“I agree,” Alleyn said.

“We shall be wiser when their message arrives, as arrive it assuredly will. There is also the matter of this Mademoiselle Garbel whose name is in the books and who has some communication with the Compagnie Chimique des Alpes Maritimes, which may very well be better named the Compagnie pour l’Elaboration de Diacetylmorphine. She is the ‘raquette,’ no doubt, and you have enquired for her.”

“For him. We thought: ‘him.’ ”

“Darling,” Alleyn said, “can you remember the letters pretty clearlyT’

“No,” said poor Troy, “how should I? I only know they were full of dreary information about buses and roads and houses.”

“Have you ever checked the relationship?”

“No. He — she — talked about distant cousins who I knew had existed but were nearly all dead.”

“Did she ever write about my job?”

“I don’t think, directly. I don’t think she ever wrote things like ‘how awful’ or ‘how lovely’ to be married to a chief detective-inspector. She said things about my showing her letters to my distinguished husband, who would no doubt be interested in their contents.”

“And, unmitigated clod that I am, I wasn’t. My dear Dupont,” Alleyn said, “I’ve been remarkably stupid. I think this lady has been trying to warn me about the activities of the drug racket in the Paysdoux.”

“But I thought,” Troy said, “I thought it was beginning to look as if it was she who had taken Ricky. Weren’t the flowers a means of getting into our rooms while I was at luncheon? Wasn’t the message about being away a blind? Doesn’t it took as if she’s one of the gang? She knew we were coming here. If she wanted to tell you about the drug racket why did she go away?”

“Why indeed? We don’t know why she went away.”

“Rory, I don’t want to be a horror, but — No,” said Troy, “I won’t say it.”

“I’ll say it for you. Why in Heaven’s name can’t we do something about Ricky instead of sitting here gossiping about Miss Garbel?”

“But, dear Madame,” cried M. Dupont, “we are doing things about Ricketts. Only—” M. Dupont continued, fortunately mistaking for an agonized sob the snort of hysteria that had escaped Troy —“only by an assemblage of the known facts can we arrive at a rational solution. Moreover, if the former case is to be imitated we shall certainly receive a message and it is important that we are here when it arrives. In the meantime all precautions have been taken. But all!”

“I know,” Troy said, “I’m terribly sorry. I know.”

“You brought Miss Garbel’s last letter, darling. Let’s have a look at it.”

“I’ll get it.”

Troy was not very good at keeping things tidy. She had a complicated rummage in her travelling case and handbag before she unearthed the final Garbel letter, which she handed with an anxious look to Alleyn. It was in a crumpled condition and he spread it out on the arm of his chair. “Here it is,” he said, and read aloud.

“Hell’s boots!” Alleyn said. “Under our very noses! Pays Dopes indeed, District of Dopes and Dope pays.” He read on:

“Oh Lord!” Alleyn lamented. “Why didn’t I read this before we left? We have been so bloody superior over this undoubtedly admirable spinster.”

“Please?” said M. Dupont.

“Listen to this, Dupont. Suppose this lady, who is a qualified chemist, was in the hands of the drug racket. Suppose she worked for them. Suppose she wanted to let someone in authority in England know what goes on inside the racket. Now. Do you imagine that there is any reason why she shouldn’t write what she knows to this person and put the letter in the post?”

“There is good reason to suppose she might fear to do so, Mr. Chief,” rejoined Dupont, who no doubt considered that the time had come for a more familiar mode of address. “As an Englishwoman she is perhaps not quite trusted in the ‘raquette.’ Her correspondence may be watched. Someone who can read English at the bureau-de-poste may be bribed. Perhaps she merely suspects that this may be so. They are thorough, these blackguards. Their net is fine in the mesh.”

“So she writes her boring letters and every time she writes, she drops a veiled hint, hoping I may see the letter. The Chèvre d’Argent is about thirty kilometres west on the Route Maritime. She tells us by means of tedious phrases, ferocious puns, and used bus tickets that she is a visitor there. How did she address her letters. Troy?”

“To ‘Agatha Troy.’ She said in her first letter that she understood that I would prefer to be addressed by my professional name. Like an actress, she added, though not in other respects. With the usual row of ejaculation marks. I don’t think she ever used your name. You were always my brilliant and distinguished husband!”

“And is my face red!” said Alleyn. M. Dupont’s was puzzled. Alleyn continued reading the letter.

“Really—” Alleyn said, handling the letter back to Troy— “short of cabling: ‘Drug barons at work come and catch them’ she could scarcely have put it more clearly.”

“You didn’t read the letters. I only told you about bits of them. I ought to have guessed.”

“Well, it’s no good blackguarding ourselves. Look here, both of you. Suppose we’re on the right track about Miss Garbel. Suppose, for some reason, she’s in the racket yet wants to put me wise about it, and has hoped to lure me over here. Why, when Troy writes and tells her we’re coming, does she go away without explanation?”

“And why,” Troy interjected, “does she send flowers by someone who used them as a means of kidnapping Ricky and taking him to her flat?”

“The card on the flowers isn’t in her writing.”

“She might have telephoned the florist”

“Which can be checked,” said M. Dupont, “of course. Will you allow me? This, I assume is the bouquet”

He inspected the box of tuberoses. “Ah, yes. Le Pot des Fleurs. May I telephone, Madame?”