Spinsters in Jeopardy

Chapter IX Dinner at Roqueville

i

On the return journey Alleyn and Troy sat in the back seat with Ricky between them. Teresa, who was to be given a lift to the nearest bus stop, sat in the front by Raoul. She leaned against him in a luxury of reconciliation, every now and then twisting herself sideways in order to gaze into his face. Ricky, who suffered from an emotional hangover and was, therefore, inclined to be querulous and in any case considered Raoul his especial property, looked at these manifestations with distaste.

“Why does she do that?” he asked fretfully. “Isn’t she silly? Does Raoul like her?”

“Yes,” said Troy, hugging him.

“I bet he doesn’t really.”

“They are engaged to be married,” said Troy, “I think.”

“You and Mummy are married, aren’t you, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Mummy doesn’t do it.”

“True,” said Alleyn, who was in good spirits, “but I should like it if she did.”

“Ooh, Daddy, you would not.”

Teresa wound her arm round Raoul’s neck.

“Je t’adore!” she crooned.

“Oh, gosh!” said Ricky and shut his eyes.

“All the same,” Alleyn said, “we’ll have to call a halt to her raptures.” He leaned forward. “Raoul, shall we stop for a moment? If Teresa misses her bus you may drive her back from Roqueville.”

“Monsieur, may I suggest that we drive direct to Roqueville where, if Monsieur and Madame please, my parents will be enchanted to invite them to an apéritif or, if preferred, a glass of good wine, and perhaps an early but well-considered dinner. The afternoon has been fatiguing. Monsieur has not eaten, I think, since morning and Madam and Monsieur Ricky may be glad to dine early. Teresa is, no doubt, not expected at the house of infamy, being, as they will suppose, engaged in the abduction of Ricky and in any case I do not permit her to return.”

Teresa made a complicated noise, partly protesting but mostly acquiescent. She essayed to tuck one of Raoul’s curls under his cap.

Ricky, with his eyes still shut, said: “Is Raoul asking us to tea. Daddy? May we go? Just us however,” he added pointedly.

“We shall all go,” Alleyn said, “including Teresa. Unless, Troy darling, you’d rather take Ricky straight to the hotel.”

Ricky opened his eyes. “Please not, Mummy. Please let’s go with Raoul.”

“All right, my mammet. How kind of Raoul.”

So Alleyn thanked Raoul and accepted his invitation, and as they had arrived at the only stretch of straight road on their journey Raoul passed his right arm round Teresa and broke into song.

They drove on through an evening drenched in a sunset that dyed their faces and hands crimson and closely resembled the coloured postcards that are sold on the Mediterranean coast. Two police-cars passed them with a great sounding of horns and Alleyn told Troy that M. Dupont had sent for extra men to effect a search of the factory. “It was too good an opening to miss,” he said. “He’ll certainly find enough evidence to throw a spanner through the plate glass and thanks for the greater part, let’s face it, to young Rick.”

“What have I done, Daddy?”

“Well, you mustn’t buck too much about it but by being a good boy and not making a fuss when you were a bit frightened you’ve helped us to shut up that factory back there and stop everybody’s nonsense.”

“Lavish!” said Ricky.

“Not bad. And now you can pipe down for a bit while I talk to Mummy.”

Ricky looked thoughtfully at his father, got down from his seat and placed himself between Alleyn’s knees. He then aimed a blow with his fist at Alleyn’s chest and followed it up with a tackle. Alleyn picked him up. “Pipe down, now,” he said, and Ricky, suddenly quiescent, lay against his father and tried to hide his goat from the light in the hope that it would illuminate itself.

“The next thing,” Alleyn said to Troy, “is to tackle our acquaintance of this morning. And from this point onwards, my girl, you fade, graciously but inexorabley, out. You succour your young, reside in your classy pub, and if your muse grows exigent you go out with Raoul and your young and paint pretty peeps of the bay, glimpsed between sprays of bougainvillea.”

“And do we get any pretty peeps of you?”

“I expect to be busyish. Would you rather move on to St. Céleste or back to St. Christophe? Does this place stink for you, after today?”

