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that.”
    “Were you? Gosh, I’d like to go to India. Only Daddy says it is too expensive.”
    “Where is your father?” said Owen, looking ’round.
    “Having a drink, I expect. He can’t bear to come shopping with us.”
    “Was he on the terrace too?” asked Mahmoud.
    “He joined us out there.”
    “About what time was that?”
    “Four o’clockish. Mummy always likes her tea about then.”
    “That was when your father joined you?”
    “Yes. He was a bit behind us, as usual. He always takes ages over his shower.”
    “When you came out on to the terrace was Monsieur Moulin already there?”
    “You mean that old man with sticks?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “I sort of noticed him, I think, though I couldn’t swear to it. Wait a minute, yes, I did notice him. He was looking around. I thought perhaps he’d lost that girl of his.”
    “What girl of his?”
    “You know, that girl who’s always hanging around him. His bit of fluff.”
    “Bit of fluff?” said Mahmoud, completely lost.
    “Yes.” Lucy frowned in concentration. “His
petite amie
. That’s what you would say, isn’t it?” She smiled at Mahmoud.
    “Well, maybe,” said Owen. “That would depend on the circumstances. Can you tell us about this lady, Miss Colthorpe Hartley?”
    “Well, she’s—well, first of all, I think my mother would say she’s not a lady. Not just foreign, I mean, but definitely not a lady.”
    “She’s French, is she?”
    “Yes, I think so. She’s blonde, not dark like they usually are, and it’s real blonde too, not dyed. Although she’s common, she’s also quite sophisticated, if you know what I mean, at least that’s how she strikes me. She’s terribly well dressed. It must have cost a fortune. If only Daddy would let
me
spend that amount of money! That’s sugar-daddy sort of money, not daddy sort of money. I say, that’s pretty good, isn’t it! I must tell Gerald that.”
    “Would he understand?” asked Owen.
    Lucy laughed merrily. “He’s not as stupid as all that,” she protested. “Well, not quite as stupid. You don’t like Gerald much, do you, Captain Owen?”
    “Not much.”
    Why was he saying that? This was supposed to be a formal investigation, not party chit-chat. He must have caught it from her.
    “But are you sure she’s Monsieur Moulin’s
petite amie
and not Monsieur Berthelot’s?” Mahmoud intervened.
    “Monsieur—?”
    “Berthelot. The young man who accompanied Monsieur Moulin. His nephew.”
    “Oh, I know the one you mean. The one with the bulging eyes. Well, no, I don’t think so, though you often see them together.”
    “Does she come out on the terrace too?”
    “Only in the evening. I expect,” said Lucy acidly, “that she doesn’t have time. It takes her so long to make up.”
    “Then why,” asked Mahmoud, “when you came out on to the terrace yesterday afternoon and saw Monsieur Moulin looking around, did you think he had lost her?”
    “My goodness!” said Lucy. “You
are
sharp! He’s caught me out, hasn’t he?” she appealed to Owen.
    “He has.”
    “I don’t know why I said that. It’s my silly tongue running away with me again. What
did
I mean?” She thought hard.
    “Well, it’s true,” she said after a moment, “or it might have been true. She’s always hanging around him. It’s so blatant. I should think he jolly well might have felt lost when she wasn’t there for once.”
    “And she wasn’t there?”
    “No. And it
is
true that you don’t usually see her on the terrace in the afternoons. Not till later.
I
think,” said Lucy, giggling, “that she finds it hard to get up. Perhaps she’s worn out!”
    Lucy shrieked with laughter. Mrs. Colthorpe Hartley, sitting obediently outside the alcove but not abandoning her post, looked at her disapprovingly. The young man beside her stirred unhappily.
    “So she definitely wasn’t on the terrace yesterday afternoon but he definitely was?”
    “Yes, that’s right. You’ve got