been solved and brought to a conclusion by the perpetrator himself. Very proper. Inevitable. The death had occurred down south in Cannes and Moulin had not been aware or involved. ‘I’ve saved the best till last,’ the doctor had told him. And the best – the most astonishing – case in the series of unexplained crimes now proved to have been no such thing. A one-off. Solved. Case closed with Père Lachaise finality. And, with that key element dislodged, the whole house of cards tumbled down.

Joe surrendered to relief. And yet he was left feeling foolish. He was still saddled with the problem of assigning responsibility for Somerton’s killing and had wasted a precious day. But at least now he could concentrate on the motive he had originally thought most likely: vengeance. And he could probably discount the unlikely phone calls from the Somerton residence in England to an undisclosed agency in Paris: ‘The name’s Somerton. You’ll find him at the Crillon . . . Dagger would be most suitable . . . How much? You are joking, of course? Ah well . . . I suppose it will be worth it . . .’

He could forget about Sir George’s presence being an element in the planning. It was most likely that there had been no planning at all. Perhaps some Anglo-Indian, retired from the army, someone with a grudge against the man, had seen him lording it in a box at the Folies accompanied by an attractive young girl and this had been the trigger for a vengeful act of fury. It was the unconsidered flaunting of power and position that could incite lesser men to rage. Many men had come back from India with daggers in their possession. They might, with all the alarming stories of the revived Apache gangs, have chosen to carry a knife from their collection instead of the more usual swordstick as a means of self-defence in this dangerous capital.

Joe wondered wearily if he could ask Bonnefoye to release names from the information he knew the French police kept on foreigners residing in the city, permanently or temporarily. Hours of patient checking would be called for and he was very far from certain that such a request would be taken seriously by the police authority. In any case, Fourier would have lost patience long before results were available and rearrested George.

But, looking on the bright side, Sir George was no longer to be considered the target of some mysterious Set or Fantômas figure, stalked through the streets of Paris by a scar-faced acolyte. And Joe could now return safely to his hotel without slinking along like a polecat. He badly needed to change his clothes. Toothbrushes and other essential items had been provided by the industrious and early-rising Madame Bonnefoye and he had spent a comfortable night in a pair of Jean-Philippe’s pyjamas, but he wanted to touch base.

But what of Heather Watkins? Her encounter had been with a flesh and blood menace. Twice. Could the shadowing of Miss Watkins be explained by the girl’s obvious attractions? Her vivid hair and fresh Celtic looks would always attract masculine attention, he thought. They had attracted his. He knew that many men on the lookout for just such loveliness haunted the foyers of even the best hotels. Perhaps she was being pursued by some theatrical impresario? To be recruited into the ranks of high-kicking chorus girls? She had exactly the right height and athletic appearance. And he didn’t doubt that, like every other English girl he knew (always excepting Dorcas Joliffe of course), she’d been to ballet classes. Bonnefoye had confessed that certain nameless limbs of the government actually kept lists of spectacular girls – attractive and good conversationalists – who might be summoned to escort visiting royalty or the like about the city. Joe wasn’t quite sure he believed him. At the worst, she might be the target of the gangs of confidence tricksters who ran the ‘badger games’ from hotel lobbies. Beautifully dressed, well-spoken and plausible, the female bandits they employed would lure men freshly arrived and looking forward to adventures with a sob-story or an involving smile and in no time they’d have the gold out of their pockets – and their teeth.

He reined in his thoughts. Nonsense! There were more loose fragments of tinsel swirling about in this kaleidoscope than he could pull into focus at the moment and he was not going to lose track of a single element. The face of Francine Raissac had stayed with him. He remembered clearly her terror. Her warnings. He’d take her seriously and he’d listen to Pollock’s parting words of advice and stay alert.

He performed his automatic checks for surveillance as he strolled along the rue du Faubourg St Honoré but with no sense of urgency. If anyone cared to follow him from the Embassy to his hotel, they were welcome to do so. He paused in front of the window display in one of the bookshops along the street, decided they probably didn’t have what he was looking for and moved off. Finding what he wanted a few yards further on, he went in and spent a few minutes examining the stock before he made his choice.

The receptionist at the Hotel Ambassador greeted him and told him a telephone message had just arrived for him. Joe took the note. A brief one from Bonnefoye.

We have Wilberforce. Has agreed to meet Fourier at 11.30. Be there!

Joe telephoned to congratulate Bonnefoye on his speed of performance.

‘Not difficult! He was at the third hotel on our list. Having breakfast. Confirms he was at the theatre that night and says he’ll be pleased to be of help. I’ll see you both at Staircase A?’

Joe, freshly bathed, shirted and suited, met Bonnefoye at the entrance to police headquarters and waited with him for Jennings’ taxi to drop him off. The man stepping out was easily identified by his English overcoat, bowler hat and rolled umbrella. Bonnefoye suppressed a snort of laughter at the image of propriety the man presented as Joe stepped forward to enquire: ‘Mr Wilberforce Jennings, I presume? How do you do, sir. Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard liaising with the Police Judiciaire. May I introduce my colleague, Inspector Bonnefoye?’

Jennings relaxed on hearing Joe’s suave voice and shook hands with each man.