Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

at the bottom of it.’
    ‘A planned killing.’
    He went on nodding. ‘Yes. Pinching the necklace would be a blind. What she’s after is the money. She set me up: it’s the only answer.’
    ‘Unless of course . . .’
    Fazakerly’s hand twitched. ‘Unless it was me all along?’
    ‘That isn’t what I was going to say.’
    He paused. The waiter had returned and was smiling towards them.

 
     
    CHAPTER TEN
     
    T HE WAITER STOPPED by Fazakerly and made his slight inclination.
    ‘A Miss Junot would like to see you, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know if you were at liberty.’
    Fazakerly looked at him wonderingly. ‘I don’t know a Miss Junot,’ he said. ‘What does she look like?’
    ‘Very pretty sir. Young. I believe the lady is French.’
    ‘Ah,’ Fazakerly said. ‘That explains it. It’s Albertine. Send her in.’
    The waiter went and Fazakerly grinned at Gently.
    ‘Is she a friend of yours?’ Gently asked.
    ‘Depends on the emphasis,’ Fazakerly said. ‘I don’t know the colour of her pyjamas. But yes, we’re hail-bedfellow-well-met. I’m rather sorry for Albertine. And I’ll tell you something: I think she was a disappointment to the ladies.’
    ‘How does she know where you are?’
    ‘Put it down to Gallic cunning. Though you could usually run me to earth here when I had any ready.’
    Albertine entered. She beamed at Fazakerly, but gave Gently some concerned little glances. She was wearing a black knitted dress which deftly moulded her curves and declivities. Her poppy-odour came before her and her blonde hair bobbed as she walked and her rouge was taken so high that her face appeared mostly cheeks. She was a strong, solid girl. One could easily imagine her among the milk-pails.
    The waiter quickly set a chair for her and she sat down blushing and smiling.
    ‘Well, Albertine,’ Fazakerly said. ‘What gives me the pleasure of a visit from you?’
    Albertine didn’t seem to find it easy to tell him. Her blue eyes rolled and smiled at him imploringly. At last she gave a charming pout and said:
    ‘They do not tell me Monsieur is with you.’
    ‘Oh,’ Fazakerly said. ‘Don’t let that inhibit you. Monsieur is a friend. He’s a sort of relative.’
    ‘He is relative . . . ?’
    ‘A cousin. You know about them?’
    ‘Oh yes. A cousin. I know about cousins.’
    ‘I thought you would do,’ Fazakerly said. ‘They’re such a useful variety of relative. So what’s it about?’
    She looked languishingly at Gently. ‘Oh well,’ she shrugged, ‘perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps it is good I am talking to Monsieur. Monsieur must know what I am going to tell you.’
    ‘Yes, don’t hide anything from Monsieur,’ Fazakerly said. ‘He has his methods, you take it from me.’
    ‘His methods . . . ?’
    ‘His way of breaking eggs.’
    ‘Oh yes, I see. To make the omelet.’
    She gave a gurgling little laugh, but didn’t yet seem quite at her ease. She hugged a large handbag on her knees and moved her shoulders about awkwardly.
    ‘It is my day off,’ she said. ‘You are told this. On every Monday is my day off.’
    ‘That’s why Monday is so dull,’ Fazakerly said. ‘I never run into her on a Monday.’
    Gently said: ‘What were you doing on Monday, Miss Junot?’
    ‘I am doing – it is a friend I have, you understand?’
    ‘Oh, we understand,’ Fazakerly said. ‘Don’t write it out big for men like us.’
    She threw him an indignant look. ‘It is a friend – Giselle Lamereaux – she is from Chartres. She is in this country to learn your language. She is “au pair with Mr Jones”.’
    ‘With Mr Jones?’ Gently said.
    ‘No, not Mr Jones. That is a joke! There is no Mr Jones, he is not anyone, it is what one says. Is a joke.’
    ‘Still, one rather envies him,’ Fazakerly said.
    ‘His real name is Meeson,’ Albertine said. ‘He is a big man, lots of money. Giselle is very happy. She likes your country.’
    ‘And you spent the day with her?’ Gently said.
    ‘Oh yes. That is what I am going to tell you. And it is true, you may ask Giselle. Everything I tell you is true.’
    ‘And they look you straight in the eye,’ Fazakerly said.
    ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘But it is you I am helping. Monsieur, pay no attention to this funny man. It is his way. He is a comical.’
    ‘Where does your friend live, Miss Junot?’
    ‘In Brewster Square, number twenty-nine. It is convenient. I can see her often. In the evening too, when I am not