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case of the missing lapdog.

Chapter Five: THE CASE OF THE MISSING LAPDOG
    The next day was Saturday, and we planned to go and interview the owner of the missing dog. I’d prepared a story about spending the day with friends to keep Nan happy, but in the end she let us go without a murmur. “That’ll be fine,” she said as she shrugged herself into her coat and checked the contents of her handbag. “I’m doing a cleaning job for Marjorie so I’ll be out for a few hours. Just make sure you’re back by teatime.”
    Castleview, where Mademoiselle Boudet lived, was at the top of a long, steep hill. Once you reached the top, there was a spectacular view over Holcombe Bay to the ruined castle on the promontory opposite. The road was full of huge, swanky houses with three or four cars parked in each driveway, and blocks of cream-painted flats that looked like cruise liners that had been washed up on the top of the hill by a gigantic wave. Mademoiselle Boudet lived in the largest, sleekest block of flats.
    â€œI wonder what she’ll be like,” I said as we walked up the driveway. I was beginning to feel nervous about the coming interview.
    â€œOld and wrinkly, I expect, and really grateful for offers of help. Don’t worry – I’ll have her eating out of my hand. I’m very good with old ladies.”
    There was an entry-phone, and when Donna pressed the bell marked ‘Boudet, Flat 6’, a crackly voice said, “Who is it?”
    â€œWe’ve come about your dog,” I said.
    â€œTop floor,” said the disembodied voice. The door opened and we went in. A gleaming lift whisked us up to the fourth floor in no time, and we walked through the open door of Flat 6 into a small entrance hall. There was a vase of flowers with a heavy, sickly scent on a marble table in front of a huge mirror. Then from a room on our right a low, husky voice called out, “In here!”
    The room we walked into was the sort of room you see in the pages of a glossy magazine. Everything was cream: the thick carpet, the textured wallpaper, the silk curtains. There were mirrors everywhere and lots of little glass-topped tables, which winked and sparkled in the light from a gigantic chandelier. But it was the lady reclining on an enormous cream leather sofa who really surprised us. Mademoiselle Boudet was no old lady in distress. She looked like a film star.
    â€œWell? Do you have my Kiki?” she asked as she swung her legs to the floor. She had very long legs, and she was wearing sheer, silky black tights and shiny black shoes with the highest heels I’d ever seen. Her perfume smelt exotic and expensive.
    I tried to speak, but I was so bowled over by the luxurious apartment and its glamorous owner that I couldn’t get my words out. Donna said quickly, “Er… not yet, but we’ll try and find her if you’ll give us some information about her.”
    She dug me in the ribs, and I hastily handed the lady one of our new business cards. She took it, cocked an eyebrow, and laughed softly to herself.
    â€œSo? The young detectives! How charming! How do you think you can help me?”
    â€œWell…” I cleared my throat and started again. “Well, if you could give us a clear description of… er… Kiki, and tell us when and how she disappeared, we can start making enquiries.”
    â€œAnd if you have a photo, that would be a big help,” Donna added.
    Mademoiselle Boudet sighed. “
Helas
! Poor Kiki! It happened last Saturday afternoon when we were walking along the promenade. Usually she is on a lead, but her collar had snapped earlier that day, so she was running free. We were on the way to the pet shop to buy a new collar. As we approached the shopping mall, a man stopped me to ask directions. When I called Kiki a few moments later, she did not come. I searched for an hour but…” she gave a little shrug, “she had