Inside, the uncorking bursts of three champagne bottles fire in rapid succession. Simon's party guests shriek with giddiness, which Glynnis and I answer with a chuckle between the two of us.

The Paris moonlight on her bare shoulders disappears when she accepts my jacket. Introductions are followed by the witty sort of dialogue one might find in a Simon Niall musical comedy. Our particular scene is played out before a backdrop of lights, music and romance, separated from the two of us only by the balcony's stone balustrade. Below us lies an ancient city forever young and gay, intoxicated with le joie de vie.

We are so bewitched by the splendour of our paradise and the cleverness of our small talk that we hardly notice that all has gone quiet in Simon's flat. I poke my head back in to find the place deserted. No, not entirely. There is one man, not a guest. Possessed of a diabolical favour, he roams the suite, armed with a pistol! And he's coming this way.

Those weren't corks we heard. They were gunfire. I silently retreat back onto the balcony, roll Glynnis into my arms, and press her between myself and the stone of the outer wall of the hôtel. In that intimate situation I calmly give direction.

When the armed stranger emerges through the French doors, Glynnis and I are positioned on either side of the balcony, out of sight. The stranger peers over the balustrade. Now! I mouth to my lovely adventuress. Glynnis and I each take the stranger by a leg and with facility (aided by his front-heavy weight displacement) pitch him headlong over the stone rail.

As predicted, he lands upon the hôtel's awning, leaving him to answer to the authorities who would no doubt be interested to learn of his business at the Salon de Divertissement. "A job well done, Miss Cumhaill," I say with a smile, receiving Glynnis's hand in a firm shake.