“I don’t think so. We know the real kidnappers are in jug, don’t we? And I imagine the last thing Oberon and Co. will try on is another shot at the same game.”

“The very last. After tomorrow night,” Alleyn said, “I hope they will have no chance of trying anything on except the fruitless contemplation of their past infamies and whatever garments they are allowed to wear in the local lock-up.”

“Really? A coup in the offing?”

“With any luck. But see here, Troy, if you’re going to feel at all jumpy we’ll pack you both off to — well, home, if necessary.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Ricky said from inside Alleyn’s jacket. “I think Goat’s beginning to illumine himself, Daddy.”

“Good. What about Troy?”

“I’d rather stay, Rory. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the young, and yet I suppose because of him, I’d rather muck in on the job. I’m getting a first hand look at the criminal classes and it’s surprising how uncivilized it makes one feel.”

Alleyn glanced at the now hazardously entwined couple in the front seat. He adjusted Ricky and flung an arm round Troy.

“A fat lot they know about it,” he muttered.

As the car slipped down the familiar entry into Roqueville he said: “And how would you muck in, may I ask?”

“I might say I wanted to do a portrait of Oberon in the lotus bud position and thus by easy degrees become a Daughter of the Sun.”

“Like hell, you might.”

“Anyway, let’s stay if only to meet Cousin Garbel.”

She felt Alleyn’s arm harden. Like Teresa, she turned to look at her man.

“Rory,” she said, “did you believe Baradi’s story about the charades?”

“Did you?”

“I thought I did. I wanted to. Now, I don’t think I do.”

“Nor do I,” Alleyn said.

“On arrive,” said Raoul, turning into a narrow street. “Voici L’Escargot Bienvenu.”

ii

It was, as Raoul had said, an unpretentious restaurant. They entered through a portière of wooden beads into a white-washed room with fresh window curtains and nine tables. A serving counter ran along one side and on it stood baskets of fresh fruit, of bread and of langoustes bedded in water-cress. Bottles of wine and polished glasses filled the shelves behind the counter and an open door led into an inner room where a voice was announcing the weather forecast in French. There were no customers in the restaurant, and Raoul, having drawn out three chairs and seated his guests, placed his arm about Teresa’s waist and led her into the inner room.

“Maman! Papa!” he shouted.

An excited babble broke out in the background.

“Come to think of it,” Alleyn said, “I’m damned hungry. Raoul told me his papa was particularly good with steak. Filet mignon? What do you think?”

“Are we going to be allowed to pay?”

“No. Which means that good or bad we’ll have to come back for more. But my bet is, it’ll be good.”

The hubbub in the background came closer, and Raoul reappeared accompanied by a magnificent Italian father and a plump French mother, both of whom he introduced with ceremony. Everybody was very polite, Ricky was made much of and a bottle of extremely good sherry was opened. Ricky was given grenadine. Healths were drunk, Teresa giggled modestly in the background. M. Milano made a short but succinct speech in which he said he understood that Monsieur and Madame Ahlaine had been instrumental in saving Teresa from a fate that was worse than death and had thus preserved the honour of both families and made possible an alliance that was the dearest wish of their hearts. It was also, other things being equal, a desirable match from the practical point of view. Teresa and Raoul listened without embarrassment and with the detachment of connoisseurs. M. Milano then begged that he and Madame might be excused as they believed they were to have the great pleasure of serving an early dinner and must therefore make a little preparation with which Teresa would no doubt be pleased to assist. They withdrew. Teresa embraced Raoul with passionate enthusiasm and followed them.

Alleyn said: “Bring a chair, Raoul. We have much to say to each other.”

“Monsieur,” Raoul said without moving, “no mention has been made of my neglect of duty this afternoon. I mean, Monsieur, my failure, which was deliberate, to identify Teresa.”

“I have decided to overlook it. The circumstances were extraordinary.”

“That is true, Monsieur. Nevertheless, the incident had the effect of incensing me against Teresa who, foolish as she is, has yet got something which caused me to betray my duty. That is why I spoke a little sharply to Teresa. With results,” he added, “that are, as Monsieur may have noticed, not undesirable.”

“I have noticed. Sit down, Raoul.”

