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little twinkle in his eye.
    â€œDo you like Mediterranean cooking, Mr. Pyke?”
    â€œI don’t know it.”
    â€œDo you want to try it?”
    â€œWith pleasure.”
    And Paul, the proprietor, suggested:
    â€œSome small birds, to start with? I’ve a few cooked on the spit, brought in this morning.”
    They were robins, Paul unfortunately announced as he served the Englishman, who could not help gazing tenderly at his plate.
    â€œAs you see, inspector, I’ve been a good boy.”
    From where he sat Charlot, without stopping eating, was addressing them in an undertone.
    â€œI’ve waited for you without being impatient. I haven’t even asked the inspector’s permission to leave.”
    A lengthy silence.
    â€œI’m at your service, whenever you like. Paul will tell you that I didn’t leave the Arche that evening.”
    â€œAre you in such a hurry?”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œTo clear yourself.”
    â€œI’m just clearing the ground a little, that’s all. I’m doing my best to stop you swimming too far out to sea. Because you soon will be swimming. I swim well, but I come from these parts.”
    â€œDid you know Marcellin?”
    â€œI’ve had a drink with him hundreds of times, if that’s what you mean. Is it true you’ve brought someone from Scotland Yard with you?”
    He examined Mr. Pyke cynically, like some strange object.
    â€œThis is no case for him. It’s not a case for you either, if you’ll forgive my saying what I think. You know I’ve always kept clean. We’ve already had things out between us. There’s no hard feelings on either side. What’s the fat little sergeant in your office called again? Lucas! How’s he getting on, Lucas? Paul! Jojo!…Hey!…”
    As there was no reply, he went toward the kitchen and came back after a few minutes with a plate smelling of garlic mayonnaise.
    â€œI’m not stopping you talking?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œIf I am, you can just ask me politely to shut my trap. I’m just thirty-four years old. To be exact, it was my birthday yesterday, which means I’m just beginning to feel my age. In my time I’ve had several chats with your colleagues, either in Paris, or Marseilles, or elsewhere. They haven’t always been very polite to me. We haven’t always got on together, but there’s one thing everyone will tell you: Charlot’s never got his hands dirty.”
    It was true, if one took that to mean he had never killed anyone. He must have had a round dozen convictions to his credit, but for relatively harmless offenses.
    â€œDo you know why I come here regularly? I like the place, obviously, and Paul’s a good chap. But there’s another reason. Look in the corner, on the left. The fruit machine. It’s mine, and I’ve got around fifty of them from Marseilles to Saint-Raphael. They aren’t exactly legal. From time to time, some of your gentlemen turn nasty and remove one or two of them.”
    Poor Mr. Pyke, who had eaten his little birds to the bitter end, in spite of the softness of his heart! Now he was sniffing the garlic mayonnaise with ill-concealed apprehension.
    â€œYou’re wondering why I am talking so much, aren’t you?”
    â€œI haven’t wondered anything yet.”
    â€œIt’s not a habit of mine. But I’ll tell you anyway. Here, I mean on the island, there are two characters who are bound to get blamed for the whole affair. They’re Émile and me. We’ve both seen trouble. People are very decent with us, more so as we are openhanded with drinks. They wink at one another. They whisper:
    â€œâ€˜They’re regular crooks!’
    â€œOr sometimes:
    â€œâ€˜Take a look at him. He’s quite a lad!’
    â€œJust the same, the moment there’s any dirty work it’s us they go for.
    â€œI realized that, and