by Ngaio Marsh
Alleyn completely disregarded the concierge. He stopped short in the entrance to the room and looked swiftly round it; at the dressing-table, the shelf above the wash-basin, the gown hanging on the bed-rail and at the three pairs of shoes set out against the wall. He moved to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. Inside it were three sober dresses and a couple of modestly trimmed straw hats. An envelope was lying on the floor of the wardrobe. He stooped down to look at it. It was a business envelope and bore the legend ‘Compagnio Chimique des Alpes Maritimes.’ He read the superscription:
A Mlle Penelope E. Garbel,
16 Rue des Violettaes,
Roqueville-de-Sud,
Côte d’Azur.
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 tripe,’ 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: ‘Hôtel Royal.’ Troy had left the bedcover 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 No. 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 dumfounded 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,’ he 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 department 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 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 cellars 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 No. 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 the 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 No. 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.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. It’s true. Your correspondent is a woman who has some connection with the chemical works we saw this morning. For reasons I can only guess at, she’s let you address her letters as if to a man. How did you address them?’
‘To M. P.E.Garbel.’
‘Perhaps she thought you imagined ‘M.’ to be the correct abbreviation of Mademoiselle?’
Troy shook her head: ‘It doesn’t seem to matter much now, but it’s quite incredible. Look: something’s beginning to happen.’
The little town was waking up. Shop doors opened and proprietors came out in their shirt sleeves scratching their elbows. At the far end of the Rue des Violettes there was an eruption of children’s voices and a clatter of shoes on stone. The driver of the police-car outside No. 16 started up his engine and the Commissary came briskly down the steps. He made a crisp signal to the driver, who turned his car, crossed the intersection and finally pulled up in front of Raoul. M. Dupont walked across, saluted Troy and addressed himself to Alleyn.
‘We commence our search of houses in Roqueville, my dear Inspecteur-en-Chef. The road patrols are installed and a general warning is being issued to my colleagues in the surrounding territory. Between 2.15 by the church clock when you saw your son until the moment when you arrived at these apartments, there was an interval of about ten minutes. If he was removed in an auto it was during those minutes. The patrols were instructed at five minutes to three. Again if he was removed in an auto it has had half an hour’s advance and can in that time have gone at the most no farther on our roads than fifty kilometres. Outside every town beyond that radius we have posted a patrol and if they have nothing to report we shall search exhaustively within the radius. Madame, it is most unfortunate that you saw the small one from your hotel. Thus have you hurled a screwdriver in the factory.’
The distracted Troy puzzled over the Commissary’s free use of English idiom but Alleyn gave a sharp ejaculation. ‘The factory!’ he said. ‘By the lord, I wonder.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘My dear Dupont, you have acted with the greatest expedition and judgment. What do you suggest we do now?’
‘I am entirely at your disposal, M. l’Inspecteur-en-Chef. May I suggest that perhaps a fuller understanding of the situation –’
‘Yes, indeed. Shall we go to our hotel?’
‘Enchanted, Monsieur.’
‘I think,’ Alleyn said, ‘that our driver here is very willing to take an active part. He’s been extremely helpful already.’
‘He is a good fellow, this Milano,’ said Dupont and addressed Raoul in his own language: ‘See here, my lad, we are making inquiries for the missing boy in Roqueville. If he is anywhere in the town it will be at the house of some associate of the woman Blanche at No. 16. Are you prepared to take a hand?’
Raoul, it appeared, was prepared. ‘If he is in the town, M. le Commissaire, I shall know it inside an hour.’
‘Oh, là-là!’ M. Dupont remarked, ‘what a song our cock sings.’
He scowled playfully at Raoul and opened the doors of the car. Troy and Alleyn were ushered ceremoniously into the police-car and the driver took them back to the hotel.
In their bedroom, which had begun to take on a look of half-real familiarity, Troy and Alleyn filled in the details of their adventures from the time of the first incident in the train until Ricky’s disappearance. M. Dupont listened with an air of deference tempered by professional detachment. When they had finished he clapped his knees lightly and made a neat gesture with his thumb and forefinger pressed together.
