“What about Miss Truebody?”

“Baradi is pretty worried, he says. I’m quite certain he’s doing all that can be done for her. He’s a kingpin at his job, you know, however much he may stink to high heaven as a chap.”

“Shouldn’t I wait with her?”

“No. Any more of that and I’ll begin to think you like having your hand kissed by luscious Oriental gentlemen. Hullo, Rich, ready for your drive?”

Ricky advanced with his hands behind his back and with strides designed to match those of his companion. “Is Raoul driving us?” he asked.

“He is. You and Mummy.”

“Good. Daddy, look! Look, Mummy!”

He produced from behind his back a little goat, painted silver grey with one foot upraised and mounted on a base that roughly traced the outlines of the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent. “The old lady made it and Raoul gave it to me,” Ricky said. “It’s a silver goat and when it’s nighttime it makes itself shine. Doesn’t it, Raoul? N’est ce pas, Raoul?”

“Oui. Une chèvre d’argent qui s’illumine.”

“Daddy, isn’t Raoul kind?”

Alleyn, a little embarrassed, told Raoul how kind he was and Troy, haltingly, attempted to say that he shouldn’t.

Raoul said: “But it is nothing, Madame. If it pleases this young gallant and does not offend Madame, all is well. What are my orders. Monsieur?”

“Will you drive Madame and Ricky to their hotel? Then go to M. le Commissaire at the Préfecture and give him this letter. Tell him that I will call on him as soon as possible. Tell him also about the operation and of course reply to any questions he may ask. Then return here. There is no immediate hurry and you will have time for déjeuner. Do not report at the Château but wait here for me. If I haven’t turned up by 3:30 you may ask for me at the Château. You will remember that?”

Raoul repeated his instructions. Alleyn looked steadily at him. “Should you be told I am not there, drive to the nearest telephone, ring up the Préfecture and tell M. le Commissaire precisely what has happened. Understood?”

“Well understood. Monsieur.”

“Good. One thing more, Raoul. Do you know anyone in Roqueville called Garbel?”

“Garr-bel? No, Monsieur. It will be an English person for whom Monsieur enquires?”

“Yes. The address is 16 Rue des Violettes.”

Raoul repeated the address. “It is an apartment house, that one. It is true one finds a few English there, for the most part ladies no longer young and with small incomes who do not often engage taxis.”

“Ah well,” Alleyn said. “No matter.”

He took off his hat and kissed his wife. “Have a nice holiday,” he said, “and give my love to Mr. Garbel.”

“What were you telling Raoul?

“Wouldn’t you like to know! Goodbye, Rick. Take care of your mama, she’s a good kind creature and means well.”

Ricky grinned. He was quick, when he didn’t understand his father’s remarks, to catch their intention from the colour of his voice. “Entendu, “ he said, imitating Raoul, and climbed into the car beside him.

“I suppose I may sit here?” he said airily.

“He is a precocious little perisher and no mistake,” Alleyn muttered. “Do you suppose it’ll all peter out and he’ll be a dullard by the time he’s eight?”

“A lot of it’s purely imitative. It sounds classier than it is. Move up, Ricky, I’m coming in front, too.”

Alleyn watched the car drive down the steep lane to the main road. Then he turned back to the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent.

ii

On the way back to Roqueville Raoul talked nursery French to Ricky and Troy, pointing out the places of interest: the Alpine monastery where, in the cloisters, one might see many lively pictures executed by the persons of the district whose relations had been saved from abrupt destruction by the intervention of Our Lady of Paysdoux; villages that looked as if they had been thrown against the rocks and had stuck to them; distant prospects of little towns. On a lonely stretch of road, Troy offered him a cigarette and while he lit it he allowed Ricky to steer the scarcely moving car. Ricky’s dotage on Raoul intensified with every kilometre they travelled together and Troy’s understanding of French improved with astonishing rapidity. Altogether they enjoyed each other’s company immensely and the journey seemed a short one. They could scarcely believe that the cluster of yellow and pink buildings that presently appeared beneath them was Roqueville.

Raoul turned aside from the steeply descending road and drove down a narrow side-street past an open market where bunches of dyed immortelles hung shrilly above the stalls and the smells of tuberoses was mingled with the pungency of fruit and vegetables. All the world, Raoul said, was abroad at this hour in the market and he flung loud unembarrassed greetings to many persons of his acquaintance. Troy felt her spirits rising and Ricky dropped into the stillness that with him was a sign of extreme pleasure. He sighed deeply and laid one hand on Raoul’s knee and one, clasping his silver goat, on Troy’s.

They were in a shadowed street where the houses were washed over with faint candy-pink, lemon and powder-blue. Strings of washing hung from one iron balcony to another.

“Rue des Violettes,” Raoul said, pointing to the street-sign and presently halted. “Numéro seize.”

Troy gathered that he offered her an opportunity to call on Mr. Garbel or, if she was not so inclined, to note the whereabouts of his lodging. She could see through the open door into a dim and undistinguished interior. A number of raffish children clustered about the car. They chattered in an incomprehensible patois and stared with an air of hardihood at Ricky, who instantly became stony.

Troy thought Raoul was offering to accompany her into the house, but sensing panic in the breast of her son, she managed to say that she would go in by herself. “I can leave a note,” she thought, and said to Ricky. “I won’t be a moment. You stay with Raoul, darling.”

“O.K.,” he agreed, still fully occupied with disregarding the children. He was like a dog who, when addressed by his master, wags his tail but does not lower his hackles. Raoul shouted at the children and made a shooing noise driving them from the car. They retreated a little, skittishly twitting him. He got out and opened the door for Troy, removing his cap as if she were a minor royalty. Impressed by this evidence of prestige, most of the children fell back, though two of the hardier raised a beggar’s plaint and were silenced by Raoul.

The door of Number 16 was ajar. Troy pushed it open and crossed a dingy tessellated floor to a lift-well beside which hung a slotted board holding cards, some with printed and some with written names on them. She had begun hunting up and down the board when a voice behind her said: “Madame?”

Troy turned as if she’d been struck. The door of a sort of cubby-hole opposite the lift was held partly open by a grimy and heavily ringed hand. Beyond the hand Troy could see folds of a black satin dress, an iridescence of bead-work and three quarters of a heavy face and piled-up coiffure.

She felt as if she’d been caught doing something shady. Her nursery French deserted her.

“Pardon,” she stammered. “Je désire — je cherche — Monsieur — Garbel — le nom de Garbel.”

The woman said something incomprehensible to Troy, who replied, “Je ne parle pas français. Malheureusement,” she added on an afterthought. The woman made a resigned noise and waddled out of her cubby-hole. She was enormously fat and used a walking stick. Her eyes were like black currants sunk in uncooked dough. She prodded with her stick at the top of the board and, strangely familiar in that alien place, a spidery signature in faded ink was exhibited: “P.E. Garbel.”

“Ah, merci,” Troy cried, but the fat woman shook her head contemptuously and appeared to repeat her former remark. This time Troy caught something like… “Pas chez elle… il y a vingt-quatre heures.”