Joe must have been looking shocked. With a wary eye on him, Heather asked anxiously if she’d done the right thing.

‘Exactly the right thing. Wonderful presence of mind, Heather!’

She was encouraged to ask quietly: ‘Who was he, Joe?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said and, displeased by his answer which, though true, was unsatisfying and unworthy for a girl who had, by her quick thought and courage, most probably saved George’s life, he added: ‘Someone sent to tidy up a loose end, I fear. Thank God you were here, Heather, holding the gate!’

When Heather had left, Joe turned from the door to survey the loose end. Sir George had fallen fast asleep again and a gentle, rhythmic rumbling suggested it might go on for a few hours.

Thoughtfully, Joe picked up the deck of cards and put them away, then settled to write up some notes in his book. He had depressingly little. He drew arrows from one word to another, isolated some in balloons, began again. Times might prove vital, he felt, and he reconstructed the day as accurately as he could from several perspectives. He looked again at his material, searching for links, threads, coincidences even and finding none. The only words that compelled his attention were the words Francine had used: ‘He . . . They . . .’

And an address in Montparnasse.

* * *

At precisely five o’clock, Joe was waiting by the door and heard Bonnefoye’s quick rap and his voice identifying himself. He entered, seemed reassured by the peaceful scene and said as much.

‘Yes, old mate, and it’s by the grace of God and Miss Watkins that George there is sleeping the sleep of the just and not the just dead. Why didn’t you tell me you knew his life might be at risk? I’d not have left him!’

‘What! You mean to say . . .? But tell me, man!’ Bonnefoye’s dismay was acute.

Joe repeated Heather’s account of her sinister visitor and Jean-Philippe groaned and exclaimed. ‘And, coming after my interview with Francine Raissac who raised not a few suspicions in my mind, I’ve been sitting here, imagining horrors.’

‘But I didn’t seriously expect anyone to try to get in,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘You know me – careful, exact, always taking precautions . . .’ Joe wondered whether he really did know Bonnefoye. ‘I thought . . . just in case those buggers at headquarters decided to change their minds – not unknown! – and rearrest Sir George, we’d give them the runaround for a bit. Good girl, though! I say – I would think twice about playing tennis against her, wouldn’t you . . . or any other sport, come to that. I told her to repel boarders, yes. And I took the precaution of asking them at Reception to cancel George’s booking. Said he was shaken up and going to stay down the road at the Embassy and all enquiries should be sent there. Meantime my friend Miss Watkins would be pleased to take the room for the next two days. I gave them her details. It ought to have looked right in the books. The management know who I am,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘They wouldn’t annoy the PJ. And I can’t see them divulging details of an English guest to anyone. Large part of their clientele are British diplomats. They wouldn’t want to upset one.

‘But, Joe, what’s all this about Mademoiselle Raissac? What were you doing over there in Montmartre? And what’s the connection?’

‘Like you, I saw from Fourier’s notes that the girl was only telling a part of the story. In her job, she would be able to give a far more detailed description of the disappearing witness. She was hiding something. I thought I’d get over there and find out what it was before she disappeared herself.’

Joe recounted his interview, down to the last detail of his confrontation with the streetwalker. ‘Well, that’s me. And now – do tell – what did you and your moustache manage to charm out of her?’

Bonnefoye looked aside shiftily, Joe thought.

‘Not charm. No time for charm. Living up to the rough-tough image of the PJ, I’m afraid. And I had some bad news to impart.’

‘What have you got on her? She seemed to me, if not innocent exactly, at least uninvolved in shady goings-on?’

‘She’s a law-abiding woman – your impression was right. Agreeable and hard-working. And very protective of her younger brother who is none of those things. We have nothing against Mademoiselle Raissac but young Alfred has a sheet as long as your arm.’

‘Good Lord! She didn’t mention him. A Parisian?’

‘Lives in the thirteenth arrondissement. On the fringes of the student quarter. Bad area. Full of thugs and villains. Thirty years ago, he’d have been running with a gang of Apaches.’

‘Apaches? Why do you French always speak of those villains in a hushed tone? Dead and gone, aren’t they? Nothing but a musical-comedy memory?’

‘I looked up the word one day,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Couldn’t think why French gangsters should be named after a tribe of North American Indians . . . you know – Geronimo’s mob. And, after a while, you realize you’ve left it too long and it becomes impossible to actually ask anyone without being laughed at. It’s from a native word, àpachu, meaning “enemy”. And the tribe in question was notorious for the savagery and boldness of its attacks. They had a certain style.’

There it was again, that word. Francine Raissac had used it, hadn’t she? Or had he used it himself?

‘And a dashing image was what the Parisian Apaches aimed for! They wore hats with visors pulled low over their faces, red scarves, polished boots, waistcoat, black trousers and a stiletto. A uniform. Liked to see themselves and their exploits all over the front pages of the press. They swore undying loyalty to each other and, though gangs fought each other all over Paris, they’d always join forces to take on the police. There were those who found that sort of skulduggery attractive. Smart. Some romantic fool wrote a poem about them. It’s suspected that they actually hired themselves out to stage knife fights on the pavements in front of particular cafés to attract customers. Nothing like a little frisson with your absinthe!

‘And they had a very short way with informers. They didn’t take bribes and they didn’t squeal. Vermin! But stylish vermin. They disappeared in the war. Swept up for cannon fodder. And now it seems they’ve been reborn.’

‘The Sons of the Apaches?’ Joe’s voice was laced with irony.

‘Just so. They’re alive and kicking on the fringes of the boulevards. And this lot are tougher and smarter and less conspicuous. They don’t advertise themselves and they avoid being written up in the press but the crime figures speak for them. Never stray south of the boulevard St Michel after dark, Joe!’

‘And poor little Francine has a brother mixed up with this crew?’

‘Francine doesn’t acknowledge her brother. Claims to have cast him off. Never mentions him. Did she mention him to you? No! She pretends he doesn’t exist. But I’ve seen the records. She’s always there in court pleading for him with the magistrate, bailing him out, when things go wrong for him. I think he’s used up a lot of her money. Drug user when he can get his hands on the stuff. Do anything for the price of the next shot . . . you know the sort of thing. But if he’s not in the centre exactly of the criminal underworld, he hears things that ripple out. Might have passed them on to his sister. That’s probably the stuff she was spinning into a tale for you. The framework of a few authentic details and a lot of embroidery on top – she’s good at that. Send the impressionable copper away thinking he’s heard something useful from a helpful citizen when all he’s got is a headful of nonsense.’

‘Not a very flattering picture but I do hope you’re right,’ said Joe soberly. ‘Because the alternative might be to suppose that Heather and George were standing a whisker away from the stilettos of the Sons of the Apaches.’