Spinsters in Jeopardy (11 page)

“He’d never do it, Rory. Never. You know he wouldn’t.”

“All right. Now, I’ll ring the Préfecture. Come on.”

He sat her beside him on the bed and kept his arm about her. While he waited for the number he said: “Did you lock the door?”

“No. I didn’t like the idea of locking him in. The manager’s spoken to the servants. They didn’t see anybody. Nobody asked for our room numbers.”

“The heavy trunk is still in the hall downstairs and the room numbers chalked on it. What colour are his clothes?”

“Pale yellow shirt and brown shorts.”

“Right. We may as well— ’
Allo
! ’
Allo
!..”

He began to talk into the telephone, keeping his free hand on her shoulder. Troy turned her cheek to it for a moment and then freed herself and went out on the balcony.

The little square — it was called the Place des Sarrasins — was at the top of a hilly street and the greater part of Roqueville lay between it and the sea. The maze of alleys where Troy had lost herself was out of sight behind and above the hotel. As if from a high tower, she looked down into the streets and prayed incoherently that in one of them she would see a tiny figure: Ricky, in his lemon-coloured shirt and brown linen shorts. But all Troy could see was a pattern of stucco and stone, a distant row of carriages whose drivers and horses were snoozing, no doubt, in the shadows, a system of tiled roofs and the paint-like blue of the sea. She looked nearer at hand and there, beneath her, was Raoul Milano’s car, seeming like a toy, and Raoul himself, rolling a cigarette. The hotel porter, at that moment, came out and she heard the sound of his voice. Raoul got up and they disappeared beneath her into the hotel.

The tone of Alleyn’s voice suggested that he was near the end of his telephone call. She had turned away from her fruitless search of the map-like town and was about to go indoors when out of the tail of her eye she caught a flicker of colour.

It was a flicker of lemon-yellow and brown.

The hot iron of the balcony rail scorched the palms of her hands. She leant far out and stared at a tall building on a higher level than herself, a building that was just in view round the corner of the hotel. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile away and from behind a huddle of intervening roofs, rose up in a series of balconies. It was on the highest of these, behind a blur of iron railings, that she saw her two specks of colour.

“Rory,” she cried. “Rory!”

It took several seconds that seemed like as many minutes for Alleyn to find the balcony. “It’s Ricky,” she said, “isn’t it? It must be Ricky.” And she ran back into the room, snatched the thin cover from her bed and waved it frantically from the balcony.

“Wait a moment,” Alleyn said.

His police case had been brought up to their room and contained a pair of very powerful field glasses. While he focussed them on the distant balcony he said: “Don’t be too certain, darling, there may be other small boys in yellow and — no — no, it’s Ricky. He’s all right. Look.”

Troy’s eyes were masked with tears of relief. Her hands shook and her fingers were too precipitant with the focussing governors. “I can’t do it-I can’t see.”

“Steady. Wipe your eyes. Here, I will. He’s still there. He may have spotted us. Try this way. Kneel down and rest the glasses on the rail. Get each eye right in turn. Quietly does it.”

Circles of blurred colour mingled and danced in the two fields of vision. They swam together and clarified. The glasses were in focus now but were trained on some strange blue door, startling in its closeness. She moved them and an ornate gilded steeple was before her with a cross and a clock telling a quarter to two. “I don’t know where I am. It’s a church. I can’t find him.”

“You’re nearly there. Keep at that level and come round gently.” And suddenly Ricky looked through iron rails with vague, not quite frightened eyes whose gaze, while it was directed at her, yet passed beyond her.

“Wave,” she said. “Go on waving.”

Ricky’s strangely impersonal and puzzled face moved a little so that an iron standard partly hid it. His right arm was raised and his hand moved to and fro above the railing.

“He’s seen!” she said. “He’s waving back.”

The glasses slipped a little. The wall of their hotel, out-of-focus and stupid, blotted out her vision. Someone was tapping on the bedroom door behind them.

“
Entrez
,” Alleyn called, and then sharply, “Hullo! Who’s that?”

“What? I’ve lost him.”

“A woman came out and led him away. They’ve gone indoors.”

“A woman?”

“Fat and dressed in black.”

“Please let’s go quickly.”

Raoul had come through the bedroom and stood behind them. Alleyn said in French, “Do you see that tall building, just to the left of our wall and to the right of the church? It’s pinkish with blue shutters and there’s something red on one of the balconies.”

“I see it, Monsieur.”

“So you know what building it is?”

“I think so, Monsieur. It will be Number 16 in the Rue des Violettes where Madame enquired this morning.”

“Troy,” Alleyn said. “The Lord knows why, but Ricky’s gone to call on Mr. Garbel.”

Troy stopped short on her way to the door. “Do you mean…?”

“Raoul says that’s the house.”

“But—. No,” Troy said vigorously. “No, I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t just get up and go there. Not of his own accord. Not like that. He wouldn’t. Come on, Rory.”

They were following her when Alleyn said: “When did these flowers come?”

“What flowers? Oh, that. I hadn’t noticed it. I don’t know. Dr. Baradi, I should think. Please don’t let’s wait.”

An enormous florist’s box garnished with a great bow of ribbon lay on the top of a pile of suitcases.

Watched in an agony of impatience by his wife, Alleyn slid a card from under the ribbon and looked at it.

