‘I am here, not in the capacity of Metropolitan London detective, madame, but working under the auspices of Interpol. You are aware of Interpol?’

She nodded, puzzled.

‘The French authorities investigating the problem have cast doubt on the man’s nationality. There is a suspicion that he may, in fact, be English and Interpol called on us to check this. Being an ex-soldier myself and having some experience of this part of the land and the French language, I was deputed to look into the matter.’

‘And you start your enquiry with me? I am flattered by your attention, monsieur, but suspicious as to your motives. Mireille is a valued colleague and I do not feel easy discussing her private life with you. As soon as you leave I shall telephone her and warn her that you are sniffing along on her trail.’

She would have delivered a further broadside but was distracted by the side-door bell which rang out, signalling more serious business. At once her anger evaporated and her professional mask of calm understanding descended.

Joe didn’t wait to be dismissed. ‘The back door?’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He reached for her hand and held it. ‘I have heard all that you have said, madame, and am truly grateful for the time you have spent talking to me.’ On impulse, he clicked his heels, raised her hand and kissed it and made at once for the door.

Preoccupied with his encounter, he checked his watch anxiously on finding he’d taken a wrong turning and only managed to steer his way back to the car by remembering Dorcas’s request to be parked in front of the Galeries Lafayette. He was a little later than he had hoped to be and was not surprised to see the car door being flung open impatiently for him as he neared it.

It was a moment before he noticed. ‘What’s that strange smell?’

Dorcas waggled her head about and stared at him until he realized.

‘Good Lord! What have you done with your hair?’

The wretched girl was wearing almost the same haircut as the madame he had just left.

‘I thought I’d just slip into the coiffeur over there and have it trimmed. It looks far more modern, don’t you agree? Estelle who did it said it was about time. No French girl has had long hair like mine for years. She trained in Paris, you know. This is the look all the mannequins have. She waved it with setting lotion – that’s what you can smell. I’m very pleased with it.’ She glared at him from under the fringe, disappointed by his silence. ‘And so will be Aunt Lydia. She told me I might have it done if I wished. She even gave me some money for it,’ she lied.

‘Yes, she’s bound to like it, Dorcas. And so do I. I think. In fact, I’m almost sure. I suppose, as our friend the sculptor said, “I shall just have to get used to it.” Bit old-fashioned, I’m afraid. But young Georges at the château will love it. Bound to!

‘Now, if you’re prepared, I think you could well accompany me to the rue Baudricourt to meet Mademoiselle Desforges who turns out to be the entirely respectable owner of a tailoring and design establishment. Another example of post-war female enterprise.’

Dorcas grinned. ‘Men had better watch out. Soon all that’ll be left for you to do is fight each other.’

Gold lettering on the dark blue fascia of a renovated shop announced her business: Desforges, Tailleur. Confection de Dames. Paris Reims. As an illustration, one window showed a single gown discreetly lit. A carved mannequin turned its back with insouciance on the window-shopper, showing off a black cocktail dress in mousseline de soie. The low-cut neckline dipped almost to the waist, silk ribbons floated from the shoulders and a long rope of pearls swung teasingly down the back. Dorcas stared in fascination.

The elderly servant who answered the bell was resentful of their presence on the doorstep. She greeted them, grudgingly acknowledging that Mademoiselle was expecting them. ‘She is very busy and can only afford you a short interview,’ she added.

‘Thank you, Marie. I’ll take our guests through to my office. You must be the Scottish policeman but I had no idea you had an assistant. Ah? Your niece. I’m delighted to meet you, mademoiselle.’ The voice was low and musical, the figure they followed along a corridor was youthful and slim, charming in its navy linen dress and white collar. She paused before a door and turned to them, a finger raised in warning. ‘Here I must ask you to step with care – we’re about to pass through the machine room. The girls are busy with a rush order for a Paris nightclub. They are always rush orders! And it all moves so quickly these days. Every week a new cabaret opens and we’ll have barely filled their first order before they’ve changed their star and the new prima donna demands an entirely different set of costumes.’

To Joe’s amusement the ten girls pedalling on treadle sewing machines were churning out a series of extremely short skirts in yellow and green. Mademoiselle Desforges laughed and picked up one of the outfits.

‘This week it’s bananas – with the odd discreetly placed green leaf, of course. Suddenly everyone wants tropical fruit. Next week . . . who knows?’

‘Surely that’s . . .?’ Joe began.

‘The divine Miss Baker. Yes. Costumes for her new show. Josephine designed the original – bananas threaded on to a string – but you can imagine the dangers! Energetic dancer that she is, that delicious derrière is in danger of exposure at any moment. And perhaps that’s the point, but we are engaged to kit out a whole chorus line with something a little more substantial and durable.’ She tugged at the waistband to demonstrate the strength. ‘You see? We wouldn’t want an unforeseen event on the front row stealing the limelight from the leading lady!’

A further room was crossed, this one crowded with racks and rails of colourful garments, an Aladdin’s cave for Dorcas who managed, by loitering, to finger some of the satins and furs as they passed by. Catching her interest, Mireille loitered alongside identifying some of the costumes. ‘. . . and this one, all diamanté and red feathers, is a commission from Max for the Folies Bergères and these will be worn by Mistinguett . . . she opens in Ça c’est Paris at the Moulin Rouge later this year. Ah! Those are for the Dolly Sisters at the Casino de Paris . . .’

Joe’s impatient throat-clearing and foot-tapping went unregarded and it seemed an eternity before they broke free of the frou-frous and entered her office.

The room was small and, in contrast with the previous display, spartan in appearance. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of ledgers. A third wall was covered with tacked-up music hall posters of a style and radiance that caught Joe’s eye. Mistinguett, Barbette, Doriane flaunted extravagant confections of feathers and chiffon revealing tempting glimpses of long performers’ limbs and bold eyes. ‘Your designs, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘I wish I could say so. No. I pin them there for inspiration. The artist is Charles Gesmar. Have you heard of him? He is depressingly young but a genius, I think.’

The desk taking up most of the floor space was polished and clear but for a note pad and an elaborate black and gold telephone. An open french window gave on to a small courtyard bright with flowers. Joe settled to take his first steady look at Mademoiselle Desforges. Older than her silhouette suggested, she must have been about his own age. Her fine skin was beginning to line but the high cheekbones, the well-shaped mouth and the tilted hazel eyes would ensure that she remained a beautiful woman. Her gaze was intelligent, her gestures responsive. An actress. Yes, that expressive face, those controlled but slightly exaggerated movements were those of an actress. He was on his guard.

Most people he interviewed automatically put on a mask for the occasion even if they had nothing to hide. Nine times out of ten he would patiently prise away the mask only to find the same innocent features hiding underneath. On the tenth occasion something dark and hideous would be exposed.