'Very risky, and for only uncertain gains,' I told him severely, waving my wallet in his face. 'And I understand that the penalties in France are exceptionally high for this sort of activity. You are too young to spend the next few years in prison and, on the whole, it is better to avoid spending time there at all.'

He was not entirely certain how to take my remarks; I had, after all, just caught him with his hand in my pocket and had grabbed his wrist hard to make sure he did not escape. He squealed in pain as he tried to wriggle free, attracting the glances of passers-by in the rue de Richelieu, along which I was walking after my luncheon. I waited until he might realise that he was not going to get free of me, and calmed down.

'Good,' I said when the noise subsided, 'As far as I understand these things you should never, ever work alone, but need someone operating with you to distract the attention of the person whose wallet you admire. Secondly, it is unwise to try and steal from a gentleman; they are far more violent and unpleasant than ordinary working folk, and do not hesitate to call the police. You are only a man of property if you are good at keeping hold of that property. Thirdly, like most well-dressed men, I keep very little cash in my wallet, and much more in the bank. If you want serious wealth, I suggest you address your attentions over there.'

I waved behind him at the façade of the Crédit Lyonnais, just visible on the boulevard beyond.

He continued to eye me with ever more doubt, and began to shuffle uneasily from foot to foot.

'Are you hungry? You have a sort of pinched look about you. Perhaps you were stealing to buy yourself a good meal?'

'No,' he said scornfully. 'I mean, I am hungry, but . . .'

'In that case, young man, you must allow me to offer you a good bowl of soup and bread. The contents of this wallet were so nearly yours, I feel such proximity to triumph should not go without recompense.'

He looked at me with narrowed eyes once more, but did not object when I led him – still holding on to his wrist quite firmly – up the stairs to a bouillon on the other side of the road.

It was still quite busy, but there was no difficulty getting a table in the corner and I sat the boy against the wall, so he could not make a run for it with any chance of getting away. I ordered him a large bowl of onion soup and bread and water, and watched with satisfaction as he ate.

'I hope all this makes you realise that I am not inclined to call the police, nor even to inform your father of your activities. Do you wish to be like him when you grow up?' I asked gently.

He looked at me with a wisdom and sadness beyond his years. 'No,' he replied with a touch of steel in his voice. 'And I won't be.'

I pondered this as he ate his soup. He was very hungry, and ate with both noise and relish; the offer of a second bowl was accepted with enthusiasm. It is remarkable how much you can find out about someone in a short time and a few words. The boy was courageous and defiant. He knew loyalty – even though its object was undeserving. He was prepared to take responsibility, to act where others might have sat and merely accepted their fate.

'Now, listen to me,' I said seriously. 'I have not paid to pour litres of soup into you for no reason. I have been thinking, and I have a proposal for you. Do you want to hear it?'

He nodded cautiously.

'Can you write and count adequately? I know you can read.'

He nodded. 'Course I can.'

'Good. In which case you are well to leave school. It has nothing else to offer you. You need a proper job, which I am offering you.'

He gazed at me in that same, steady fashion, not reacting at all, really. Just patient.

'As you may know, I am a journalist . . .'

'I don't like the English,' he remarked, although without any personal animosity.

'Nor do you have to. In my work I need messages sent, letters delivered. I will occasionally need other tasks done. Following people, watching people without being seen. Perhaps even going into their houses and taking things.'

He frowned. 'You do that?'

'It's an odd job, journalism. And no, I do not. You do. Do you have any objection?'

He shook his head.

'The pay will be adequate, even generous, that is to say about a hundred francs a month. Does that suit you?'

He stared at me. I knew it was almost as much as his father earned.

'You will be punctual at all times, start work when I say and finish when I say. There will be no days off unless I say so.'

He nodded.

'You agree?'

He nodded again. I held out my hand. 'Then we must shake on it. Present yourself at my hotel tomorrow morning at eight.'

He gripped my hand over the range of soup bowls and, for the first time, his face creased in a broad, happy grin.

CHAPTER 11