The Mamur Zapt and the Donkey-Vous. Michael Pearce
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 round 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 round 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 it.’
‘And you’re sure about that? About him being there, I mean?’
Lucy thought again. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure.’ She tossed her head. ‘No, I’m definitely sure.’
‘And that would have been about fourish. You’re not able to place the time more precisely?’
‘About five to four. We’re always on the terrace by four.’
‘And then you had tea. Was Monsieur Moulin having tea?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He was just sitting at the table?’
‘Yes.’
‘Looking around for someone? As if he was expecting them?’
‘Yes. Of course, now I think about it, it might not have been her.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, then we finished our tea.’
‘And did you notice Monsieur Moulin any more? Did you see him leave his table, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘Go down the steps?’
‘He might have been ogling me,’ said Lucy with a toss of her curls, ‘but I wasn’t ogling him.’
‘You stayed on the terrace for about how long?’
‘About an hour.’
‘And when you left, was Monsieur Moulin still at his table?’
‘No,’ said Lucy.
‘That’s definite, is it?’
‘Yes, because I can remember seeing the tea-things on the table and wondering why the waiters hadn’t cleared them. They’re very good here, you know.’
‘One last question, Miss Colthorpe Hartley,’ said Mahmoud. ‘You said your father joined you later?’
‘A bit later.’
‘Thank you. In fact, thank you very much for being so helpful.’
‘I’m glad I’ve been helpful,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m not usually. Daddy says I’m scatterbrained, but I’m not really. I just sometimes choose to be scatterbrained.’
She got up to go. Mahmoud rose too.
‘You’re very nice, aren’t you?’ she said to him. ‘You’ve got such sweet brown eyes. But such a sad face!’
‘I haven’t got a sad face, have I?’ asked Mahmoud.
They were having lunch round the corner. By the time they had finished with Miss Colthorpe Hartley, it was nearly noon. The heat had driven everyone off the terrace and back into the cool of the hotel, first to lunch and then to the darkness of their bedrooms.
Owen normally worked till one-thirty and then went to lunch at the Sporting Club but today it was