French Leave by Maggie MacKeever

took a thief to catch a thief? No such thing. It took the absence of a uniform.
    But it was not a thief Inspecteur Ollivant sought today. At least, he thought it was not. Clearly he had overlooked some vital piece of evidence, some clue—but what? Yves was very methodical, and not given to oversight.
    Perhaps the oversight was not his. Perhaps some vital piece of information had been withheld. But by whom? An image of a scowling female clad in antique draperies sprang to mind. To tell truth, this image had sprung frequently to mind since Inspecteur Ollivant’s meeting with Ma’mselle Foliot, for he was not accustomed to seeing females so scantily clad. No wonder M’sieur de Duc had taken certain notions. Given such provocation, it would have been much more surprising had he not.
    Ma’mselle Foliot claimed to have sent the Duc off with a flea in his ear, which may or may not have been true. Yves had suspected at the time of their interview that Ma’mselle had not acquainted him with all she knew. This was no great surprise; it was his experience that the females of the species had a strange aversion to speaking the truth. Granted, the inspector was not married, had no sweetheart. His mama lived with him, however. Though limited, his experience was intense.
    He must learn more about Ma’mselle Foliot. Fortunately, in the course of his investigation, Yves had already ascertained her address. He set out through the narrow dusty streets.
    Two centuries before, the Faubourg St. Germain had been one of the most fashionable districts in Paris, and the nobility had dwelt the hotels on the streets which ran parallel to the Quai d’Orsay. Today, a great many of the descendants of those noblefolk had encountered Mme Guillotine, and the district had become the haunt of artists and their students, which in Inspecteur Ollivant’s opinion was a testimony to the transitory nature of the elegancies of this life. Not that he despised such elegancies. Indeed, he aspired to have some for himself.
    Here was his destination. He looked up at a six-story stone building, its lower windows barricaded with iron bars. Undeterred by its unwelcoming aspect, he passed through the massive gate into a refuse-littered courtyard. A fat gray tabby cat lay dozing in the sunlight. It opened one tawny eye, contemplated him, and hissed. Yves did not especially like cats. “Nice puss!” he said, and gave it a wide berth.
    “ Qui va là? Que voulez-vous?” For a startled moment, Inspecteur Ollivant thought the cat had spoken. He turned to see a black-clad gray-haired woman squinting suspiciously at him. Near-sighted, he deduced, and of an age approaching that of his own mama. Of a comparable temperament, also, judging by her hostile stare.
    The inspector contrived to look both humble and respectful. “I intrude. Pardon! This is such a splendid building that I had a desire to peer inside.”
    The woman looked a shade less suspicious. “You are looking for an apartment, m’sieur?”
    If only he might. Inspecteur Ollivant possessed a burning ambition to live apart from his ill-tempered mama.
    Ill-tempered old women often possessed amazing amounts of information. The inspector set out to charm the concierge. “I do indeed look for a room. And this building, it spoke to me. I said to myself, Yves, you could not be so fortunate as to live here. There will surely be no rooms available. But still, I had to inquire.”
    “You are not in luck, m’sieur.” The concierge seemed to derive a certain pleasure from his misfortune. “I have no empty rooms.”
    She could have no inkling of how this information relieved her caller, whose aspirations could be realized only by professional advancement and a higher wage. “I feared it would be so!” he sighed. “If only the stones could talk, what stories such a magnificent old building could tell. Your tenants are privileged, Madame—”
    “Gabbot.” The concierge picked up her tabby cat. “I wish my tenants