He straightened up, shut the wardrobe door with extreme deliberation and contemplated the concierge, still seated like some obscene goddess, in the middle of the room.

“You disgusting old bag of tripes,” Alleyn said thoughtfully in English, “you little know what a fool I’ve been making of myself.”

And he went out to the balcony.

ii

He stood where so short a time ago he had seen Ricky stand and looked across the intervening rooftops to one that bore a large sign: Hotel Royal. Troy had left the bed-cover hanging over the rail of their balcony.

“A few minutes ago,” Alleyn said, returning to the immovable concierge, “from the Hôtel Royal over there I saw my son who was here, Madame, on this balcony.”

“It would require the eyes of a hawk to recognize a little boy at that distance. Monsieur is mistaken.”

“It required the aid of binoculars and those I had.”

“Possibly the son of the laundress who was on the premises and has now gone.”

“I saw you, Madame, take the hand of my son, who like yourself was clearly recognizable, and lead him indoors.”

“Monsieur is mistaken. I have not left my office since this morning. Monsieur will be good enough to take his departure. I do not insist,” the concierge said magnificently, “upon an apology”

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, taking a mille franc note from his pocket-book, “you will accept this instead.”

He stood well away from her, holding it out. The eyes glistened and the painted lips moved, but she did not rise. For perhaps four seconds they confronted each other. Then she said, “If Monsieur will wait downstairs I shall be pleased to join him. I have another room to visit.”

Alleyn bowed, stooped and pounced. His hand shot along the floor and under the hem of the heavy skirt. She made a short angry noise and tried to trample on the hand. One of her heels caught his wrist.

“Calm yourself, Madame. My intentions are entirely honourable.”

He stepped back neatly and extended his arm, keeping the hand closed.

“A strange egg, Madame Blanche,” Alleyn said, “for a respectable hen to lay.”

He opened his hand. Across the palm lay a little clay goat, painted silver.

iii

From that moment the proceedings in Number 16 Rue des Violettes were remarkable for their unorthodoxy.

Alleyn said: “You have one chance. Where is the boy?”

She closed her eyes and hitched her colossal shoulders up to her earrings.

“Very good,” Alleyn said and walked out of the room. She had left the key in the lock. He turned it and withdrew the bunch.

It did not take long to go through the rest of the building. For the rooms that were unoccupied he found a master-key. As he crossed each threshold he called once: “Ricky?” and then made a rapid search. In the occupied rooms his visits bore the character of a series of disconnected shots on a cinema screen. He exposed in rapid succession persons of different ages taking their siestas in varying degrees of déshabillé. On being told that there was no small boy within, he uttered a word of apology and under the dumbfounded gaze of spinsters, elderly gentlemen, married or romantic couples and, in one instance, an outraged Negress of uncertain years, walked in, opened cupboards, looked under and into beds and, with a further apology, walked out again.

The concierge had begun to thump on the door of the principal apartment of the sixth floor.

On the ground floor he found a crisp bright-eyed man with a neat moustache, powerful shoulders and an impressive uniform.

“M. l’Inspecteur-en-Chef, Alleyn? Allow me to introduce myself. Dupont of the Sûreté, at present acting as Commissary at the Préfecture, Roqueville.” He spoke fluent English with a marked accent. “So we are already in trouble,” she said as they shook hands. “I have spoken to Madame Alleyn and to Milano. And the boy is not yet found?”

Alleyn quickly related what had happened.

“And the woman Blanche? Where is she, my dear Inspecteur-en-Chef?”

“She is locked in the apartment of Miss P.E. Garbel on the sixth floor. The distant thumping which perhaps you can hear is produced by the woman Blanche.”

The Commissary smiled all over his face. “And we are reminded how correct is the deportment of Scotland Yard. Let us leave her to her activities and complete the search. As we do so will you perhaps be good enough to continue your report.”

Alleyn complied and they embarked on an exploration of the unsavoury private apartments of Madame Blanche. Alleyn checked at a list of telephone numbers and pointed to the third. “The Château Chèvre d’Argent,” he said.

“Indeed? Very suggestive,” said M. Dupont; and with a startling and incredible echo from Baker Street added, “Pray continue your most interesting narrative while we explore the basement.”

But Ricky was not in any room on the ground floor nor in the cellar under the house. “Undoubtedly they have removed him,” said Dupont, “when they saw you wave from your balcony. I shall at once warn my confrères in the surrounding districts. There are not many roads out of Roqueville and all cars can be checked. We then proceed with a tactful but thorough investigation of the town. This affair is not without precedent. Have no fear for your small son. He will come to no harm. Excuse me. I shall telephone from the office of the woman Blanche. Will you remain or would you prefer to rejoin Madame?”

“Thank you. I will have a word with her if I may.”

“Implore her,” M. Dupont said briskly, “to remain calm. The affair will arrange itself. The small one is in no danger.” He bowed and went into the cubby-hole. As he went out Alleyn heard the click of a telephone dial.

A police-car was drawn up by the kerb outside Number 16. Alleyn crossed the road to Raoul’s car.

There was no need to calm Troy: she was very quiet indeed, and perfectly collected. She looked ill with anxiety but she smiled at him and said: “Bad luck, darling. No sign?”

“Some signs,” he said, resting his arms on the door beside her. “Dupont agrees with me that it’s an attempt to keep me occupied. He’s sure Ricky’s all right.”

“He was there, wasn’t he? We did see him?”

Alleyn said: “We did see him,” and after a moment’s hesitation he took the little silver goat from his pocket. “He left it behind him.” Raoul ejaculated: “La petite chèvre d’argent.”

Troy’s lips quivered. She took the goat in her hands and folded it between them. “What do we do now?”

“Dupont is stopping all cars driving out of Roqueville and will order a house-to-house search in the town. He’s a good man.”

“I’m sure he is,” Troy said politely. She looked terrified. “You’re not going back to Chèvre d’Argent, are you? You’re not going to call their bluff?”

“We’re going to take stock.” Alleyn closed his hand over hers. “I know one wants to drive off madly in all directions, yelling for Ricky but honestly, darling, that’s not the form for this kind of thing. We’ve got to take stock. So far we’ve scarcely had time to think, much less reason.”

“It’s just — when he knows he’s lost — it’s his nightmare — mislaying us.”

Two gendarmes, smart in their uniforms and sun-helmets, rode past on bicycles, turned into the Rue des Violettes, dismounted and went into Number 16.

“Dupont’s chaps,” said Alleyn. “Now we shan’t be long. And I have got one bit of news for you. Cousin Garbel is a spinster.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“His name is Penelope and he wears a straw hat trimmed with parma violets.”

Troy said: “Don’t muddle me, darling. I’m so desperately addled already.”