“So sorry,” he read, “that I shall be away during your visit. Welcome to Roqueville. P. E. Garbel.”

i

Troy wouldn’t wait for the lift. She ran downstairs with Alleyn and Raoul at her heels. Only the porter was there, sitting at the desk in the hall.

Alleyn said: “This will take thirty seconds, darling. I’m in as much of a hurry as you. Please believe it’s important. You can get into the car. Raoul can start the engine.” And to the porter he said: “Please telephone this number and give the message I have written on the paper to the person who answers. It is the number of the Préfecture and the message is urgent. It is expected. Were you on duty here when flowers came for Madame?”

“I was on duty when the flowers arrived, Monsieur. It was about an hour ago. I did not know they were for Madame. The woman went straight upstairs without enquiry, as one who knows the way.”

“And returned?”

The porter lifted his shoulders. “I did not see her return. Monsieur. No doubt she used the service stairs.”

“No doubt,” Alleyn said and ran out to the car.

On the way to the Rue des Violettes he said: “I’m going to stop the car a little way from the house, Troy, and I’m going to ask you to wait in it while I go indoors.”

“Are you? But why? Ricky’s there, isn’t he? We saw him.”

“Yes, we saw him. But I’m not too keen for other people to see us. Cousin Garbel seems to be known, up at the Chèvre d’Argent.”

“But Robin Herrington said he didn’t know him and anyway, according to the card on the flowers, Cousin Garbel’s gone away. That must be what the concierge was trying to tell me. She said he was ‘
pas chez elle.
’ ”

“ ‘
Pas chez soi
’ surely?”

“All right. Yes, of course. I couldn’t really understand her. I don’t understand anything,” Troy said desperately. “I just want to get Ricky.”

“I know, darling. Not more than I do.”

“He didn’t look as if he was in one of his panics. Did he?”

“No.”

“I expect we’ll have a reaction and be furiously snappish with him for frightening us, don’t you?”

“We must learn to master our ugly tempers,” he said, smiling at her.

“Rory, he will be there still? He won’t have gone?”

“It’s only ten minutes ago that we saw him on a sixth floor balcony.”

“Was she a fat shiny woman who led him in?”

“I hadn’t got the glasses. I couldn’t spot the shine with the naked eye.”

“I didn’t like the concierge. Ricky would hate her.”

“That is the street, Monsieur,” said Raoul. “At the intersection.”

“Good. Draw up here by the kerb. I don’t want to frighten Madame, but I think all may not be well with the small one whom we have seen on the balcony at Number 16. If anyone were to leave by the back or side of the house, Raoul, would they have to come this way from that narrow side-street and pass this way to get out of Roqueville?”

“This way, Monsieur, either to go east or west out of Roqueville. For the rest there are only other alley-ways with flights of steps that lead nowhere.”

“Then if a car should emerge from behind Number 16 perhaps it may come about that you start your car and your engine stalls and you block the way. In apologizing you would no doubt go up to the other car and look inside. And if the small one were in the car you would not be able to start your own though you would make a great disturbance by leaning on your horn. And by that time, Raoul, it is possible that M. le Commissaire will have arrived in his car. Or that I have come out of Number 16.”

“Aren’t you going, Rory?”

“At once, darling. All right, Raoul?’

“Perfectly, Monsieur.”

Alleyn got out of the car, crossed the intersection, turned right and entered Number 16.

The hall was dark and deserted. He went at once to the lift-well, glanced at the index of names and pressed the call-button.

“Monsieur?” said the concierge, partly opening the door of her cubby-hole.

Alleyn looked beyond the ringed and grimy hand at one beady eye, the flange of a flattened nose and half a grape-coloured mouth.

“Madame,” he said politely and turned back to the lift.

“Monsieur desires?”

“The lift, Madame.”

“To ascend where. Monsieur?”

“To the sixth floor, Madame.”

“To which apartment on the sixth floor?”

“To the principal apartment. With a balcony.”

The lift was wheezing its way down.

“Unfortunately,” said the concierge, “the tenant is absent on vacation. Monsieur would care to leave a message?”

“It is the small boy for whom I have called. The small boy whom Madame has been kind enough to admit to the apartment.”

“Monsieur is mistaken. I have admitted no children. The apartment is locked.”

“Can Nature have been so munificent as to lavish upon us a twin-sister of Madame? If so she has undoubtedly admitted a small boy to the principal apartment on the sixth floor.”

The lift came into sight and stopped. Alleyn opened the door.

“One moment,” said the concierge. He paused. Her hand was withdrawn from the cubby-hole door. She came out, waddling like a duck and bringing a bunch of keys.

“It is not amusing,” she said, “to take a fool’s trip. However, Monsieur shall see for himself.”

They went up in the lift. The concierge quivered slightly and gave out the combined odours of uncleanliness, frangipani, garlic and hot satin. On the sixth floor she opened a door opposite the lift, waddled through it and sat down panting and massively triumphant on a high chair in the middle of a neat and ordered room whose French windows gave on to a balcony.

Alleyn completely disregarded the concierge. He stopped short in the entrance of 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 “Compagnie Chimique des Alpes Maritimes.” He read the superscription:

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.”

“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 is to a man. How
did
you address them?”