‘When I first saw it in the paper I thought it resembled my wife’s sister, Ruth, rather than my wife,’ he said. ‘Since it couldn’t possibly refer to Ruth it seems to me even more unlikely that it refers to Effie.’
‘Mme Gotham was arrested in Trieste.’
Harvey was still looking at the identikit. It reminded him, now, of Job’s wife in La Tour’s painting even though the drawing was full-face and the painting showed a profile.
‘She was arrested for shop-lifting,’ said Harvey.
‘Why did she do that?’
Harvey put down the identikit and gave Chatelain his attention. ‘I don’t know that she did it. If she did, it does not follow that she bombs supermarkets and kills policemen.’
‘If I was in your place,’ said Chatelain, ‘I would probably speak as you do. But if you were in my place, you would press for some indication, any indication, any guess, as to where she is. I don’t blame you for trying to protect your wife. You see,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and looking away from Harvey, towards the window, ‘a policeman has been shot dead. His wife is in a shop on the outskirts of Paris where they live, a popular quarter, with her twelve-year-old daughter who has a transistor radio. The lady is waiting her turn at the cash-desk. The child draws her mother’s attention to a flash item of news that has interrupted the music. A policeman has been shot and killed in the eighteenth
‘No,’ said Harvey. ‘Neither did the policeman. We do not get what we merit. The one thing has nothing to do with the other. Your only course is to prevent it happening again.
‘Depend on us,’ said the policeman.
‘If I may say so,’ said Harvey, ‘you are wasting efforts on me which might profitably be directed to that end.’
‘Any clue, any suggestion …’ said Chatelain, with great patience. He almost pleaded. ‘Are there any houses in Paris that you know of, where they might be found?’
‘None,’ said Harvey.
‘No friends?’
‘The few people I know with establishments in Paris are occupied with business affairs in rather a large, multinational way. I don’t believe they would like the FLE.’
‘Nathan Fox is a good housekeeper?’
‘I believe he can be useful in a domestic way.’
‘He could be keeping a safe house for the gang in Paris.’
‘I don’t see him as the gangster type. Honestly, you know, I don’t think he’s in it.’
‘But your wife … She is different?’
‘I didn’t say so.’
‘And yourself?’
‘What about myself? What are you asking?’ Harvey said.
‘You have a connection with the gang?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you hang baby clothes on the line outside your cottage as early as last spring?’ said Chatelain next.
Harvey was given a break at about seven in the evening. He was accompanied to a cafe for a meal by the tall young Parisian inspector with metal-rimmed glasses, Louis Pomfret by name.
Pomfret spoke what could be described as ‘perfect English’, that awful type of perfect English that comes over Radio Moscow. He said something apologetic, in semi-disparagement of the police. Harvey couldn’t now remember the exact words. But he recalled Pomfret remarking, too, on the way to the cafe, ‘You must understand that one of their men has been killed.’ (‘Their’ men, not ‘our men’, Harvey noted.)
At the cafe table the policeman told Harvey, ‘A Canadian lady arrived in Paris who attempted to reach you on the telephone, and we intercepted her. She’s your aunt. We’ve escorted her safely to the chateau where she desired to go.
‘God, it’s my Aunt Pet. Don’t give her any trouble.’
‘But, no.
If you think you’ll make me grateful for all this courtesy, thought Harvey, you are mistaken. He said, ‘I should hope not.
The policeman said, ‘I’m afraid the food here is ghastly.’
‘They make a good omelette. I’ve eaten here before,’ said Harvey.
Ham omelettes and wine from the Vosges.
‘It’s unfortunate for you, Gotham,’ said Pomfret, ‘but you appreciate, I hope, our position.’
