‘Charming neighbourhood, sir,’ remarked MacGregor nonchalantly. He was keeping a wary eye on a little girl pushing a battered toy pram containing what looked like a tommy gun. She was staring at MacGregor’s legs in a speculative way. MacGregor tensed himself, ready to take evasive action should she charge.
In the nick of time for MacGregor’s dignity, and possibly his trousers, the door at which they had been ringing was flung open and a young woman, scantily dressed in a scarlet négligé, appeared on the step. Her face was heavily, even exotically, made-up and she had a huge construction of untidy black hair piled up high on her head. She took one look at the group of eager spectators and advanced a couple of paces, both hands before her flashing with long scarlet fingernails. She curled her lip back in a snarl before screaming,
‘Fichez le camp! Allez-vous-en! Sales cochons! Vaches puantes!’
Obviously, Dover and MacGregor had found the French teacher.
Having cleared the decks a little, Mademoiselle de Gascoigne turned her attention to her visitors. She smiled. It made her look a trifle more alluring than when she snarled, but not all that much. She flashed dark, mascara-rimmed eyes at MacGregor.
‘Et vous?’ she asked in dulcet tones. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, messieurs?’
It was all Greek to Dover. He looked at MacGregor. MacGregor smiled confidently and raised his hat. ‘Mademoiselle de Gascoigne?’ he asked politely. ‘Nous sommes de la police.’
Mademoiselle de Gascoigne’s smile lasted for the brief moment it took her to work out what MacGregor was saying. Then it faded and the snarl came back.
‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ she screamed in a voice which could be heard at La Petite Roquette. ‘Encore des drauperes? Mais j’ai deja paye!’
‘Oh, no,’ said MacGregor, floundering on manfully. ‘Ce n’est pas comme ça. Nous voulons vous poser . . .’
Mademoiselle de Gascoigne wasn’t listening. She continued to scream in what was, for MacGregor at any rate, unintelligible French. Occasionally she raised her hands to the heavens and appeared to be calling down horrifying Gallic curses on the heads of the two detectives who stood, somewhat at a loss, in front of her.
‘What the hell’s she going on about?’ Dover hissed irately at MacGregor.
‘I’m not quite sure, sir,’ said MacGregor unhappily. ‘I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.’
Dover scowled at him and then dealt in his own inimitable way with Mademoiselle de Gascoigne. He grabbed the flailing hands and held them firmly in his massive fists. ‘Shut up!’ he bellowed and gave her a shake which loosened one of her false eyelashes.
Louise de Gascoigne shut up. Her mouth stayed open but no sounds came out.
‘That’s better,’ said Dover complacently. ‘Now then, we are from the police, savez? Mr Mulkerrin, the Chief Constable, has sent us. Savez?’
‘Meestair Mulkerrin? But zat ees different! Vy deed you not say so beefor? But,’ – she waggled a finger reprovingly at Dover – ‘you naughtee boy, you should ’ave telephoned! Mais cela ne fait rien. Je vous pardonne, cette fois, eh? You vant to come een?’ Red lips parted in a fetching smile as Mademoiselle de Gascoigne jerked her head towards the open door. She also waggled her hips.
‘Yes,’ said Dover.
He and MacGregor started to follow Mademoiselle de Gascoigne into the house when she stopped them in some surprise.
‘Tous les deux? Boz of you? Togezair?’
‘Oh, yes,’ explained MacGregor with a jolly laugh, delighted to find that English was spoken here. ‘We always like to have a witness, you know.’
Mademoiselle de Gascoigne raised her eyebrows as far as they would go. She seemed about to say something but changed her mind and shrugged her shoulders with a wealth of expression. Then, with hips swaying to near dislocation point, she led the way up a narrow flight of stairs. ‘Ma foi!’ she muttered to herself. ‘Quelles especes de sales cochons, ces rosbifs! Us sont tous de vieux vicelards! Et ces poulets, ils sont encore pire que les autres.’
‘What did she say?’ Dover asked MacGregor in a low voice.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that either, sir,’ admitted MacGregor. ‘She seems to have a rather unusual accent.’
‘It’s probably a French one,’ said Dover scathingly, not caring, as usual, how low he had to descend for a laugh. ‘Well, you’d better leave the questioning to me since she obviously doesn’t understand a word you say.’
Mademoiselle de Gascoigne stood aside for them to enter what must qnce have been a front bedroom. Apart from the fact that there was a large divan up against the window, the rest of the room was furnished, mostly in black, as a kind of sitting-room. Two feeble-watted standard lamps with yellow shades provided illumination, but there were a number of large mirrors scattered about the room. There was even one fixed on the ceiling over the divan which gave quite a continental touch to the decor.
‘Shall I take your ’at and coat?’ asked Mademoiselle de Gascoigne.
‘No, thank you, miss,’ said Dover stepping gingerly across the threshold and groping towards the most comfortable arm-chair. He plumped down into it and loosened the laces of his boots to ease his aching feet. With a
