The Greengage Summer by Rumer Godden Page A

ça! Par exemple!” cried Monsieur Armand, full of admiration. “C’est un peu fort!” He added wisely, “La femme était dans
l’coup.”
    “What woman was in it?”
    “La secrétaire,” said Monsieur Armand and nodded.
    Mauricette said they would catch the thief, the police had the number of the small car. Monsieur Armand said the driver was probably just an accomplice and the car was surely stolen; they would
find it presently. “On verra bien, you will see,” he said, and I went on reading, “This is the third time there has been one of these . . .” I stumbled.
    “Hold-ups,” said Monsieur Armand.
    “. . . in this quarter. Paris police are looking for a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, tall, slim, dressed in thin trousers and a green jacket. The swiftness and . . . au . . . audacity
lead them to think it is the work of an experienced thief, perhaps the international bandit Allen, who was behind the jewel raids in Cannes last year, whom all efforts by the police failed to
catch.” I read on, “What is . . . une grand enquête?” I asked.
    “Cherchant partout,” said Mauricette.
    “Oh! Searching everywhere,” and Mauricette said, “Même Monsieur Eliot.” She laughed as she said it but I did not laugh. Searching everywhere. Even for Eliot! My
mind seemed to give a sharp click.
    The newspaper said they were checking all foreign people in a radius of Paris and Mauricette was teasing us. “Vous deux, Mademoiselle Cecil et Mademoiselle Hester, et ma p’tite
Vicky, ma p’tite reine,” and she picked up Vicky and danced with her. Then she stopped and pointed out a picture in the newspaper to me.
    We were in the kitchen where everything was familiar—Monsieur Armand, Mauricette, the pots and pans; even the flies crawling on Monsieur Armand’s forehead seemed homely, almost dear;
but now everything seemed to slide together into a blur behind the picture of a man and I spelled out the headline above it: “ ‘I have seen him and shall know him again,’ says
Inspector Jules Cailleux of the Sûreté Générale, who is handling the case. ‘This time we shall get him.’ ”
    I took the newspaper up to Joss. “Inspector Cailleux? He was the one at Dormans,” said Joss.
    “Yes, on that day . . .” I broke off. I still did not like to mention that day to Joss, but Hester said, “When Eliot was queer.”
    There was a silence. Then I brought out huskily, “Perhaps he was queer because he did not want Inspector Cailleux to see him.”
    “Don’t imagine things,” said Joss sharply, but the sharpness told me she was imagining too.
    “Willmouse, wake up. Wake up ! Willmouse! ”
    It was next morning. Late the night before Willmouse had stirred, smiled and woken again. Madame Corbet must have been worried because she came straight up to him and he had had hot soup, some
bread and butter, had smiled at us and gone back to sleep. In the night I had heard him rustling. He wanted to go to the Hole and I had taken him. Surely now he must be awake enough to talk . . .
or not to talk, I thought desperately.
    All night I had pondered, conning over these difficult bits and pieces. Why I? I thought, why should it be I? People are not sent what they cannot bear; Mother had said that in the train, but
that was about pain. I could have borne a pain, but this, this horrible knowledge that was in me I could not bear. It’s imagination, I said, pushing it out of sight. At all costs, I thought,
that was what I must do, refuse it, keep it down, be silent, not talk not let Hester talk, or anyone else. “Willmouse, wake up !”
    He opened his eyes. “Have I been asleep?” asked Willmouse.
    “Can you understand me?” I said.
    “Why not?” He was astonished.
    “I want you to promise me something.” My tone must have been very solemn, for his eyes were as big as an owl’s as he looked at me.
    ‘Is it important?”
    “Very important. Willmouse, if they—anyone—ask you if you saw anything, say