‘Yes,’ Joe admitted. ‘This is technically the night flight, after all. We should touch down just before ten o’clock.’

‘But how will the pilot . . .?’ Hearing the naïveté of her question, Heather fell silent.

‘Beacons all the way along the flight route,’ said Joe confidently. ‘But while the light lasts, he’ll just follow the railway lines. Look – over there!’ He pointed out a group of buildings below. ‘You can see exactly where we are. Do you see – it’s Ashford. That was the railway station. They paint the names of the main stations on the roof in big white letters all the way to Paris. They have emergency landing strips every few miles. And even in the dark the pilot can’t mistake the Eiffel Tower. It’s lit like a Christmas tree!’

Miss Watkins checked every few seconds to see that the wings were wobbling satisfactorily, the railway lines still beneath them, and finally began to relax.

‘Doing anything interesting in Paris?’ Joe asked when he judged she was capable of a sensible reply.

‘Oh, the usual things,’ she said. ‘Shopping and shows for a few days then we’re all off to the south of France. For the tennis tournament.’ She fell silent.

‘Do you observe or compete?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I play. Not very well. I mean I’m not in the Suzanne Lenglen or Helen Wills league yet but I’m improving. The boys,’ she indicated the four young men sitting ahead of them, ‘are all players. My brother Jim – that’s him with the red hair – is the team captain and general organizer. The other two girls are team wives. I’m the odd one out.’

‘Very odd,’ Joe agreed. ‘Most unusual. I’ve never met a lady tennis player before. One who plays seriously.’

‘There aren’t many of us in England. In France it’s thought rather dashing and quite the okay thing to be! We’re even allowed to wear skirts up to our knees over there.’

She rummaged in her handbag. ‘Look – here’s where we’re staying . . . well, you never know. It’s a little hotel on the Left Bank. In the rue Jacob. Handy for the bookshops. And a stone’s throw from the police headquarters, funnily enough . . .’ she added with a gurgle of laughter. ‘It’s right opposite the Quai des Orfèvres!’

‘I’m booked in at the Ambassador on the Right Bank, handy for the Opéra,’ he said lightly. ‘And a few steps away from the department stores. Au Printemps . . . Galeries Lafayette, funnily enough . . . One way or another, I think it’s very likely in the way of business or pleasure our paths will literally cross again. And if my mental map of Paris serves me well, that’ll be just about at Fauchon’s, Place de la Madeleine. In time for what they call “the five o’clock tea”.’

So that was the way to conquer a fear of flying – sit yourself next to a beautiful, athletic redhead and flirt your way there – Joe thought as they began to circle Paris, preparing to land at Le Bourget airfield just to the northeast. He wished he’d suggested something a little less staid than a salon de thé. The Deux Magots in St Germain would have struck a more adventurous note. Well, it was just a few stops on the electric tram and taxis were everywhere.

‘How are you getting in to the city?’ Joe asked. ‘It’s quite a few kilometres distant . . .’

‘Oh, Jim’s ordered a couple of taxis. You?’

‘A colleague from the Quai des Orfèvres is coming to collect me. In a police car, I expect,’ said Joe. ‘All screeching sirens and flashing lights – that would be his style!’

He smiled at the mention of his colleague and relished the thought of the warm greetings they would exchange. Inspector Bonnefoye. Late of Reims. Now, thanks to his undeniable talent and his great charm, promoted to the Police Judiciaire squad in Paris. A useful contact. Relations between the English and the French police departments were not often easy. Joe had made known his plans for attending the conference and Bonnefoye, with Gallic insouciance, had set about pulling strings and calling in favours, making promises – who knew what? – to get himself appointed to the French contingent at the Interpol jamboree. Not that Bonnefoye seemed prepared to take it seriously. His telephone conversations had been full of plans of an entertaining nature which had little to do with international crime fighting.

The Argosy circled the Eiffel Tower, Joe judged for the satisfaction of the passengers rather than in response to any navigational imperative, then headed off to the northeast and lined itself up, head into the wind facing an illuminated landing strip, and made a delicate touchdown. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

It was the stewards’ odd behaviour that warned Joe. Suddenly unconfident, they advised the passengers to remain seated: ‘. . . until we have taxied up to the hangar. There appears to be an impediment on the runway,’ one of them improvised. The other climbed the stairs communicating with the cockpit to confer with the crew and he returned looking no less puzzled. The doors remained closed. No staff came forward to open the door and release them. And something was going on outside the plane.

Peering through the gloom, Joe saw, to his astonishment, shadows moving on the tarmacked runway, lights from torches and flares skittering everywhere. The passengers sat on, docile and puzzled.

Joe got to his feet and, with a calming gesture to the two stewards, made his way down the gangway to the front of the plane. With a bland smile he murmured: ‘I speak a little French.’ They nodded dubiously and made no attempt to remonstrate with him. No one ever challenged a man confident enough to make such an assertion on foreign soil, he found. He nipped up the steps and located the two pilots seated in the open cockpit.

‘Captain! Commander Sandilands here. Scotland Yard. What’s the problem?’

‘Problem? I’ll say!’ came the shouted reply. ‘People! It’s worse than a football crowd. Look at them! They’re standing ten deep up there on the viewing gallery. And they’re milling around everywhere, all over the runways. Damned dangerous, if you ask me! And where are the airport staff? Can’t move until they’ve cleared this mob away. What the hell’s going on? Some strange French Saturday night entertainment?’

‘Oh, no!’ Joe groaned. ‘I think I can guess what’s going on. It’s Charles Lindbergh! Attempting the transatlantic crossing. It was on the wireless – he was sighted over Ireland this afternoon. Made much better time than anyone expected and I’d guess this mob’s gathered to watch him land. We must have beaten him to it by a few minutes. Dashed inconvenient! And we’re a huge disappointment to all these idiots on the runway. It’s not us they’ve come out from Paris to see. Ah, look! At last – they’ve twigged. They’re pushing off, I think. They’ll leave us alone now.’

‘Lucky Lindy!’ said the captain. ‘Well, well! Never thought he’d do it! I can see a space now. Sir – would you mind returning to your seat? I think I can get through to the hangar.’

Joe made his way back to his place, passing on the news to the passengers as he moved down the aisle. Heather Watkins was thrilled to hear it and at once called forward to her brother: ‘Jim! I want to stay to see Charles Lindbergh! Take care of my luggage, will you? If we get separated I’ll meet you back at the hotel!’

Joe was amused to hear the decisive and energetic girl emerge from the heap of anxiety he had sat next to for three hours but felt he ought to offer advice: ‘Do hang on to someone’s arm, Miss Watkins. It’s a menacing scene out there. Stay close to your group!’

The plane taxied on to an apron by the Imperial Airways hangar and, with no exterior staff in evidence, the stewards opened the door themselves and released the passengers on to the tarmac. They stood, paralysed, unable to negotiate the crowds, wondering which way to turn. Joe’s eyes were searching for the familiar form of a police car when he felt his arm seized by a strong hand.