Raoul bowed and sat down. Madame Milano, beaming and business-like, returned with a book in her hands. It was a shabby large book with a carefully mended binding. She laid it on the table in front of Ricky.

“When my son was no larger than this little Monsieur,” she said, “it afforded him much amusement.”

“Merci, Madame,” Ricky said, eyeing it.

Troy and Alleyn also thanked her. She made a deprecating face and bustled away. Ricky opened the book. It was a tale of heroic and fabulous adventures enchantingly illustrated with coloured lithographs. Ricky honoured it with the silence he reserved for special occasions. He removed himself and the book to another table. “Coming, Mum?” he said and Troy joined him. Alleyn looked at the two dark heads bent together over the book and for a moment or two he was lost in abstraction. He heard Raoul catch his breath in a vocal sigh, a sound partly affirmative, partly envious. Alleyn looked at him.

“Monsieur is fortunate,” Raoul said simply.

“I believe you,” Alleyn muttered. “And now, Raoul, we make a plan. Earlier today, and I must say it feels more like last week, you said you were willing to join in an enterprise that may be a little hazardous: an enterprise that involves an unsolicited visit to the Chèvre d’Argent on Thursday night.”

“I remember, Monsieur.”

“Are you still of the same mind?”

“If possible, I feel an increase of enthusiasm.”

“Good, now, listen. It is evident that there is a close liaison between the persons at the Château and those at the factory. Tonight the commissary will conduct an official search of the factory and he will find documentary evidence of the collaboration. It is also probable that he will find quantities of illicitly manufactured heroin. It is not certain whether he will find direct and conclusive evidence of sufficient weight to warrant an arrest of Mr. Oberon and Dr. Baradi and their associates. Therefore, it would be of great assistance if they could be arrested for some other offense and could be held while further investigations were made.”

“There is no doubt, Monsieur, that their sins are not confined to contraband.”

“I agree.”

“They are capable of all.”

“Not only capable but culpable! I think,” Alleyn said, “that one of them is a murderer.”

Raoul narrowed his eyes. His stained mechanic’s hands lying on the table, flexed and then stretched.

“Monsieur speaks with confidence,” he said.

“I ought to,” Alleyn said drily, “considering that I saw the crime.”

“You—”

“Through a train window.” And Alleyn described the circumstances.

“Bizarre,” Raoul commented, summing up the incident. “And the criminal, Monsieur?”

“Impossible to say. I had the impression of a man or woman in a white gown with a cowl or hood. The right arm was raised and held a weapon. The face was undistinguishable although there was a strong light thrown from the side. The weapon was a knife of some sort.”

“The animal,” said Raoul, who had settled upon this form of reference for M. Oberon, “displays himself in a white robe.”

“Yes.”

“And the victim was a woman, Monsieur?”

“A woman. Also, I should say, wearing some loose-fitting garment. One saw only a shape against a window blind and then for a second, against the window itself. The man, if it was a man, had already struck and had withdrawn the weapon which he held aloft. The impression was melodramatic,” he added, almost to himself. “Over-dramatic. One might have believed it was a charade.”

“A charade, Monsieur?”

“Dr. Baradi offered the information that there were charades last night. It appears that someone played the part of the Queen of Sheba stabbing King Solomon’s principal wife. He himself enacted a concubine.”

“Obviously he is not merely a satyr but also a perverted being — a distortion of nature. Only such a being could invent such a disgusting lie.”

While he grinned at Raoul’s scandalized sophistry Alleyn wondered at the ease with which they talked to each other. And, being a modest man, he found himself ashamed. Why, in Heaven’s name, he thought, should he not find it good to talk to Raoul, who had an admirable mind and a simple approach? He thought: “We understand so little of our fellow creatures. Somewhere in Raoul there is a limitation but when it comes to the Oberons and Baradis he, probably by virtue of his limitation, is likely to be a much more useful judge than…”

“The Queen of Sheba,” Raoul fumed, “is a Biblical personage. She was the chère amie of the Lord’s anointed. To murder he adds a blasphemy which has not even the merit of being true. Unfortunately he is left-handed,” he added in a tone of acute disappointment.

