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Authors: Barbara Cleverly
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nervously with a solicitous eye to the English gentleman now revealed to be an agent of the British police force. Joe spoke in a reassuring undertone requesting more telephone time. He needed to put a call through to this number. He handed him a card, carefully avoiding using the word ‘police’. Guests were beginning to trickle through on their way to breakfast in the dining room and Joe recollected that hotel management the world over had a horror of any suggestion of police activity, even benign activity. Luckily Jean-Philippe Bonnefoye’s card simply gave his name and telephone number.
Joe went back into the booth and waited through several clicks and bangs for the ringing tone that told him the manager had successfully made contact with the number. Disconcertingly, it was a young woman’s voice that answered sleepily. He asked to be allowed to speak to his colleague Jean-Philippe.
‘Colleague? If you’re a colleague you should know better than to ring him at such an unearthly hour! He’s only just gone to bed. Push off!’
He shouted something urgently down the telephone to prevent her hanging up on him and unleashed a torrent of words in which ‘distress . . . emergency . . . international incident . . .’ played a part.
At the words ‘ entente cordiale ’ she finally hooted with derision and gave in. A few moments later Bonnefoye grunted down the phone. He recovered his wits rapidly as Joe concisely and twice over conveyed the information he’d just had from the Yard.
‘Martinet?’ he said. ‘Know who you mean. He’s a bastard. But most of the blokes in the Crim’ are good guys. Look – why don’t you give me time to get myself organized and I’ll see you down there. I’m not involved . . . yet . . . but I can at least perform a few introductions and blather on about international co-operation. Ease your path a bit. In one hour? I’ll see you at the coppers’ entrance. You know it? Good! I’ll just go and soak my head and drink a gallon of coffee. Suggest you do the same.’
The doorman whistled up a taxicab when he emerged from the Ambassador, showered and shaved, and dressed, calculatedly, in conservative English fashion. Thanks to his sister’s careful packing, his dark three-piece suit had survived the journey in perfectly wearable condition. He had put on a stiff-collared shirt and regimental tie. Sadly no bowler hat which would have impressed them; Joe did not possess such a ridiculous item of headgear. No headgear at all, since his fedora was lost somewhere at Le Bourget.
The morning traffic was thick and the taxi, weaving its way through the press of horse-drawn cabs and delivery lorries, was making slow progress. Once or twice in his anxiety for Sir George, Joe contemplated getting out and racing along on foot. The exercise would clear his muddled head, the sharp air would purify his lungs and the sight of Paris, magnificent and mysterious in the dissolving river fog, would delight his eye, but he decided it might make better sense to conserve the physical resources left to him after last night’s experiences. He didn’t want to ride to George’s rescue sweating, foaming and breathless. Calm, confident and helpful – that was what was required. In any case, they were bound to be stunned by his timely appearance on their doorstep and his title was impressive. Deliberately so. A ‘Commander’ with its naval flavour got attention, largely because no one seemed to have the slightest idea what it entailed or dared to ask and some even confused it with ‘Commissioner’ and took him to be the face of Scotland Yard.
With so little information at his disposal Joe could not do much to prepare himself for the interview – even assuming he would be granted an interview with the chap in charge. He planned to speak in French from the outset. Occasionally it was an advantage to fake ignorance. Not many English could converse in foreign languages anyway and the French didn’t expect
Joe went back into the booth and waited through several clicks and bangs for the ringing tone that told him the manager had successfully made contact with the number. Disconcertingly, it was a young woman’s voice that answered sleepily. He asked to be allowed to speak to his colleague Jean-Philippe.
‘Colleague? If you’re a colleague you should know better than to ring him at such an unearthly hour! He’s only just gone to bed. Push off!’
He shouted something urgently down the telephone to prevent her hanging up on him and unleashed a torrent of words in which ‘distress . . . emergency . . . international incident . . .’ played a part.
At the words ‘ entente cordiale ’ she finally hooted with derision and gave in. A few moments later Bonnefoye grunted down the phone. He recovered his wits rapidly as Joe concisely and twice over conveyed the information he’d just had from the Yard.
‘Martinet?’ he said. ‘Know who you mean. He’s a bastard. But most of the blokes in the Crim’ are good guys. Look – why don’t you give me time to get myself organized and I’ll see you down there. I’m not involved . . . yet . . . but I can at least perform a few introductions and blather on about international co-operation. Ease your path a bit. In one hour? I’ll see you at the coppers’ entrance. You know it? Good! I’ll just go and soak my head and drink a gallon of coffee. Suggest you do the same.’
The doorman whistled up a taxicab when he emerged from the Ambassador, showered and shaved, and dressed, calculatedly, in conservative English fashion. Thanks to his sister’s careful packing, his dark three-piece suit had survived the journey in perfectly wearable condition. He had put on a stiff-collared shirt and regimental tie. Sadly no bowler hat which would have impressed them; Joe did not possess such a ridiculous item of headgear. No headgear at all, since his fedora was lost somewhere at Le Bourget.
The morning traffic was thick and the taxi, weaving its way through the press of horse-drawn cabs and delivery lorries, was making slow progress. Once or twice in his anxiety for Sir George, Joe contemplated getting out and racing along on foot. The exercise would clear his muddled head, the sharp air would purify his lungs and the sight of Paris, magnificent and mysterious in the dissolving river fog, would delight his eye, but he decided it might make better sense to conserve the physical resources left to him after last night’s experiences. He didn’t want to ride to George’s rescue sweating, foaming and breathless. Calm, confident and helpful – that was what was required. In any case, they were bound to be stunned by his timely appearance on their doorstep and his title was impressive. Deliberately so. A ‘Commander’ with its naval flavour got attention, largely because no one seemed to have the slightest idea what it entailed or dared to ask and some even confused it with ‘Commissioner’ and took him to be the face of Scotland Yard.
With so little information at his disposal Joe could not do much to prepare himself for the interview – even assuming he would be granted an interview with the chap in charge. He planned to speak in French from the outset. Occasionally it was an advantage to fake ignorance. Not many English could converse in foreign languages anyway and the French didn’t expect
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