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unimpeded, and not a cop in sight. A man – one of us – shoots one? Best of luck, say we all. Teach the ruffians they can’t always get away with it.
    One such bandit, who’d been booby-trapped breaking in, even had the infernal cheek to bring a civil suit. Unlawful injuries, so please you. Think of it! A damned left-wing pink of an advocate had pleaded that. Judges, with no more backbone nowadays than a pack of shrinking pansies, had retained a few scraps of sense, just barely enough to throw this preposterous nonsense out of court.
    Cultivate the bourgeois, said Arthur nastily, and that’s what you get as dinner-table conversation: Bring Back The Cat. Poor old France hasn’t got a cat. Never mind; a good fifteen-year-stretch at hard labour: Bring Back Devil’s Island. An offence against property will always be punished far more heavily than an offence against the person.
    Doing something for Madame Bartholdi isn’t going to be easy, thought Arlette unhappily. It rather looks, my girl, as though you’ve another failure on your hands.

Chapter 5
Sergeant Subleyras
    A restless impulse sent Arlette into the kitchen, where the cleaning woman was, as usual, placidly drinking coffee. One or two Spanish platitudes were exchanged, and she worked a whileon the midday meal. Another jerky caprice – she was trying to think, found it difficult, and was, as she realized, putting it off – sent her feet in the direction of the livingroom, where she found a mess of Arthur’s. The cleaning woman, strictly forbidden to touch ‘work’, had dusted pointedly around an island of toast-crumbs, tobacco-flakes and a dirty piece of paper pinned down by the marmalade pot. Arlette left this disgusting object-lesson in male piggery where it was, but read the paper.
    â€˜Mental Intoxication … An everyday example is modishness or fashion. A man and I were studying together a new car, of unparalleled hideousness in design & colour, & cf. Lurie’s appellation “The Jar of Peanut Butter”. Knowing nothing, & caring less about its engineering capacities, I remarked mildly that its vile aspect sufficed to condemn. The man looked at me in total consternation and said, “But it’s this year’s model!” Nothing I could say shook his conviction that this was a criterion of excellence.’
    For this one could forgive Arthur’s rooted refusal to keep his beastly breakfast on the kitchen table.
    She could not remember whether she had left the phone on direct ring or on record, and went back to her workroom to find out. It was on record, meaning a taped instruction to leave a message, and there was a message on the tape; a male voice, quiet and agreeably unaggressive, saying, ‘Sergeant Subleyras, Crime Squad, don’t ring me, I’ll ring again in an hour’s time’ and wasted no further time. More or less without thinking, Arlette switched the phone to direct and it rang almost at once, and the same voice, still wasting no time, said, “Good morning, Madame, Subleyras, Urban Police. Have you any free time this morning?”
    â€œWhat’s it about?” searching her mind for any possible recent transgressions: despite experience, she still felt guilty when the police called.
    â€œI’d rather not discuss it on the phone: I’d prefer a confidential interview.” Surprise. Try to be businesslike. Her watch said nine forty-eight; heavens, it’s still early.
    â€œNow, if you like. Ten o’clock?”
    â€œThat’ll do nicely,” with no beating about the bush at all.“Be with you in a few minutes.” Tolerably startled, she hung up and wondered what on earth the cops … surely Madame Bartholdi hadn’t … no, impossible. Well, she’d see shortly. And hear. Time for a pee and repair one’s lipstick. The ring at the doorbell was brisk but not intimidating, and she was ready with the right