“Exactly! Moreover he offered this information,” Alleyn pointed out. “One must remember the circumstances. The scene, real or simulated, reached its climax as the train drew up and stopped. The blind was released as the woman fell against it. And the man, not necessarily Oberon or Baradi, you know, saw other windows — those of the train.”

“So knowing Monsieur must have been in the train and awake, since he was to alight at Roqueville, this blasphemer produces his lies.”

“It might well be so. M. Dupont and I both incline to think so. Now, you see, don’t you, that if murder was done in that room in the early hours of this morning, we have great cause to revisit the Château. Not only to arrest a killer but to discover why he killed. Not only to arrest a purveyor of drugs who has caused many deaths but to discover his associates. And not only for these reasons but also to learn, if we can, what happens in the locked room on Thursday nights. For all these reasons, Raoul, it seems imperative that we visit the Château.”

“Well, Monsieur.”

“Two courses suggest themselves. I may return openly to enquire after the health of Mademoiselle Truebody. If I do this I shall have to admit that Ricky has been found.”

“They will have learned as much from the man Callard, Monsieur.”

“I am not so sure. This afternoon M. Dupont ordered that all outward calls from the factory should be blocked at central and that the Château should be cut off. At the Château they will be extremely anxious to avoid any sign that they are in touch with the factory. They will, of course, question Teresa, to whom we must give instructions. If I pursue our first course I shall tell the story of the finding of Ricky to Mr. Oberon and his guests and I shall utter many maledictions against Callard as a child-kidnapper. And, having seen Miss Truebody, I must appear to go away and somehow or another remain. I’ve no idea how this can be done. Perhaps, if one had a colleague within the place one might manage it. The alternative is for me, and you, Raoul, to go secretly to the Château. To do this we would again need a colleague who would admit and conceal us.”

Raoul put his head on one side with the air of a collector examining a doubtful treasure. “Monsieur refers, of course, to Teresa,” he said.

“I do.”

“Teresa,” Raoul continued anxiously, “has not displayed herself to advantage this afternoon. She was bouleversée and therefore behaved foolishly. Nevertheless, she is normally a girl of spirit. She is also at the present time desirous of reestablishing herself in my heart. Possibly I have been too lenient with her but one inclines to leniency where one’s affections are engaged. I have, as Monsieur knows, forbidden her return to this temple of shame. Nevertheless, where the cause is just and with the protection of Our Lady of Paysdoux (about whose patronage Teresa is so unbecomingly cocksure), there can be no sin.”

“I take it,” Alleyn said, “that you withdraw your objection?”

“Yes, Monsieur. Not without misgivings because Teresa is dear to me and, say what you like, it is no place for one’s girl.”

“Judging by the lacerations in Georges Mattel’s face, Teresa is able to defend herself on occasion.”

“True,” Raoul agreed, cheering up. “She has enterprise.”

“Suppose we talk to her about it?”

“I will produce her.”

Raoul went out to the kitchen.

“Hallo, you two,” Alleyn said.

“Hallo, yourself,” Troy said.

“Daddy, this is a lavish book. I can read it better than Mummy.”

“Don’t buck,” Alleyn said automatically.

“Have you sent Raoul to get that nanny-person? Teresa?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We’ve got a job for her.”

“Not minding me?”

“No, no. Nothing to do with you, old boy.”

“Well, good, anyway,” said Ricky returning to his book.

Raoul came back with Teresa, who now wore an apron and seemed to be in remarkably high spirits. On Alleyn’s invitation she sat down using, however, the very edge of her chair. Alleyn told her briefly what he wanted her to do. Raoul folded his arms and scowled thoughtfully at the tablecloth.

“You see, Teresa,” Alleyn said, “these are bad men and also unfortunately extremely clever men. They think they’ve made a fool of you as they have of a great many other silly girls. The thing is — are you ready to help Raoul and me and the police of your own country to put a stop to their wickedness?”

“Ah, yes, Monsieur,” said Teresa cheerfully. “I now perceive my duty and with the help of Raoul and the holy saints, dedicate myself to the cause.”

“Good. Do you think you can keep your head and behave sensibly and with address if an emergency should arise?”

Teresa gazed at him and said that she thought she could.

