M. Callard turned to Alleyn: “How much of all that did you get?” he asked.

Alleyn said: “Not a great deal. When he talks to us he talks slowly. But I’m sure—”

“Pardon me,” M. Callard said, and turned smilingly to Raoul.

“My friend,” he said, “You are undoubtedly a conscientious man. But I assure you that you are making a mistake. Mistakes can cost a lot of money. On the other hand, they sometimes yield a profit. As much, for the sake of argument, as five thousand francs. Do you follow me?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps—” suggested M. Callard thrusting his unoccupied hand casually into his breast pocket —“when we are alone I may have an opportunity to make my meaning plainer and more acceptable.”

“I regret. I shall still be unable to follow it,” Raoul said.

M. Callard drew a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his lips with it. “Sacré nigaud,” he said pleasantly and shot a venomous glance at Raoul before turning to Troy and Alleyn.

“My dear good people,” he said expansively, “I’m afraid this boy has kidded you along quite a bit. He admits that he did not get a good look at the child. He was up on the hillside with a dame and his attention was — well, now,” said M. Callard smirking at Troy, “shall we say, kind of semi-detached. It’s what I thought. He’s told you what he figures you’d like to be told and if you ask him again he’ll roll out the same tale all over.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe that,” said Alleyn.

“I’m afraid you don’t have an alternative,” said M. Callard. He turned on Raoul. “Fichez-moi le camp,” he said toughly,

“What’s that?” Alleyn demanded.

“I’ve told him to get out.”

“Vous permettez, Madame, Monsieur?” Raoul asked and placed himself between the two men with his back to M. Callard.

“What?” Alleyn said. He winked at Raoul. Raoul responded with an ineffable grimace. “What? Oh, all right. All right. Oui. Allez.”

With a bow to Troy and another that was rather less respectful than a nod to M. Callard, Raoul went out. Alleyn walked up to the desk and took up his former position.

“I’m not satisfied,” he said.

“That’s too bad.”

“I must ask you to let me search this building.”

“You!” said M. Callard and laughed. “Pardon my mirth but I guess there’d be two of you gone missing if you tried that one. This is quite a building, Mr. — ” he glanced again at Alleyn’s note —“Mr. Alleyn.”

“If it’s as big as all that your secretary’s enquiries were too brief to be effective. I don’t believe any enquiries have been made.”

“Look!” M. Callard said, and smacked the top of his desk with a flat palm. “This sound system operates throughout these works. I can speak to every department or all departments together. We don’t have to go round on a hiking trip when we make general enquiries. Now!”

“Thank you,” Alleyn said and his hand darted over the switchboard. There was a click. “Ricky!” he shouted, and Troy cried out: “Ricky! Are you there? Ricky!”

And as if they had conjured it from the outer reaches of space a small voice said excitedly: “They’ve come! Mummy!”

A protesting outcry was cut off as M. Callard struck at Alleyn’s hand with a heavy paper knife. At the same moment M. Dupont walked into the room.

Chapter VIII

Ricky Regained

i

Troy could scarcely endure the scene that followed and very nearly lost control of herself. She couldn’t understand a word of what was said. Alleyn held her by the arm and kept saying: “In a minute, darling. He’ll be here in a minute. He’s all right. Hold on. He’s all right.”

Dupont and Callard were behaving like Frenchmen in English farces. Callard, especially, kept giving shrugs that began in his middle and surged up to his ears. His synthetic Americanisms fell away and when he threw a sentence in English at Troy or at Alleyn he spoke it like a Frenchman. He shouted to Alleyn: “If I lose my temper it is natural. I apologize. I knew nothing. It was the fault of my staff. There will be extensive dismissals. I am the victim of circumstances. I regret that I struck you.”

He pounded his desk bell and shouted orders into the sound system. Voices from the other places said in mid-air: “Immédiatement, M. le Directeur.” “Tout de suite. Monsieur.” “Parfaitement, M. le Directeur.” The secretary ran in at a high-heeled double and set up a gabble of protest which was cut short by Dupont. She teetered out again and could be heard yelping down her own sound system.

With one part of her mind Troy thought of the door and how it must soon open for Ricky and with another part she thought it was unlucky to anticipate this event and that the door would open for the secretary or a stranger and, so complicated were her thoughts, she also wondered if, when she saw Ricky, he would have a blank look of panic in his eyes, or if he would cry or be casually pleased, or if these speculations too were unlucky and he wouldn’t come at all.

Stifled and terrified, she turned on Dupont and Callard and cried out: “Please speak English. You both can. Where is he? Why doesn’t he come?”

“Madame,” said Dupont gently, “he is here.”

He had come in as she turned away from the door.

The secretary was behind him. She gave his shoulder a little push and he made a fastidious movement away from her and into the room. Troy knew that if she spoke her voice would shake. She held out her hand.

“Hallo, Rick,” Alleyn said. “Sorry we’ve muddled you about.”

“You have, rather,” Ricky said. He saw Dupont and Callard. “How do you do,” he said. He looked at Troy and his lip trembled. He ran savagely into her arms and fastened himself upon her. His fierce hard little body was rammed against hers, his arms gripped her neck and his face burrowed into it. His heart thumped piston-like at her breast.

“We’ll take him out to the car,” Alleyn said.

Troy rose, holding Ricky with his legs locked about her waist. Alleyn steadied her and they went out through the secretary’s room and the lobby and the entrance hall to where Raoul waited in the sunshine.

ii

When they approached the car Ricky released his hold on his mother as abruptly as he had imposed it. She put him down and he walked a little distance from her. He acknowledged Raoul’s greeting with an uncertain nod and stood with his back turned to them, apparently looking at M. Dupont’s car which was occupied by three policemen.

Alleyn murmured: “He’ll get over it all right. Don’t worry.”

“He thinks we’ve let him down. He’s lost his sense of security.”

“We can do something about that. He’s puzzled. Give him a moment and then I’ll try.”

He went over to the police car.

“I suppose,” Ricky said to nobody in particular, “Daddy’s not going away again.”

Troy moved close to him. “No, darling, I don’t think so. Not far anyway. He’s on a job, though, helping the French police.”

“Are those French policemen?”

“Yes. And the man you saw in that place is a French detective.”

“As good as Daddy?”

“I don’t expect quite as good but good all the same. He helped us find you.”

Ricky said: “Why did you let me be got lost?”

“Because,” Troy explained with a dryness in her throat, “Daddy didn’t know about it. As soon as he knew, it was all right, and you weren’t lost any more. We came straight up here and got you.”

The three policemen were out of the car and listening ceremoniously to Alleyn. Ricky watched them. Raoul, standing by his own car, whistled a lively air and rolled a cigarette.

“Let’s go and sit with Raoul, shall we,” Troy suggested, “until Daddy’s ready to come home with us?”

Ricky looked miserably at Raoul and away again. “He might be cross of me,” he muttered.