Meaning the good inspector protected the high and mighty?
Meaning he was discreet.
Why did your name escape the report?
I was just a bit player asked to comment on your parents marriage. Whether they ever argued, seemed unhappy, thats all. I was only on the periphery.
She touched the file on her lap. So tell me, she said, why are you getting involved now?
Because you and Jordan are. Because Claude Daumier asked me to look after you. He glanced at her and added quietly, And because I owe it to your father. He wasa good man. She thought he would say more, but then he turned and gazed straight ahead at the road.
Wolf, asked Jordan, who was sitting in the back seat, are you aware that were being followed?
What? Beryl turned and scanned the traffic behind them. Which car?
The blue Peugeot. Two cars back.
I see it, said Richard. Its been tailing us all the way from the hotel.
You knew the car was there all the time? said Beryl. And you didnt think of mentioning it?
I expected it. Take a good look at the driver, Jordan. Blond hair, sunglasses. Definitely a woman.
Jordan laughed. Why, its my little vampiress in black. Colette.
Richard nodded. One of the friendlies.
How can you be sure? asked Beryl.
Because shes Daumiers agent. Which makes her protection, not a threat. Richard turned off Boulevard Raspail. A moment later, he spotted a parking space and pulled up at the curb. In fact, she can keep an eye on the car while were inside.
Beryl glanced at the large brick building across the street. Over the entrance archway were displayed the words Maison de Convalescence. What is this place?
A nursing home.
This is where Inspector Broussard lives?
Hes been here for years, said Richard, as he gazed up at the building with a look of pity. Ever since his stroke.
Judging by the photograph tacked to the wall of his room, ex-Chief Inspector Broussard had once been an impressive man. The picture showed a beefy Frenchman with a handlebar mustache and a lions mane of hair, posing regally on the steps of a Paris police station.
It bore little resemblance to the shrunken creature now propped up, his body half-paralyzed, in bed.
Mme Broussard bustled about the room, all the time speaking with the precise grammar of a former teacher of English. She fluffed her husbands pillow, combed his hair, wiped the drool from his chin. He remembers everything, she insisted. Every case, every name. But he cannot speak, cannot hold a pen. And that is what frustrates him! It is why I do not let him have visitors. He wishes so much to talk, but he cannot form the words. Only a few, here and there. And how it upsets him! Sometimes, after a visit with friends, he will moan for days. She moved to the head of the bed and stood there like a guardian angel. You ask him only a few questions, do you understand? And if he becomes upset, you must leave immediately.
We understand, said Richard. He pulled up a chair next to the bedside. As Beryl and Jordan watched, he opened the police file and slowly laid the crime-scene photos on the coverlet for Broussard to see. I know you cant speak, he said, but I want you to look at these. Nod if you remember the case.
Mme Broussard translated for her husband. He stared down at the first photo-the gruesome death poses of Madeline and Bernard. They lay like lovers, entwined in a pool of blood. Clumsily Broussard touched the photo, his fingers lingering on Madelines face. His lips formed a whispered word.
What did he say? asked Richard.
La belle. Beautiful woman, said Mme Broussard. You see? He does remember.
The old man was gazing at the other photos now, his left hand beginning to quiver in agitation. His lips moved helplessly; the effort to speak came out in grunts. Mme Broussard leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying. She shook her head in bewilderment.
Weve read his report, said Beryl. The one he filed twenty years ago. He concluded that it was a murder and suicide. Did he truly believe that?
Again, Mme Broussard translated.
Broussard looked up at Beryl, his gaze focusing for the first time on her black hair. A look of wonder came over his face, almost a look of recognition.
His wife repeated the question. Did he believe it was a murder and suicide?
Slowly Broussard shook his head.
Jordan asked, Does he understand the question?
Of course he does! snapped Mme Broussard. I told you, he understands everything.
The man was tapping at one of the photos now, as though trying to point something out. His wife asked a question in French. He only slapped harder at the photo.
Is he trying to point at something? asked Beryl.
Just a corner of the picture, said Richard. A view of empty floor.
Broussards whole body seemed to be quivering with the effort to speak. His wife leaned forward again, straining to make out his words. She shook her head. It makes no sense.
What did he say? asked Beryl.
Serviette. It is a napkin or a towel. I do not understand. She snatched up a hand towel from the sink and held it up to her husband. Serviette de toilette?
He shook his head and angrily batted away the towel.