“Very well. Now, tell me: were you on duty last evening?”

“Yes, Monsieur. During the dinner I helped the housemaids go round the bedrooms and then I worked in the kitchen.”

“Was there a party?”

“A party? Well, Monsieur, there was the new guest, Mlle. Wells, who is an actress. And after dinner there was a gathering of all the guests in the private apartments of M. Oberon. I know this because I heard the butler say that Monsieur wished it made ready for a special welcome for Mlle. Wells. And this morning,” said Teresa, looking prim, “Jeanne Barre, who is an under-housemaid, said that Mlle. Locke, the English noblewoman, must have taken too much wine because her door was locked with a notice not to disturb and this is always a sign she has been indiscreet.”

“I see. Tell me, Teresa: have you ever seen into the room that is only opened on Thursday night?”

“Yes, Monsieur. On Thursday morning I dust this room and on Fridays it is my duty to clean it.”

“Where is it exactly?”

“It is down the stairs, three flights, from the vestibule, and beneath the library. It is next to the private apartments of M. Oberon.”

“Has it many windows?”

“It has no windows, Monsieur. It is in a very old part of the Château.”

“And M. Oberon’s rooms?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur. The salon has a window which is covered always by a white blind with a painting of the sun because Monsieur dislikes a brilliant light, so it is always closed. But Monsieur has nevertheless a great lamp fashioned like the sun and many strange ornaments and a strange wheel which Monsieur treasures and a magnificent bed and in the salon a rich divan,” said Teresa, warming to her subject, “and an enormous mirror where—” There she stopped short and blushed.

“Continue,” Raoul ordered, with a face of thunder.

“Where once when I took in petit déjeuner I saw Monsieur contemplating himself in a state of nature.”

Alleyn, with an eye on Raoul, said hurriedly, “Will you describe the room that you clean?”

Raoul reached across the table and moved his forefinger to and fro in front of his beloved’s nose. “Choose your words, my treasure,” he urged. “Invent nothing. Accuracy is all.”

“Yes, indeed it is,” said Alleyn heartily.

Thus warned, Teresa looked self-consciously at her folded hands and with a slightly sanctimonious air began her recital.

“If you please, Monsieur, it is a large room and at first I thought perhaps it was a chapel.”

“A chapel?” Alleyn exclaimed. Raoul made a composite noise suggestive of angry incredulity.

“Yes, Monsieur. I thought perhaps it was reserved for the private devotions of M. Oberon and his friends. Because at one side is a raised place with a table like the holy altar, covered in a cloth which is woven in a rich pattern with gold and silver and jewels. But although one saw the holy cross, there were other things in the pattern that one does not see in altar cloths.”

“The hoof prints of anathema!” Raoul ejaculated.

“Go on, Teresa,” said Alleyn.

“And on the table there was something that was also covered with an embroidered cloth.”

“What was that, do you suppose?”

Teresa’s white eyelids were raised. She gave Alleyn the glance of a cunning child.

“Monsieur must not think badly of me if I tell him I raised the cloth and looked. Because I wanted to see if it was a holy relic.”

“And was it?”

“No, Monsieur. At first I thought it was a big monstrance made of glass. Only it was not a monstrance although in shape it resembled a great sun and inside the sun a holy cross broken and a figure like this.”

With a sort of disgusted incredulity Alleyn watched her trace with her finger on the table, a pentagram. Raoul groaned heavily.

“And it was, as I saw when I looked more closely, Monsieur, a great lamp because there were many, many electric bulbs behind it and behind the sun at the back Was a bigger electric bulb than I have ever seen before. So I dropped the heavy cloth over it and wondered.”

“What else did you see?”

“There was nothing else in the room, Monsieur. No chairs or any furniture or anything. The walls were covered with black velvet and there were no pictures.”

“Any doors, other than the one leading from Mr. Oberon’s room?”

“Yes, Monsieur. There was a door in the wall opposite the table. I didn’t notice it the first time I cleaned the room because it is covered like the walls and had no handle. But the second time it was open and I was told to clean the little room beyond.”

“What was it like, this room?”

