“I don’t know how I fell,” I said. I got up and made my way back to the catwalk. The surface was smooth wood. I couldn’t see any bumps or nails sticking up or any kind of projection. I was forced to admit that my well-known clumsiness had caused this. I should never have agreed to model the clothes. I had only myself to blame. People in the salon were getting progressively more annoyed. Mutterings turned to mumblings to raised voices. Just when it looked as if there might be a mutiny and they might force their way out, the doors were flung open and a little man stood there. He had an impressive black mustache out of all proportion to his size and he stood surveying the crowd with an air of distaste.

“Nobody is to move,” he said in heavily accented English. “I am Inspector Lafite of the Nice Police. I understand that a robbery has happened here.” (Actually he said “a rubbery’as ’appened ’ere.”) “But ’ave no fear. I shall find the culprit and bring ’im to justice.”

“This is ridiculous,” one of the bejeweled ladies said, fanning herself with her program. “We’re English aristocracy, not Continentals. We don’t go around stealing things.”

The crowd parted as Inspector Lafite strode through the crowd until he reached the catwalk. “You Engleesh,” he said, looking around us with scorn, “you think you can come here to France and behave badly. You think we French have no laws, do you not? You mistake yourselves. But I tell you, the police in France are not easily outfoxed. Now, please describe the missing item to me.”

“It was a choker,” Vera said.

“A joker? The joker stole this item as a joke?”

“No, the item was a choker.”

“You think you can mock Inspector Lafite?” he demanded.

“I’m not mocking, you silly man,” Vera said in an exasperated voice. “I’m describing the stolen piece of jewelry.”

“Ah, so you admit it was jewelry.”

“A choker. A necklace that is worn up around the neck.”

“A necklace. Why didn’t you say so? From whom was the necklace stolen?”

“I was wearing it,” I said, “but it didn’t belong to me.”

He walked up to me until he was standing a few inches away. He was about four inches shorter than I so he had to stare up into my face. “And your name is?”

“Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” I said.

“Ah. An English lady. But you wear jewels that do not belong to you?”

“I was a model in Madame Chanel’s fashion show,” I said. “The necklace was part of my outfit.”

“A valuable necklace?”

“Very valuable,” Vera said.

“It belongs to you, Madame?”