‘No, I can’t. But I’ll tell you what, Bonnefoye – the wretched man’s gone off to bed leaving us with a mass of things to do tomorrow. I say, will you . . .?’

‘Yes. I’ve arranged for a deputy to take my place and bring me notes of the conference afterwards. I’ll be of far better use to international crime-fighting if I pursue this case actively. We’ll allocate tasks in the morning . . . Though I leave the Embassy to you – I think you have the entrée!’

‘And, speaking of entrées – your evening, Bonnefoye. How did you get on in the boulevard du Montparnasse?’

‘Ah, yes! Mount Parnassus, home of Apollo and the Muses! Well, there was music and verse, certainly, but it wasn’t at all classical. The address Francine Raissac gave you turned out to be a jazz café. And, you know, Joe, I’d have gone in there anyway! The music I heard as I was passing was irresistible. The performers were a mixture of black and white. There was a guitar but a guitar played very fast, a violin and a clarinet and something else I can’t remember . . . a saxophone? Odd assortment of instruments – you’d swear they only just met and put it together. But brilliant! And the crowd was loving it.’

‘Did it have a name, your café?’ asked Joe, intrigued.

‘Oh Lord! Some animal . . . they’re all called after birds or animals, have you noticed? Le Perroquet . . . Le Boeuf sur le Toit . . . L’Hirondelle . . . Le Lapin Agile . . . And here’s another one – Le Lapin Blanc – that was it. It’s a bit further out than the Dôme and not as far as the Closerie des Lilas.’

‘What sort of people were in the crowd? Did you know any of them?’

‘No one on our books, if that’s what you mean. Upright citizens, I’d say. Large number of Americans – you’d expect it in that part of Paris. Poets, painters, photographers and their models and muses all packing the place out. Sixth arrondissement bohemian, to use an old-fashioned word! But living up to it – you know, a bit self-conscious and not the real thing. Every client looking over his shoulder spotting the latest outrageous artist. And every outrageous artist looking over his shoulder spotting the mouchards from the police anti-national department. Who’s likely to be snitching on them? The local commissariat is still on the alert for extreme views of one sort or another. Marxism, Fascism, intellectualism. Dadaism. Is that a word? They especially don’t like that! We’re supposed to be on the watch for it. Not sure what we’re expected to do with it if we find it . . .’

‘Anyone spot you?’

‘No, indeed! I thought I blended in rather well. And no one was making inflammatory statements. The clientele weren’t annoying anyone when I was there. Usual mixture of thrill-seekers and thrill-providers. Well-heeled but quirky. Silk scarves rather than ties, two-tone shoes, little black dresses and cocktail hats – you’d have felt very much at home, Joe.’

‘I’d never wear a cocktail hat to a café,’ muttered Joe.

‘Unless you were going on somewhere. No . . . the seediest customers were a couple of gigolos . . . nothing too flamboyant . . . and a pair of politicians. The rest were businessmen, rich tourists and poseurs, I’d say. It’s obviously the place to be seen this month.’

‘Nothing unusual? No dope? No under-the-counter absinthe?’

‘None that I noticed and I notice more than most. The only odd thing, and it didn’t occur to me until I was on the point of leaving, was that two of the men had gone off into the back quarters, separately, and neither had come out again. I followed the second of them after a discreet interval. Cloakrooms, as you’d expect. The gentlemen’s accommodation was impressive – as good as a top hotel – and I’d assume the ladies’ was of equal comfort. Nothing untoward going on. The man I was pursuing was not in the room. He’d disappeared. Alongside the cloakrooms was a carpeted staircase.’

‘You didn’t resist?’

‘Whistling casually, I followed on up to a landing. A table with a lavish display of flowers and three closed doors. No numbers. They each had a – fanlight? – a pane of glass over the top. Well, I judge the management have some sort of mirror system in place because the middle door opened at once, before I’d even knocked, and a maître d’hôtel type appeared. Large, ugly, unwelcoming but exquisitely polite. Well trained. He sent me straight back downstairs. I was trespassing on private property, apparently.’

‘Some sort of house of ill repute, are you thinking? A house of assignation?’

‘Yes. Something in the nature of the Sphinx which is close by – just off the boulevard by the cemetery. There’s a call for it. Tourists seeking thrills and well able to pay over the odds for their indulgence. And citizens come over from the affluent Right Bank into the Latin Quarter in search of a slight frisson of danger, a whiff of spice, but not the out and out dissolution on offer round every corner in Montmartre. Another attraction is that the maisons d’illusion of this type guarantee anonymity. From a perfectly innocent meeting place, thronged with people – like the jazz club – clients present themselves, are checked and gain entrance through an antechamber. They leave through a different door. All very discreet. You could run into your brother-in-law who’s an archdeacon and you needn’t blush for your presence there. You’d be just another fan of that wonderful saxophonist.’

‘This Sphinx you mentioned . . .?’

‘. . . is generally reckoned the top of the tree. It’s reputed for the calibre of its girls. They started with fifteen and now have about fifty. Beautiful of course but also well-educated and charming – good conversationalists. Many of them – or so it’s said – have aristocratic pretensions: Russian princesses, Roumanian countesses, English nannies.’

‘Top drawer stuff!’

‘And it’s fresh and modern. Forget the red plush decadence of the Chabanais and the One-Two-Two! The Sphinx is avant-garde, art deco . . . Good Lord! It’s even air-conditioned! It’s the sort of place where responsible fathers take their sons for their first serious experience with the fair sex.’

‘And our nameless establishment over the White Rabbit jazz club may have set up as a rival?’

‘Perfectly possible. There’s an increasing demand. Every luxury liner disgorges thousands of eager sensation-seekers. Restaurants, theatre, night spots – they’ve never been so busy. And of course the brothels are going to cash in too. The Corsicans who used to run this side of life have suddenly lost authority and the market’s ripe for the taking. The North Africans are moving in but there’s a strong challenge from the lads of the thirteenth arrondissement. They’re flexing their muscles, getting Grandpa’s zarin down from the attic, and are ready for the fight.’ Bonnefoye became suddenly serious as he added: ‘But more than knives. Some of them have guns they didn’t turn in after the war ended. And the men themselves . . . they’re not untried lads. They survived the war. They’re trained killers. Killers who perhaps got used to the excitement of war and miss it?’

‘But if the guard dog was told not to admit a clean-cut and clearly solvent chap like yourself – well, that’s a bit strange, isn’t it? I’d have expected them to have dragged you in the moment you stuck your head over the parapet.’

‘Yes. I was quite miffed! I went back down into the bar and got myself a drink. Found myself next to the two I’d marked down as politicians – I vaguely recognized one and, since they were talking about government grants on animal fodder in Normandy, I think I got that right. I’d parked myself next to the two most boring men in the room! I knocked back my vermouth and was on the point of leaving when the conversation next to me started to break up. It’s always worth while listening when goodbyes are being said. People say things with their guard down that perhaps they ought not to – and more loudly.’