“On the floor there were many black velvet cushions and one large one like the mattress for a divan. And the walls here also were covered in black velvet and there was a black velvet curtain behind which were hanging a great number of white robes such as the robe Monsieur wears and one black velvet robe. And on the table there were many candles in black candlesticks which I had to clean. There was also a door from the passage into this little room.”

“Nastier and nastier,” Alleyn muttered in English.

“I beg Monsieur’s pardon?”

“Nothing. And this was the only other door into the big room?”

“No, Monsieur, there was another, very small like a trapdoor behind the table, painted with signs like the signs on the sunlamp and on the floor.”

“There were signs on the floor?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I had been told to clean the floor, Monsieur. It is a beautiful floor with a pattern made of many pieces of stone and the pattern is the same as the other.” Her finger traced the pentagram again. “And when I came to clean it, Monsieur, I knew the room was not a chapel.”

“Why?”

“Because the floor in front of the table was as dirty as a farmyard,” said Teresa. “It was like our yard at my home in the Paysdoux. There had been an animal in the room.”

“An animal!” Raoul ejaculated. “I believe you! And what sort of animal?”

“That was easy to see,” said Teresa simply. “It was a goat.”

iii

Alleyn decided finally that the following evening he and Raoul would call at the Chèvre d’Argent. He would arrive after the hour of six when, according to Teresa, the entire household would have retired for something known as private meditation, but which was supposed by Teresa to be a sound sleep. It was unusual at this time for anyone to appear, and indeed again, according to Teresa, a rule of silence and solitude was imposed from six until nine by Mr. Oberon. On Thursdays there was no dinner, but Teresa understood that there was a very late supper at which the guests were served by the Egyptian servant only. Teresa herself was dismissed with the other servants as soon as their late afternoon and early evening tasks were executed. If they didn’t encounter any member of the household on their way through the tunnel Alleyn and Raoul were to go past the main entrance and down a flight of steps to a little-used door through which Teresa would admit them. No attention would be paid to Raoul if he was seen by any other servants who might still be about, and if Alleyn kept in the background it might be possible to suggest that he was a relative from Marseilles. “A distinguished relative,” Raoul amended, “seeing that in appearance and in speech Monsieur is clearly of a superior class.”

Teresa would then conceal Alleyn and Raoul in her own room where, with any luck, she would have already secreted two of the white robes. She was pretty certain there were many more in the little ante-room than would be needed by M. Oberon’s guests. It would be tolerably easy when she cleaned this room to remove them under cover of the laundry it was her duty to collect from the bedrooms.

“Is it not as I have said, Monsieur?” Raoul remarked, indicated his fiancée. “She is not without enterprise, is Teresa?” Teresa looked modestly at Alleyn and passionately at Raoul.

If all went well, up to this point, Teresa would have done as much as could be expected of her. She would take her departure as usual and could either wait in Raoul’s car or catch the evening bus to her home in Paysdoux. It should be possible for Alleyn and Raoul to pass through the house without attracting attention. The cowls of their robes would be drawn over their heads and it might be supposed if they were seen that they were belated guests or even early arrivals for the ceremony. Teresa had heard that occasionally there were extra people on Thursday nights, people staying in Roqueville or in St. Christophe.

And then? “Then,” Alleyn said, “it will be up to us, Raoul.”

The alternative to this plan was tricky. If he was spotted on his way into the Chèvre d’Argent, Alleyn would put a bold face on it and say that he had come to see Miss Truebody. No doubt Baradi would be summoned from his private meditation and Alleyn would have to act upon the situations as they arose. Raoul would still call on Teresa and hide in her room.

“All right,” Alleyn said. “That’s as far as we need go. Now Teresa, this evening you will return to the Château and Mr. Oberon will no doubt question you about today’s proceedings. You will tell him exactly what happened at the factory, up to and after the identification parade. You will tell him that Ricky identified you. Then, you will say, the police made you come back to Roqueville and asked you many questions, accusing you of complicity in the former kidnapping affair and asking who were your colleagues in that business. You will say that you told the police you know nothing: that Georges Martel offered you a little money to fetch the boy and beyond that you know nothing at all. This is important, Teresa. Repeat it, please.”

Teresa folded her hands and repeated it, prompted without necessity by Raoul.

