I do not know what he means, Mme Broussard said with a sigh.
Maybe I do, said Richard. He bent close to Broussard. Porte documents? he asked.
Broussard gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against his pillows. Wearily he nodded.
Thats what he was trying to say, said Richard. Serviette porte documents. A briefcase.
Broussard gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against his pillows. Wearily he nodded.
Thats what he was trying to say, said Richard. Serviette porte documents. A briefcase.
Briefcase? echoed Beryl. Do you think he means the one with the classified file?
Richard frowned at Broussard. The man was exhausted, his face a sickly gray against the white linen.
Mme Broussard took one look at her husband and moved in to shield him from Richard. No further questions, Mr. Wolf! Look at him! He is drained-he cannot tell you more. Please, you must leave.
She hurried them out of the room and into the hallway. A nun glided past, carrying a tray of medicines. At the end of the hall, a woman in a wheelchair was singing lullabies to herself in French.
Mme Broussard, said Beryl, we have more questions, but your husband cant answer them. There was another detectives name on that report-an Etienne Giguere. How can we get in touch with him?
Etienne? Mme Broussard looked at her in surprise. You mean you do not know?
Know what?
He was killed nineteen years ago. Hit by a car while crossing the street. Sadly she shook her head. They did not find the driver.
Beryl caught Jordan s startled look; she saw in his eyes the same dismay she felt.
One last question, said Jordan. When did your husband have his stroke?
1974.
Also nineteen years ago?
Mme Broussard nodded. Such a tragedy for the department! First, my husbands stroke. Then three months later, they lose Etienne. Sighing, she turned back to her husbands room. But that is life, I suppose. And there is nothing we can do to change it
Back outside again, the three of them stood for a moment in the sunshine, trying to shake off the gloom of that depressing building.
A hit and run? said Jordan. The driver never caught? I have a bad feeling about this.
Beryl glanced up at the archway. Maison de Convalescence, she murmured sarcastically. Hardly a place to recover. More like a place to die. Shivering, she turned to the car. Please, lets just get out of here.
They drove north, to the Seine. Once again, the blue Peugeot followed them, but none of them paid it much attention; the French agent had become a fact of life-almost a reassuring one.
Suddenly Jordan said, Hold on, Wolf. Let me off on Boulevard Saint-Germain. In fact, right about here would be fine.
Richard pulled over to the curb. Why here?
We just passed a café-
Oh, Jordan, groaned Beryl, youre not hungry already, are you?
Ill meet you back at the hotel, said Jordan, climbing out of the car. Unless you two care to join me?
So we can watch you eat? Thank you, but Ill pass.
Jordan gave his sister an affectionate squeeze of the shoulder and closed the car door. Ill catch a taxi back. See you later. With a wave, he turned and strolled down the boulevard, his blond hair gleaming in the sunshine.
Back to the hotel? asked Richard softly.
She looked at him and thought, Its always there shimmering between us-the attraction. The temptation. I look in his eyes, and suddenly I remember how safe it feels to be in his arms. How easy it would be to believe in him. And thats where the danger lies.
No, she said, looking straight ahead. Not yet.
Then where to?
Take me to Pigalle. Rue Myrha.
He paused. Are you certain you want to go there?
She nodded and stared down at the file in her lap. I want to see the place where they died.
Café Hugo. Yes, this was the place, thought Jordan, gazing around at the crowded outdoor tables, the checkered tablecloths, the army of waiters ferrying espresso and cappuccino. Twenty years ago, Bernard had visited this very café. Had sat drinking coffee. And then he had paid the bill and left, to meet his death in a building in Pigalle. All this Jordan had learned from the police interview with the waiter. But it happened a long time ago, thought Jordan. The man had probably moved on to other jobs. Still, it was worth a shot.
To his surprise, he discovered that Mario Cassini was still employed as a waiter. Well into his forties now, his hair a salt-and-pepper gray, his face creased with the lines of twenty years of smiles, Mario nodded and said, Yes, yes. Of course I remember. The police, they come to talk to me three, four times. And each time I tell them the same thing. M. Tavistock, he comes for café au lait, every morning. Sometimes, madame is with him. Ah, beautiful!
But she wasnt with him on that particular day?
Mario shook his head. He comes alone. Sits at that table there. He pointed to an empty table near the sidewalk, red-checked cloth fluttering in the breeze. He waits a long time for madame.
And she didnt come?
No. Then she calls. Tells him to meet her at another place. In Pigalle. I take the message and give it to M. Tavistock.