“Sacré nom d’un chien—”

“It’s no use talking jargon to me, I don’t understand a bloody word of it. Stand aside and let me out.”

M. Callard’s face was not an expressive one, but Alleyn thought he read incredulity and perhaps relief in it.

“You broke into my office,” M. Callard insisted.

“I did nothing of the sort. Why the hell should I? And pray what have you got in your office,” Alleyn asked as if on a sudden inspiration, “to make you so damned touchy about it? Ransom money?”

“Imbécile! Sale cochon!”

“Oh, get to hell!” Alleyn said, and advanced upon him. He stood, irresolute, and Alleyn with an expert movement neatly shouldered him aside and went back to the hall.

iv

Dupont saw him come in. Dupont, Alleyn considered, was magnificent. He must have had an appalling job spinning out a short announcement into a fifteen-minute harangue, but he wore the air of an orator in the first flush of his eloquence.

His gaze swept over Alleyn, and round his audience.

“Eh bien, Messieurs, Dames, chacun à sa tâche. Défilez, s’il vous plaît, devant cette statue.… Rappelez-vous de mes instructions. Milano!”

He signalled magnificently to Raoul, who stationed himself below him, at the base of the statue. Raoul was pale and stood rigid like a man who faces an ordeal. M. Callard appeared through the double doors and watched with a leaden face.

The gendarmes, who had also reappeared, set about the crowd in a business-like manner, herding it to one side and then sending it across in single file in front of Raoul. Alleyn adopted a consequential air and bustled over to Dupont.

“What’s all this, Monsieur?” he asked querulously. “Is it an identification parade? Why haven’t I been informed of the procedure?”

Dupont bent in a placatory manner towards him and Alleyn muttered: “Enough to justify a search,” and then shouted: “I have a right to know what steps are being taken in this affair.”

Dupont spread his blunt hands over Alleyn as if he were blessing him.

“Calm yourself, Monsieur. Everything arranges itself,” he said magnificently and added in French for the benefit of the crowd: “The gentleman is naturally overwrought. Proceed, if you please.”

Black-coated senior executive officers and white-coated chemists advanced, turned and straggled past with dead-pan faces. They were followed by clerks, assistant stenographers and laboratory assistants. One or two looked at Raoul, but by far the greater number kept on without turning their heads. When they had gone past, the gendarmes directed them to the top of the hall where they formed up into lines.

Alleyn watched the thinning ranks of those who were yet to come. At the back, sticking together, were a number of what he supposed to be the lesser fry: cleaners, van-drivers, workers from the canteen and porters. In a group of women he caught sight of one a little taller than the rest. She stood with her back towards the statue and at first he could see only a mass of bronze hair with straggling tendrils against the opulent curve of a full neck. Presently her neighbor gave her a nudge and for a moment she turned. Alleyn saw the satin skin and liquid eyes of a Murillo peasant. She had a brilliant mouth and had caught her under-lip between her teeth. Above her upper lip was a pencilling of hair.

Her face flashed into sight and was at once turned away again with a movement that thrust up her shoulder. It was clad in a black material spattered with a whitish-grey pattern.

Behind the girls was a group of four or five men in labourer’s clothes: boiler-men, perhaps, or outside hands. As the girls hung back, the gendarme in charge of this group sent the men forward. They edged self-consciously past the girls and slouched towards Raoul. The third was a thick-set fellow wearing a tight-fitting short-sleeved vest and carrying a red beret. He walked hard on the heels of the men in front of him and kept his eyes on the ground. He had two long red scratches on the cheek nearest to Raoul. As he passed by, Alleyn looked at Raoul, who swallowed painfully and muttered: “Voici le type.”

Dupont raised an eyebrow. The gendarme at the top of the room moved out quietly and stationed himself near the men. The girls came forward one by one and Alleyn still watched Raoul. The girl in the black dress with the whitish-grey pattern advanced, turned and went past with averted head. Raoul was silent.

Alleyn moved close to Dupont. “Keep your eye on that girl, Dupont. I think she’s our bird.”

“Indeed? Milano has not identified her.”

“I think Ricky will.”

Watched by the completely silent crowd, Alleyn went out of the hall and, standing in the sunshine, waved to Troy. She and Ricky got out of the car and, hand-in-hand, came towards him.

“Come on, Rick,” he said, “let’s see if you can find the driver and the Nanny. If you do we’ll go and call on the goatshop lady again. What do you say?”

He hoisted his little son across his shoulders and, holding his ankles in either hand, turned him towards the steps.

“Coming, Mum?” Ricky asked.

“Rather! Try and stop me.”

“Strike up the band,” Alleyn said. “Here comes the Alleyn family on parade.”

He heard his son give a doubtful chuckle. A small hand was laid against his cheek. “Good old horse,” Ricky said courageously and in an uncertain falsetto: “How many miles to Babylon?”

“Five score and ten,” Alleyn and Troy chanted and she linked her arm through his.

They marched up the steps and into the hall.

The crowd was still herded at one end of the great room and had broken into a subdued chattering. One of the gendarmes stood near the man Raoul had identified. Another had moved round behind the crowd to a group of girls. Alleyn saw the back of that startlingly bronze head of hair and the curve of the opulent neck. M. Callard had not moved. M. Dupont had come down from his eminence and Raoul stood by himself behind the statue, looking at his own feet.

“Ah-ha!” cried M. Dupont, advancing with an air of camaraderie, “so here is Ricketts.”

He reached up his hand. Ricky stooped uncertainly from his father’s shoulders to put his own in it.

“This is Ricky,” Alleyn said, “M. Dupont, Ricky, Superintendent of Police in Roqueville. M. Dupont speaks English.”

“How do you do, sir,” said Ricky in his company voice.

M. Dupont threw a complimentary glance at Troy.

“So we have an assistant,” he said. “This is splendid. I leave the formalities to you, M. Alleyn.”

“Just have a look at all these people, Rick,” Alleyn said, “and tell us if you can find the driver and the Nanny who brought you up here.”

Troy and Dupont looked at Ricky. Raoul, behind the statue, continued to look at his boots. Ricky, wearing the blank expression he reserved for strangers, surveyed the crowd. His attention came to halt on the thick-set fellow in the short-sleeved jersey. Dupont and Troy watched him.

“Mum?” said Ricky.

“Hallo?”

Ricky whispered something inaudible and nodded violently.

“Tell Daddy.”

Rick stooped his head and breathed noisily into his father’s ear.

“O.K.,” Alleyn said. “Sure?”

“ ’M.”

“Tell M. Dupont.”

“Monsieur, voici le chauffeur.”

“Montrez avec le doigt, mon brave,” said M. Dupont.

“Point him out, Rick,” said Alleyn.

Ricky had been instructed by his French Nanny that it was rude to point. He turned pink in the face and made a rapid gesture, shooting out his finger at the man. The man drew back his upper lip and bared a row of blackened teeth. The first gendarme shoved in beside him. The crowed stirred and shifted.

“Bravo,” said M. Dupont.

“Now the Nanny,” Alleyn said. “Can you see her?”

There was a long pause. Ricky, looking at the group of girls at the back, said: “There’s someone that hasn’t turned around.”