“Excellent,” Alleyn said. “And you will, of course, have had no conversation with me. Perhaps it will be well to say, if you are asked, that you returned to Roqueville in Raoul’s car. You may have been seen doing so. But you will say that Madame and I were so overjoyed on recovering our son that we had nothing to say except that no doubt the police would deal with you.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Have courage, my little one,” Raoul admonished her. “Lie no more than is necessary, you understand, but when you do lie, lie like a brigand. It is in the cause of the angels.”

“Upon whose protection and of that of Our Lady of Paysdoux,” Teresa neatly interpolated, “I hurl myself.”

“Do so.”

Teresa rose and made a convent-child’s bob. Raoul also asked to be excused. As they went together to the door, Alleyn said: “By the way, did you hear tomorrow’s weather forecast for the district?”

“Yes, Monsieur. It is for thunderstorms. There are electrical disturbances.”

“Indeed? How very apropos. Thank you, Raoul.”

“Monsieur,” said Raoul obligingly and withdrew his beloved into the inner room.

Alleyn rejoined his family. “Did you get much of that?” he asked.

“I’ve reached exhaustion point for French,” Troy said. “I can’t even try to listen. And Ricky, as you see, is otherwise engaged.”

Ricky looked up from a brilliant picture of two knights engaged in single combat. “I bet there’ll be a wallop when they crash,” he said. “Whang! I daresay I’d be able to read this pretty soon if we stayed here. I can read a bit, can’t I, Mummy?”

“English, you can.”

“I know. So don’t you daresay I could, French, Daddy?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Did you know what we were talking about, just now?”

“I wasn’t listening much.” Ricky lowered his voice to a polite whisper. “If it isn’t a rude question,” he said, “when’s dinner?”

“Soon. Pipe down, now. I want to talk to Mummy.”

“O.K. What are you going to do in Teresa’s bedroom tomorrow night, Daddy?”

“I must say I should like to be associated with that enquiry,” said Troy warmly.

“I am changing there for a party.”

“Who’s having a party?” Ricky demanded.

“A silver goat. I rather think he lights himself up.”

The door opened. Teresa came in with a tray.

iv

The dinner was superb, the filets mignons particularly being inspired. When it was finished the Alleyns invited the M ilanos to join them for fines and M. Milano produced a bottle of distinguished cognac. The atmosphere was gay and comme il faut. Presently the regular clientele of the house began to come in: quiet middle-class people who greeted Madame Milano and took down their own table-napkins from hooks above their special places. A game of draughts was begun at the corner table. Troy, who had enjoyed herself enormously but was in a trance of fatigue, said she thought that they should go. Elaborate leave-takings were begun. Ricky, full of vegetables and rich gravy and sticky with grenadine, yawned happily and bestowed a smile of enchanting sweetness upon Madame Milano.

“Mille remerciements, chère Madame,” he said, stumbling a little over the long word, “de mon beau repas,”and held out his hand. Madame made a complicated, motherly, bustling movement and ejaculated, “Ah, mon Dieu, quel amour d’enfant!” There followed a great shaking of hands and interchange of compliments and the Alleyns took their departure on the crest of the wave.

Raoul drove them back to their hotel where, regrettably, a great fuss was again made over Ricky, who began to show infantile signs of vainglory and struck an attitude before M. Malaquin, the proprietor, shouting: “Kidnappers! Huh! Easy!” and was applauded by the hall porter.

Alleyn said: “That’s more than enough from you, my friend,” picked his son up and bore him into the lift. Troy followed wearily, saying: “Don’t be an ass, Ricky darling.” When they got upstairs Ricky, who had been making tentative sounds of defiance, became quiet. When he was ready for bed he turned white and said he wouldn’t sleep in “that room.” His parents exchanged the look that recognizes a dilemma. Troy muttered: “It is trying him a bit high, isn’t it?” Alleyn locked the outer door of Ricky’s room and took him into the passage to show him that it couldn’t be opened. They returned, leaving the door between the two rooms open. Ricky hung back. He had shadows under his eyes and looked exhausted and miserable. “Why can’t Daddy go in there?” he asked angrily.