‘Admirable!’ he said. ‘So we are in possession of our facts and now we act in concert, but first I must tell you one little fact that I have in my sleeve. There has been, four weeks ago, a case of child-stealing in the Paysdoux. It was the familiar story. A wealthy family from Lyons. A small one. A flightish nurse. During the afternoon promenade a young man draws the attention of this sexy nurse. The small one gambols in the gardens by our casino. The nurse and the young man are tête à tête upon a seat. Automobiles pass to and fro, sometimes stopping. In one are the confederates of the young man. Presently the nurse remembers her duty. The small one is vanished and remains so. Also vanished is the young man. A message is thrown through the hotel window. The small one is to be recovered with five thousand mille francs at a certain time and at a place outside. St Céleste. There are the customary threats in the matter of informing the police. Monsieur Papa, under pressure from Madame Maman obeys. He is driven to within a short distance of the place. He continues on foot. A car appears. Stops. A man with a handkerchief over his face and a weapon in his hand gets out. Monsieur Papa, again following instructions, places the money under a stone by the road and retires with his hands above his head. The man collects and examines the money and returns to the car. The small one gets out. The car drives away. The small one,’ said M. Dupont opening his eyes very wide at Troy, ‘is not pleased. He wishes to remain with his new acquaintances.’
‘Oh, no!’ Troy cried out.
‘But yes. He has found them enchanting. Nevertheless he rejoins his family. And now having facilitated the escape of the cat Monsieur Papa attempts to close the bag. He informs the police.’ M. Dupont spread his hands in the classic gesture and waited for his audience-reaction.
‘The usual story,’ Alleyn said.
‘M. Dupont,’ Troy said, ‘do you think the same men have taken Ricky?’
‘No, Madame. I think we are intended to believe it is the same men.’
‘But why? Why should it not be these people?’
‘Because,’ M. Dupont rejoined, touching his small moustache, ‘this morning at 7.30 these people were apprehended and are now locked up in the poste de police at St Céleste. Monsieur Papa had the forethought to mark the notes. It was tactfully done. A slight addition to the dècor. And the small one gave useful information. The news of the arrest would have appeared in the evening papers but I have forbidden it. The affair was already greatly publicized.’
‘So our friends,’ Alleyn suggested, ‘unaware of the arrest, imitate the performance and hope our reactions will be those of Monsieur Papa and Madame Maman and that you will turn our attention to St Céleste.’
‘But can you be so sure –’ Troy began desperately.
M. Dupont bent at the waist and gazed respectfully at her. ‘Ah, Madame,’ he said, ‘consider. Consider the facts. At the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent there is a group of persons very highly involved in the drug ‘raquette.’ By a strange accident your husband, already officially interested in these persons, is precipitated into their midst. One, perhaps two of the guests, know who he is. The actress Wells, who is an addict, is sent to make sure. She returns and tells them: ‘We entertain, let me inform you, the most distinguished and talented officer of The Scotland Yard. If we do not take some quick steps he will return to inquire for his invalid. It is possible he already suspects.’ And it is agreed he must not return. How can he be prevented from doing so? By the apparent kidnapping of his son. This is effected very adroitly. The woman with the bouquet tells the small Ricketts that his mother awaits him at the house she visited this morning. In the meantime a car is on its way from the château to take them to St Céleste. He is to be kept in the apartment of Garbel until it comes. The old Blanche takes him there. She omits to lock the doors on to the balcony. He goes out. You see him. He sees you. Blanche observes. He is removed and before you can reach him there the car arrives and he is removed still farther.’
‘Where?’
‘If, following the precedent, they go to
St Céleste, they will be halted by our patrols, but I think perhaps they will have thought of that and changed their plans and if so it will not be to St Céleste.’
‘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 Diactylmorphine. She is of the ‘raquette,’ no doubt, and you have inquired for her.’
‘For him. We thought: ‘him’.’
‘Darling,’ Alleyn said, ‘can you remember the letters pretty clearly?’
‘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 so, 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 look 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.’