He remembered the telephone ringing beside his bed.
"Monsieur Deschamps?" a deep, quiet voice had asked.
"Oui?" he replied, still half asleep.
"My apologies for disturbing your rest," the voice continued, in French with a peculiar British and yet not quite British accent. "My name is Amru Singh. I am with a friend of yours, Mademoiselle Rina Marlowe.
She needs your help."
He was awake now. "Is it serious?"
"Quite serious," Amru Singh replied.
"Mademoiselle Bradley had an accident.
She was killed in a fall and the police are being very difficult."
"Let me speak with Mademoiselle Marlowe."
"Unfortunately, she is in no position to come to the telephone. She is in a state of complete shock."
"Where are you?"
"At the studio of Monsieur Pavan, the sculptor. You know the place?"
"Yes," Jacques answered quickly. "I will be there in half an hour.
In the meanwhile, do not let her talk to anyone."
"I have already seen to that," Amru Singh said. "She will not speak with anyone until you arrive."
Jacques did not quite understand what Amru Singh had meant until he saw Rina's ashen face and the blank look in her eyes.
The police had efficiently isolated her in the small dressing room of the studio.
"Your friend seems to be in a very bad state of shock, monsieur," the Inspector said when Jacques introduced himself. "I have sent for a doctor."
Jacques bowed. "You are very kind, Inspector.
Perhaps you can tell me what happened?
I just arrived, in response to a telephone call from a mutual friend."
The Inspector gestured broadly. "It is nothing but routine, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Bradley fell down the stairs.
We require only a statement from Mademoiselle Marlowe, who was the only person with her at the time."
Jacques nodded.
There must be more to it than that, he thought.
Or why would Amru Singh have sent for him?
"May I go into the dressing room?"
The Inspector bowed. "Of course, monsieur."
Jacques entered the small room.
Rina was seated on a small chair, half hidden behind a tall man wearing a turban.
"Monsieur Deschamps?"
Jacques bowed. "At your service, Monsieur Singh."
He glanced at Rina.
She didn't seem to see him.
When Amru Singh spoke, his voice was soft, as if he were speaking to a child.
"Your friend Monsieur Deschamps is here, mademoiselle."
Rina looked up, her eyes blank, unrecognizing.
Jacques looked at Amru Singh questioningly. The man's dark eyes were inscrutable.
"I was at the scene of the accident, Monsieur Deschamps.
She was very upset and seemed under a compulsion to accept blame for her friend's accident."
"Did she have anything to do with it?" Jacques asked.
"As I already explained to the police," Amru Singh said blandly, "nothing I saw led me to think so."
"What did she say to them?"
"I thought it best that she not speak with them," Amru Singh replied.
"Are you a doctor?"
"I am a student, monsieur," Amru Singh replied.
Jacques looked up at him. "Then how were you able to keep her from speaking to the police?"
Amru Singh's face was impassive.
"I told her not to."