Alleyn thought a moment and then said: “I can of course, and you can be with Mummy.”

“Please,” Ricky said. “Please.”

“Well, I must say that’s a bit more civil. Look here, old boy, will you lend me your goat to keep me company? I want to see if it really does light itself up.”

“Yes, of course he will,” said Troy with an attempt at maternal prompting, “which,” she thought, “I should find perfectly maddening if I were Ricky.”

Ricky said: “I want to be in here with Mummy and I want Goat to be here too. Please,” he added.

“All right,” Alleyn said. “You won’t see him light himself up, of course, because Mummy will want her lamp on for some time, won’t you, darling?”

“For ages and ages,” Troy, who desired nothing less, agreed.

Ricky said: “Please take him in there and tell me if he illumines.” He fished his silver goat out of the bosom of his yellow shirt. Alleyn took it into the next room, put it on the bedside table, shut the door and turned out the lights.

He sat on the bed staring into the dark and thinking of the events of the long day and of Troy and Ricky, and presently a familiar experience revisited him. He seemed to see himself for the first time, a stranger, a being divorced from experience, a chrysalis from which his spirit had escaped and which it now looked upon, he thought, with astonishment as a soul might look after death at its late housing. He thought: “I suppose Oberon imagines he’s got all this sort of thing taped. Raoul and Teresa too, after their fashion and belief. But I have never found an answer.” The illusion, if it were an illusion and he was never certain about this, could be dismissed, but he held to it still and in a little while he found he was looking at a fluorescence, a glimmer of something, no more than a bat-light. It grew into a shape. It was Ricky’s little figurine faithfully illuminating itself in the dark. And Ricky’s voice, still rather fretful, brought Alleyn back to himself.

“Daddy!” he was shouting. “Is he doing it? Daddy!”

“Yes,” Alleyn called, rousing himself, “he’s doing it. Come and see. But shut the door after you or you’ll spoil it.”

There was a pause. A blade of light appeared and widened. He saw Ricky come in, a tiny figure in pyjamas. “Shut the door, Ricky,” Alleyn repeated, “and wait a moment. If you come to me, you’ll see.”

The room was dark again.

“If you’d go on talking, however,” Ricky’s voice said, very small and polite, “I’d find you.”

Alieyn went on talking and Ricky found him. He stood between his father’s knees and watched the goat shining. “He honestly is silver,” he said. “It’s all true.” He leaned back against his father, smelling of soap, and laid his relaxed hand on Alleyn’s. Alleyn lifted him on to his knee. “I’m fizzily and ’motionly zausted,” Ricky said in a drawling voice.

“What in the world does that mean?’

“It’s what Mademoiselle says I am when I’m overtired.” He yawned cosily. “I’ll look at Goat a bit more and then I daresay…” His voice trailed into silence.

Alleyn could hear Troy moving about quietly in the next room. He waited until Ricky was breathing deeply and then put him to bed. The door opened and Troy stood there listening. Alleyn joined her. “He’s off,” he said and watched while she went to see for herself. They left the door open.

“I don’t know whether that was sound child-psychiatry or a barefaced cheat,” Alleyn said, “but it’s settled his troubles. I don’t think he’ll be frightened of his bedroom now.”

“Suppose he wakes and gets a panic, poor sweet.”

“He won’t. He’ll see his precious goat and go to sleep again. What about you?”

“I’m practically snoring on my feet.”

“Fizzily and ’motionly zausted?”

“Did he say that?”

“Queer little bloke that he is, he did. Shall I stay with you, too, until you go to sleep?”

“But — what about you?”

“I’m going up to the factory. Dupont’s still there and Raoul’s hiring me his car.”

“Rory, you can’t. You must be dead.”

“Not a bit of it. The night’s young and it’ll be tactful to show up. Besides I’ve got to make arrangements for tomorrow.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Of course you don’t my darling. You’re not a cop.”

She tried to protest but was so bemused with sleepiness that her voice trailed away as Ricky’s had done. By the time Alleyn had washed and found himself an overcoat, Troy too was in bed and fast asleep. He turned off the lights and slipped out of the room.

Left to itself, the little silver goat glowed steadfastly through the night.