Alleyn thought: “This is the first bit of luck I’ve had since we got here.” He looked up the valley at the glittering works of the Maritime Alps Chemical Company and said: “I think it well to tell you that I am interested professionally in the ménage at the Chèvre d’Argent. If it had not been for the accident of Mademoiselle’s illness I should have tried to gain admittance there. M. le Commissaire is also interested. We are colleagues in this affair. You and I agree to forget my rank, Raoul, but for the purposes of this discussion perhaps we should recall it.”

“Good, M. l’lnspector-en-Chef.”

“There’s no reason on earth why you should put yourself out for an English policeman in an affair which, however much it may also concern the French police, hasn’t very much to do with you. Apart from Teresa, for whom you have a preference.”

“There is always Teresa.”

“Are you a discreet man?”

“I don’t chatter like a one-eyed magpie, Monsieur.”

“I believe you. It is known to the police here and in London that the Chèvre d’Argent is used as a place of distribution in a particularly ugly trade.”

“Women, Monsieur?”

“Drugs. Women, it seems, are a purely personal interest. A side-line. I believe neither Dr. Baradi nor Mr. Oberon is a drug addict. They are engaged in the traffic from a business point-of-view. I think that they have cultivated the habit of drug-taking among their guests and are probably using at least one of them as a distributor. Mr. Oberon has also established a cult.”

“A cult, Monsieur?”

“A synthetic religion concocted from scraps of mysticism, witchcraft, mythology, Hinduism, Egyptology, what-have-you, with, I very much suspect, a number of particularly revolting fancy touches invented by Mr. Oberon.”

“Anathema,” Raoul said, “all this is anathema. What do they do?” he added with undisguised interest.

“I don’t know exactly but I must, I’m afraid, find out. There have been other cases of this sort. No doubt there are rites. No doubt the women are willing to be drugged.”

Raoul said: “It appears that I must be firm with Teresa.”

“I should be very firm, Raoul.”

“This morning she is in Roqueville at the market. I am to meet her at my parents’ restaurant, where I shall introduce a firm note. I am disturbed for her. All this, Monsieur, that you have related is borne out by Teresa. On Thursday nights the local servants and some of the other permanent staff are dismissed. It is on Thursday, therefore, that I escort Teresa to her home up in the Paysdoux where she sleeps the night. She has heard a little gossip, not much, because the servants are discreet, but a little. It appears that there is a ceremony in a room which is kept locked at other times. And on Friday nobody appears until late in the afternoon and then with an air of having a formidable gueule de bois. The ladies are strangely behaved on Fridays. It is as if they are half-asleep, Teresa says. And last Friday a young English lady, who has recently arrived, seemed as if she was completely bouleversée; dazed, Monsieur,” Raoul said, making a graphic gesture with one hand. “In a trance. And also as if she had wept.”

“Isn’t Teresa frightened by what she sees on Fridays?”

“That is what I find strange, Monsieur. Yes: she says she is frightened, but it is clear to me that she is also excited. That is what troubles me in Teresa.”

“Did she tell you where the room is? The room that is unlocked on Thursday nights?”

“It is in the lower part of the Château, Monsieur. Beneath the library, Teresa thinks. Two flights beneath.”

“And today is Wednesday.”

“Well, Monsieur?”

“I am in need of an assistant.”

“Yes, Monsieur?”

“If I asked at the Préfecture they would give me the local gendarme, who is doubtless well-known. Or they would send me a clever man from Paris who as a stranger would be conspicuous. But a man of Roqueville who is well-known and yet is accepted as the friend of one of the maids at the Chèvre d’Argent is not conspicuous if he calls. Do you in fact call often to see Teresa?”

“Often, Monsieur.”

“Well, Raoul?”

“Well, Monsieur?”

“Do you care, with M. le Commissaire’s permission, to come adventuring with me on Thursday night?”

“Enchanted,” said Raoul, gracefully.

“It may not be uneventful, you know. They are a formidable lot, up there.”

“That is understood, Monsieur. Again, it will be an act of grace.”

“Good. Here is Roqueville. Drive to the hotel, if you please. I shall see Madame and have some luncheon and at three o’clock I shall call on M. le Commissaire. You will be free until then, but leave me a telephone number and your address.”

“My parents’ restaurant is in the street above that of the hotel. L’Escargot Bienvenu, 20 Rue des Sarrasins. Here is a card, Monsieur, with the telephone number.”

“Right.”

“My father is a good cook. He has not a great repertoire, but his judgment is sound. Such dishes as he makes he makes well. His filets mignons are a speciality of the house, Monsieur, and his sauces are inspired.”

“You interest me profoundly. In the days when there was steak in England, one used to dream of filet mignon but even then one came to France to eat it.”

“Perhaps if Monsieur and Madame find themselves a little weary of the table d’hôte at the Royal they may care to eat cheaply but with satisfaction at L’Escargot Bienvenu.”

“An admirable suggestion.”

“Of course, we are not at all smart. But good breeding,” Raoul said simply, “creates its own background and Monsieur and Madame would not feel out of place. Here is your hotel, Monsieur, and—” His voice changed. “Here is Madame.”

Alleyn was out of the car before it stopped. Troy stood in the hotel courtyard with her clasped hands at her lips and a look on her face that he had never seen there before. When he took her arms in his hands he felt her whole body trembling. She tried to speak to him but at first was unable to find her voice. He saw her mouth frame the word “Ricky.”

“What is it darling?” he said. “What’s the matter with him?” “He’s gone,” she said. “They’ve taken him. They’ve taken Ricky.”

iv

For the rest of their lives they would remember too vividly the seconds in which they stood on the tessellated courtyard of the hotel, plastered by the mid-day sun. Raoul on the footpath watched them and the blank street glared behind him. The air smelt of petrol. There was a smear of magenta bougainvillea on the opposite wall, and in the centre of the street a neat pile of horse-droppings. It was already siesta time and so quiet that they might have been the only people awake in Roqueville.

“I’ll keep my head and be sensible,” Troy whispered. “Won’t I, Rory?”

“Of course. We’ll go indoors and you’ll tell me about it.”

“I want to get into the car and look somewhere for him, but I know that won’t do.”

“I’ll ask Raoul to wait.”

He did so. Raoul listened, motionless. When Alleyn had spoken Raoul said, “Tell Madame it will be all right, Monsieur. Things will come right.” As they turned away he called his reassurances after them and the sound of his words followed them: “Les affaires s’arrangeront. Tout ira bien, Madame.”

Inside the hotel it seemed very dark. A porter sat behind a reception desk and an elegantly dressed man stood in the hall wringing his hands.

Troy said: “This is my husband. This is the manager, Rory. He speaks English. I’m sorry, Monsieur, I don’t know your name.”

“Malaquin, Madame. Mr. Alleyn, I am sure there is some simple explanation — There have been other cases—”

“I’ll come and see you, if I may, when I’ve heard what has happened.”

“But of course. Garçon—”

The porter, looking ineffably compassionate, took them up in the lift. The stifling journey was interminable.