awkwardness to a situation requiring sympathy and explanation. Fourier seemed to have no objection to passing on this delicate duty. They eyed each other with a gathering understanding and a mutual satisfaction.
The unanimous verdict burst from the three men as they reached the safety of the courtyard below:
‘Arsehole!’
‘ Qu’il est con! ’
‘ Fuckpot!’
Without further exchange or consultation, they quickly made their way out on to the breezy quayside where George came to a standstill, content to stare at the river traffic, enjoying its bustling ordinariness. He listened to the shouts, the hoots, the throbbing of the engines; he narrowed watering eyes against the brilliance of the spring sunshine dancing on the water. He waved and shouted something teasing at a small terrier standing guard on a passing barge. It barked its defiance. George wuffed back and laughed like a boy in delight. An escaper from one of the circles of hell, Joe judged. A night in clink with Fourier for company would make anyone light-headed.
With something like good humour restored, Joe began to lay out a programme for the rest of the morning. He was interrupted by Sir George. ‘The hotel can wait,’ he declared. ‘Now we’re free of this dreadful place, I want some breakfast! Some of that soup wouldn’t come amiss. Where did you get it?’
Joe eyed his dishevelled state and was doubtful; George was looking even less appetizing in the bright light of morning. He could have strolled over to join the dozen or so tramps just waking under the bridge a few yards away and they’d have shuffled over to make room for a brother. But at least, the worst of the bloodstains were hidden under a dirty old wartime trench coat two sizes too small.
Bonnefoye was more confident. ‘Excellent idea! Looking as you do, we won’t take you to a respectable café. Au Père Tranquille – that’s where we’ll go. Back to the Halles, Joe. It’s a workmen’s café – they’ll just assume Sir George is a tourist who’s fallen foul of some local ruffians. Or an American artist slumming. Wait here by the gate – I’ll flag down a taxi.’
After his second bowl of soup with a glass of cognac on the side, a whole baguette and a pot or two of coffee, George’s colour was returning and his one good eye had acquired a sparkle.
‘I’m curious! Are you going to tell us, Joe,’ Bonnefoye asked, ‘what precisely you said to the Chief Inspector that made him change his mind? Rather a volte-face, wasn’t it? I could have sworn he was all set to have another go at harrying Sir George. Perhaps closing his other eye?’
‘No, no! You’re mistaken, young man,’ said George. ‘I tripped and banged my head against a corner of the desk. But – you’re right – I have a feeling I was about to execute the same tricky manoeuvre on the other side. What did you say, Joe, to turn him through a hundred and eighty degrees?’
Joe stared into his coffee cup. ‘I merely suggested that if Fourier had it in mind to apply the thumbscrews, he might like to know that Sir George had been for years a soldier in the British forces, battling the bloodthirsty Afridi to say nothing of Waziri tribesmen in the wilderness west of Peshawar. I enquired whether he was aware that George had at one time been captured by the enemy and subjected to torture of an inventive viciousness of which only the Wazirs are capable. Rescued in the nick of time, more dead than alive after three days in their hands, but having divulged no information to his captors. Not a word. Name, rank and number and that’s it. Surely Fourier, during his physical inspection of his prisoner, had remarked the scars on his back, the dislocation of the left shoulder, the badly repaired break to the ulna . . .? I think he decided at that point that any action he was planning against such a leathery old campaigner was a bit limp in comparison.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Bonnefoye faintly, inspecting Sir George
The unanimous verdict burst from the three men as they reached the safety of the courtyard below:
‘Arsehole!’
‘ Qu’il est con! ’
‘ Fuckpot!’
Without further exchange or consultation, they quickly made their way out on to the breezy quayside where George came to a standstill, content to stare at the river traffic, enjoying its bustling ordinariness. He listened to the shouts, the hoots, the throbbing of the engines; he narrowed watering eyes against the brilliance of the spring sunshine dancing on the water. He waved and shouted something teasing at a small terrier standing guard on a passing barge. It barked its defiance. George wuffed back and laughed like a boy in delight. An escaper from one of the circles of hell, Joe judged. A night in clink with Fourier for company would make anyone light-headed.
With something like good humour restored, Joe began to lay out a programme for the rest of the morning. He was interrupted by Sir George. ‘The hotel can wait,’ he declared. ‘Now we’re free of this dreadful place, I want some breakfast! Some of that soup wouldn’t come amiss. Where did you get it?’
Joe eyed his dishevelled state and was doubtful; George was looking even less appetizing in the bright light of morning. He could have strolled over to join the dozen or so tramps just waking under the bridge a few yards away and they’d have shuffled over to make room for a brother. But at least, the worst of the bloodstains were hidden under a dirty old wartime trench coat two sizes too small.
Bonnefoye was more confident. ‘Excellent idea! Looking as you do, we won’t take you to a respectable café. Au Père Tranquille – that’s where we’ll go. Back to the Halles, Joe. It’s a workmen’s café – they’ll just assume Sir George is a tourist who’s fallen foul of some local ruffians. Or an American artist slumming. Wait here by the gate – I’ll flag down a taxi.’
After his second bowl of soup with a glass of cognac on the side, a whole baguette and a pot or two of coffee, George’s colour was returning and his one good eye had acquired a sparkle.
‘I’m curious! Are you going to tell us, Joe,’ Bonnefoye asked, ‘what precisely you said to the Chief Inspector that made him change his mind? Rather a volte-face, wasn’t it? I could have sworn he was all set to have another go at harrying Sir George. Perhaps closing his other eye?’
‘No, no! You’re mistaken, young man,’ said George. ‘I tripped and banged my head against a corner of the desk. But – you’re right – I have a feeling I was about to execute the same tricky manoeuvre on the other side. What did you say, Joe, to turn him through a hundred and eighty degrees?’
Joe stared into his coffee cup. ‘I merely suggested that if Fourier had it in mind to apply the thumbscrews, he might like to know that Sir George had been for years a soldier in the British forces, battling the bloodthirsty Afridi to say nothing of Waziri tribesmen in the wilderness west of Peshawar. I enquired whether he was aware that George had at one time been captured by the enemy and subjected to torture of an inventive viciousness of which only the Wazirs are capable. Rescued in the nick of time, more dead than alive after three days in their hands, but having divulged no information to his captors. Not a word. Name, rank and number and that’s it. Surely Fourier, during his physical inspection of his prisoner, had remarked the scars on his back, the dislocation of the left shoulder, the badly repaired break to the ulna . . .? I think he decided at that point that any action he was planning against such a leathery old campaigner was a bit limp in comparison.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Bonnefoye faintly, inspecting Sir George
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