‘And she used to come in before work to see to the menagerie.’ Simenon waved a hand with distaste in the direction of the animals. ‘Josephine adores them but she isn’t all that consistent in her care . . . no more than she is with people, I suppose. Francine couldn’t bear to see them go without attention. She even cleaned up after them and took them for walks. The ones that can walk. I suspect Derval slipped her a little extra for her trouble. She never stopped working, that girl.’

They watched in fascination as Bonnefoye in total silence poked and prodded his way through a textbook examination of the corpse. Joe determined to extract as much information as he could from the man who was so close to both girls. For Joe, listening to witnesses’ early reactions was more important than firing off the usual series of routine police questions. And he’d never met a witness so involved and so insightful, he thought, as this man. He would encourage him.

‘Are you thinking that this may be – if indeed it is murder we’re looking at – a case of mistaken identity? Finding Francine, looking as she does, in Josephine’s clothes, going about what ought to be Josephine’s chores, perhaps with her back to the door, one can understand that a mistake might have been made.’

‘They’re really meaning to kill Josephine, you mean? I had feared as much.’ He took two deep puffs on his pipe and the atmosphere in the room thickened further. ‘She has enemies, you know. Quite a lot of them are American. Successful, self-opinionated, liberated black girl that she is – that’s too much for some of them to stomach. I was with her at a dinner party the night before last – we were celebrating the arrival of Lindbergh. Some oafish fellow countryman announced in ringing tones across the table that black girls where he came from would be in the kitchen cooking the food, not sitting at table eating it with civilized folks. I think sometimes it breaks her heart. Strong heart though.’

‘And, I’ve heard – enemies in the theatre,’ said Joe. ‘Rival ladies wishing to be the paramount star in the Paris heaven. Ladies with influential lovers, prepared and able to indulge them.’

‘She nearly died when that device she comes down from the roof in misfired. Death trap! There was a fuss and they sacked someone. But there never was a serious enquiry. Certainly no one called the police in.’ He looked at Joe across the body, startled. ‘It could have been arranged. Someone could have been paid to foul up the works.’

‘The most spectacular exit ever on the French – or any other – stage, that would have been,’ said Joe thoughtfully. And with a memory of Fourier’s avid face, ‘What headlines! Black Venus plummets head-first into death pit.’

‘Dea ex machina. It was just a rehearsal, thank God. But it could have gone to performance, you know. I might have been in the audience, witnessing the death with my own eyes,’ murmured Simenon with a shudder. ‘What a waste of an opportunity! Because, I can tell you, it’s not an article I could ever have written.’

Joe believed him and was glad to hear him say so. And yet Joe was, while struggling with his shock, touched by a feeling of resentment. He could find no comfort in the realization that this was not the star lying dead at his feet. There was no need to mourn Josephine. But this was Francine, the girl he had flirted with, sipped coffee with, and, by his unwitting clumsiness, annoyed the hell out of only yesterday. He’d liked and admired her. More than that. He flushed with guilt as he acknowledged he’d been planning a further meeting with Mademoiselle Raissac. In fantasy, he’d taken her to a performance at the Comédie Française – more her style than the cabaret, he thought – and then he’d walked with her along the Seine and dropped in at the Café Flore for a brandy before . . . well . . . whatever Paris suggested.

He looked again in sorrow at the chilling flesh and realized how much of her attraction had sprung from her movements, her light gestures, the slanting, upward challenge offered by her dark eyes. He remembered her head tilted like a quizzical robin and now permanently tilted, it seemed, at that angle by a broken neck. The last throaty, gurgling laughter he’d provoked by his clowning beneath her window in Montmartre replayed in his memory. Stylish and intelligent. He was saddened that such a girl had thought it necessary to copy the looks of anyone, even an entertainer like Josephine. The thought startled him into a gesture.

‘Bonnefoye! There is something wrong here!’ He bent and looked closely at the dead face. ‘Her hair. Look, there – d’you see? – it’s been cut. Raggedly. She had a kiss curl on her forehead, I’m certain, when I met her yesterday. You know – one of those cowlick things . . . stuck down on her forehead like Josephine.’

‘Une mèche rebelle,’ said Simenon. ‘Yes, she had. There’s a pair of scissors – over there on the floor.’ He went to peer at them, carefully refraining from touching them. ‘And there’s a black hair trapped between the blades.’ He looked back at Francine. ‘She’s cut it off. Perhaps that was yesterday’s fashion?’ Concerned, he went to the waste basket and turned over the contents. ‘No hair.’ He checked the crowded surface of the dressing table. ‘No hair anywhere.’

With mounting dismay, Joe pointed to the girl’s mouth. ‘Her lipstick’s badly smudged.’ He touched her cheeks gently. ‘And her face is puffy.’

‘Time for the opening of the mouth ceremony?’ said Bonnefoye quietly. ‘What did you say, Joe? Release the ka? Let’s do it, while we can – before rigor starts to set in!’

He delicately ran a finger between her lips and slid it under her top teeth. With his other hand he tugged gently on the lower jaw and the mouth sagged open. The fingers probed the inside of her mouth and drew out the contents.

With an exclamation of disgust, Joe spread his handkerchief on the floor by the corpse to receive the damp bundle.

Bonnefoye poked at it. ‘A wad of currency and . . .’ He flipped the folded notes over revealing something wrapped tightly up in them. ‘There it is – the curl of hair.’

He sat back on his heels, confused and defeated. ‘Now what the hell are we supposed to make of that?’

‘Mèche! That’s what we’re meant to understand!’ Simenon’s voice was urgent, trying to stifle triumph. ‘It’s a play on words! It means “kiss curl, strand of hair” but it’s also a candle wick . . . or a fuse. And if someone informs on you in criminal circles you’d say: on vend la mèche. They’re selling out. Selling information. They got the girl they wanted, you know. It was Francine they intended to kill. No mistake!’

‘And the choice of currency, I believe, was not random,’ said Joe bitterly. ‘Significant, would you say? That the notes are English ones? Have you noticed? Those elegant white sheets of paper are English treasury fivers. They’re saying she sold out to me. To the English cop. They’ve crammed in ten of them. Fifty pounds! No expense spared on the death of a little Parisian ouvreuse? More money than she ever had in her life.’

He turned away to hide his sorrow and anger.

Simenon’s eyes flashed from one policeman to the other. ‘Ah. Little Francine whispered more than she ought to have done into a sympathetic English ear, did she? Alfred? He’s the connection. He talked to her and she talked to you, Sandilands. Brother and sister both got their rewards then. They’re suspicious of family relationships. One sees why. Word of this will be on the street by the end of the day. And people like me will be silenced for another year.’ He turned to Joe and finished quietly: ‘Whatever you charmed out of her, keep it to yourself, will you? I don’t want to hear. Not sure it’s even safe to stand next to you.’

Joe began to pull himself together and turned again to the body, though he noticed the younger men looked away, unable to meet his eye, alarmed by his expression. For a fleeting moment, the two sides of his face came together, disconcertingly in harmony, uniting to give out the same message. A message of fierce hatred.