‘The gigolo and the English countess?’
‘Shh! Discretion, my dear Miss Watkins!’
‘Of course!’ Heather Watkins stood up and began to collect her things together into the small travelling bag she’d brought with her. ‘Well, it would seem my work is done here, for the time being at any rate. Look, Joe, Sir George, I consider myself on hand if required, for the rest of my stay in Paris. Don’t hesitate and all that . . .’
‘Heather, you don’t have to rush off?’ Joe began.
Her eyes twinkled as she looked from one to the other. ‘I’m quite certain you have things to discuss. Serious things. Crime things. I’m very happy to go about my business which – you won’t be surprised to hear – involves a quick trip to the Galeries Lafayette. I saw a darling little day dress in their window on my way here in the taxi.’
After an affectionate goodbye to George she tucked him up again under his covers, ran a hand over his brow and spoke gently to him: ‘Why don’t you try to take another forty winks now that Joe’s back? You’re quite safe, you know.’
She paused, bag in hand, by the door and Joe went to open it for her and show her out. ‘Hang on a minute! Gosh, I wouldn’t make a good agent, would I – I nearly forgot! Jean-Philippe told me to tell you he’d be back by French teatime.’
‘Five o’clock, then.’ Joe grinned.
‘Oh . . . and you might like to tell him that he was quite right to warn me about attempted incursions by strangers.’
Suddenly chilled and alert, Joe asked quietly: ‘What was that, Heather? Are you saying someone tried to force his way in here?’
‘Not force, no,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Much more subtle. And I’m probably being over-suspicious in the light of Jean-Philippe’s warning . . . Well, you can judge, Joe. About a quarter of an hour after he’d left, there was a tap on the door. I looked around. George hadn’t gone to bed – he was in the bathroom with the door shut. Avoiding me, I think. Hoping I’d go away. The bed was made up, the room neat. I chucked that mucky old trench coat away behind the chair, picked up my bag, looking for all the world as though I’d just that minute arrived, and opened the door a crack. There was a stranger there. A man. Thirties? Forties? French, I’d say. Dressed in black jacket and trousers. Room service, you’d have said. Except that no one had called for room service.’
‘Go on!’ Joe could hardly bear the pause as she mar-shalled her impressions.
‘Well, I took the initiative. “Yes? Who are you and what do you want?” I said in English.
‘“Reception, mademoiselle, I have a message for the gentleman,” he said. He was trying to speak English. And doing it well, I thought.
‘“What gentleman?” I asked. And without looking up at the number on the door I said: “This is Room 205. You must have got the wrong number.” At this point I opened the door properly . . . didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything . . . or anybody. His eyes darted . . . yes, they darted . . . inside. I thought for a moment he might try to get in so I squared up to him, barring his way.
‘“Sir George Jardine,” he said. “It’s very urgent. I must deliver the message directly and into his hand.” He was holding something in his right hand which was stuffed into his trouser pocket, I remember.
‘“Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said. “But, hard luck – you’ll have to enquire elsewhere. I’ve just been shown to this room which of course has been vacated. There’s no one under the bed – I always check. Silly, I know! And now if you wouldn’t mind – I’m just about to take a bath. Look – obvious question, but you did check with Reception before you came up, didn’t you? Perhaps,” I suggested helpfully, “your Sir John was here last night? But he’s not here now. Perhaps they gave you the wrong floor? Yes, I’d go back to Reception and ask them what on earth they think they’re doing. They’ll set you straight.”’
Joe must have been looking shocked. With a wary eye on him, Heather asked anxiously if she’d done the right thing.
‘Exactly the right thing. Wonderful presence of mind, Heather!’
She was encouraged to ask quietly: ‘Who was he, Joe?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said and, displeased by his answer which, though true, was unsatisfying and unworthy for a girl who had, by her quick thought and courage, most probably saved George’s life, he added: ‘Someone sent to tidy up a loose end, I fear. Thank God you were here, Heather, holding the gate!’