Once again he left the hotel and stepped into the brightness of midday. A taxi sat idling near the front entrance, but the driver was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Colette was still parked around the corner; hed ask her to drive him back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. He turned up the side street and spotted the blue Peugeot still parked there. Colette was sitting inside; through the tinted windshield, he saw her silhouette behind the steering wheel.
He went to the car and tapped on the passenger window. Colette? he called. Could you give me another lift?
She didnt answer.
Jordan swung open the door and slid in beside her. Colette?
She sat perfectly still, her eyes staring rigidly ahead. For a moment, he didnt understand. Then he saw the bright trickle of blood that had traced its way down her hairline and vanished into the black fabric of her turtlenecked shirt. In panic, he reached out to her and gave her shoulder a shake. Colette?
She slid toward him and toppled into his lap.
He stared at her head, now resting in his arms. In her temple was a single, neat bullet hole.
He scarcely remembered scrambling out of the car. What he did remember were the screams of a woman passerby. Then, moments later, he focused on the shocked faces of people whod been drawn onto this quiet side street by the screams. They were all pointing at the womans arm hanging limply out of the car. And they were staring at him.
Numbly, Jordan looked down at his own hands.
They were smeared with blood.
Five
From the crowd of onlookers standing on the corner, Amiel Foch watched the police handcuff the Englishman and lead him away. An unintended development, he thought. Not at all what hed expected to happen.
Then again, he hadnt expected to see Colette LaFarge ever again. Or, even worse, to be seen by her. Theyd worked together only once, and that was three years ago in Cyprus. Hed hoped, when he walked past her car, with his head down and his shoulders hunched, that she would not notice him. But as hed headed away, hed heard her call out his name in astonishment.
Hed had no alternative, he thought as he watched the attendants load her body into the ambulance. French Intelligence thought he was dead. Colette could have told them otherwise.
It hadnt been an easy thing to do. But as hed turned to face her, his decision was already made. He had walked slowly back to her car. Through the windshield, hed seen her look of wonder at a dead colleague come back to life. Shed sat frozen, staring at the apparition. She had not moved as he approached the drivers side. Nor did she move as he thrust his silenced automatic into her car window and fired.
Such a waste of a pretty girl, he thought as the ambulance drove away. But she should have known better.
The crowd was dispersing. It was time to leave.
He edged toward the curb. Quietly he dropped his pistol in the gutter and kicked it down the storm drain. The weapon was stolen, untraceable; better to have it found near the scene of the crime. It would cement the case against Jordan Tavistock.
Several blocks away, he found a telephone. He dialed his client.
Jordan Tavistock has been arrested for murder, said Foch.
Whose murder? came the sharp reply.
One of Daumiers agents. A woman.
Did Tavistock do it?
No. I did.
There was a sudden burst of laughter from his client. This is priceless! Absolutely priceless! I ask you to follow Jordan, and you have him framed for murder. I cant wait to see what you do with his sister.
What do you wish me to do? asked Foch.
There was a pause. I think its time to resolve this mess, he said. Finish it.
The woman is no problem. But her brother will be difficult to reach, unless I can find a way into the prison.
You could always get yourself arrested.
And when they identify my fingerprints? Foch shook his head. I need someone else for that job.
Then Ill find you someone, came the reply. For now, lets work on one thing at a time. Beryl Tavistock.
A Turkish man now owned the building on Rue Myrha. Hed tried to improve it. Hed painted the exterior walls, shored up the crumbling balconies, replaced the missing roof slates, but the building, and the street on which it stood, seemed beyond rehabilitation. It was the fault of the tenants, explained Mr. Zamir, as he led them up two flights of stairs to the attic flat. What could one do with tenants who let their children run wild? By all appearances, Mr. Zamir was a successful businessman, a man whose tailored suit and excellent English bespoke prosperous roots. There were four families in the building, he said, all of them reliable enough with the rent. But no one lived in the attic flat-hed always had difficulty renting that one out. People had come to inspect the place, of course, but when they heard of the murder, they quickly backed out. These silly superstitions! Oh, people claim they do not believe in ghosts, but when they visit a room where two people have died
How long has the flat been empty? asked Beryl.
A year now. Ever since I have owned the building. And before that- he shrugged -I do not know. It may have been empty for many years. He unlocked the door. You may look around if you wish.