“What about the investigation?” asked Jordan. “Any progress?”
“Very slow. You know how it is, M. Tavistock. In a city as large as Paris, the police, they are overworked. You cannot be impatient.”
“And my uncle? Have you been able to reach him?”
“He is in complete agreement with my planned course of action.”
“Is he coming to Paris?”
“He is detained. Business keeps him at home, I am afraid.”
“At home? But I thought…” Jordan paused. Didn’t Beryl say Uncle Hugh had left Chetwynd?
M. Jarre rose from the table. “Rest assured that all that can be done, will be done. I have instructed the police to transfer you to a more comfortable cell.”
“Thank you,” said Jordan, still puzzling over the reference to Uncle Hugh. As the attorney was leaving the room, Jordan called out, “M. Jarre? Did my uncle happen to mention how his…negotiations went in London?”
The attorney glanced back. “They are still in progress, I understand. But I am sure he will tell you himself.” He gave a nod of farewell. “Good evening, M. Tavistock. I hope you find your new cell more agreeable.” He walked out.
What the dickens is going on? thought Jordan. He wondered about this all the way to his cell—his new cell. One look at the pair of shady characters seated inside and his suspicions about M. Jarre deepened. This was more agreeable quarters?
Reluctantly Jordan stepped inside and flinched at the clang of the door shutting behind him. The jailer walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
The two prisoners were staring at his fine Italian shoes, which contrasted dreadfully with the regulation prison garb he was wearing.
“Hello,” said Jordan, for want of anything else to say.
“Anglais?” asked one of the men.
Jordan swallowed. “Oui. Anglais.”
The man grunted and pointed to an empty bunk. “Yours.”
Jordan went to the bunk, set his bundle of street clothes on the foot of the bed, and stretched out on the mattress. As the two prisoners babbled away in French, Jordan kept wondering about that greasy attorney and why he had lied about Uncle Hugh. If only he could get in touch with Beryl, ask her what was going on…
He sat up at the sound of footsteps approaching the cell. It was the guard, escorting yet another prisoner—this one a balding, round-cheeked man with a definite waddle and a pleasant enough face. The sort of fellow you’d expect to see standing behind a bakery counter. Not your typical criminal, thought Jordan. But then, neither am I.
The man entered the cell and was directed to the fourth and last bunk. He sat down, looking stunned by the circumstances in which he found himself. François was his name, and from what Jordan could gather using his elementary command of French, the man’s crime had something to do with the fair sex. Solicitation, perhaps? François was not eager to talk about it. He simply sat on his bed and stared at the floor. We’re both new to this, thought Jordan.
The other two cellmates were still watching him. Sullen young men, obviously sociopathic. He’d have to keep his eye on them.
Supper came—an atrocious goulash accompanied by French bread. Jordan stared at the muddy brown gravy and thought wistfully of his supper the night before—poached salmon and roast duckling. Ah, well. One had to eat regardless of one’s circumstances. What a shame there wasn’t a bottle of wine to wash down the meal. A nice Beaujolais, perhaps, or just a common Burgundy. He took a bite of goulash and decided that even a bad bottle of wine would be welcome—anything to dull the taste of this gravy. He forced himself to eat it and made a silent vow that when he got out of here—if he got out of here—the first place he’d head for was a decent restaurant.
At midnight, the lights were turned off. Jordan stretched out on the blanket and made every effort to sleep, but found he couldn’t. For one thing, his cellmates were snoring to wake the dead. For another, the day’s events kept playing and replaying in his mind. That drive with Colette from Boulevard Saint-Germain. The way she had glanced at the rearview mirror. If only he had paid more attention to who might be following them back to the hotel. And then, against his will, he remembered the horror of finding her body in the car, remembered the stickiness of her blood on his hands.
Rage bubbled up inside him—an impotent sense of fury about her death. It’s my fault, he thought. If she hadn’t been watching over him, protecting him.
But that’s not why she died, Jordan thought suddenly. He was nowhere nearby when it happened. So why did they kill her? Did she know something, see something…
…or someone?
His thoughts veered in a new direction. Colette must have spotted a face in her rearview mirror, a face in the car that was following them. After she’d dropped Jordan off at the Ritz, maybe she’d seen that someone again. Or he’d seen her and knew she could identify him.
Which made the killer someone Colette knew. Someone she recognized.
He was so intent on piecing together the puzzle, he didn’t pay much attention to the creak of the bunk springs somewhere in the cell. Only when he heard the soft rustle of movement did he realize that one of his cellmates was approaching his bed.
It was dark; he could make out only faintly a shadowy figure moving toward him. One of those young hoods, he thought, come to rifle his jacket.
Jordan lay perfectly still and willed his breathing to remain deep and even. Let the coward think I’m still asleep. When he moves close enough, I’ll surprise him.
The shadow slipped quietly through the darkness. Six feet away, now five. Jordan’s heart was pounding, his muscles already tensed for action. Just a little closer. A little closer. He’ll be reaching for the jacket hanging at the foot of the bed….
But the man moved instead to Jordan’s head. There was a faint arc of shadow—an arm being raised to deliver a blow. Jordan’s hand shot out just as his assailant attacked.
He caught the other man’s wrist and heard a grunt of surprise. His attacker came at him with his free hand. Jordan deflected the blow and scrambled off the bunk. Still gripping his attacker’s wrist, he gave it a vicious twist, eliciting a yelp of pain. The man was thrashing to get free now, but Jordan held on. He was not going to get away. Not without learning a lesson. He shoved the man backward and heard the satisfying thud of his opponent’s body hitting the cinder-block wall. The man groaned and tried to pull free. Again, Jordan shoved. This time they both toppled over onto a cot, landing on its sleeping occupant. The man in Jordan’s grasp began to writhe, to jerk. At once Jordan realized this was no longer a man fighting to free himself. This was a man in the throes of a convulsion.
He heard the sound of footsteps and then the cell lights flashed on. A guard yelled at him in French.
Jordan released his assailant and backed away in surprise. It was the moon-faced François. The man lay sprawled on the bed, his limbs twitching, his eyes rolled back. The young hood on whom François had landed frantically rolled away from beneath the body and stared in horror at the bizarre display.
François gave a last grunt of agony and fell still.
For a few seconds, everyone watched him, expecting him to move again. He didn’t.
The guard gave a shout for assistance. Another guard came running. Yelling at the prisoners to stand back, they rushed into the cell and examined the motionless François. Slowly they straightened and looked at Jordan.
“Est mort,” one of them murmured.
“That—that’s impossible!” said Jordan. “How can he be dead? I didn’t hit him that hard!”
The guards merely stared at him. The other two prisoners regarded Jordan with new respect and backed away to the far side of the cell.
“Let me look at him!” demanded Jordan. He pushed past the guards and knelt by François. One glance at the body and he knew they were right. François was dead.
Jordan shook his head. “I don’t understand….”
“Monsieur, you come with us,” said one
of the guards.
“I couldn’t have killed him!”
“But you see for yourself he is dead.”
Jordan suddenly focused on a fine line of blood trickling down François’s cheek. He bent closer. Only then did he spot the needle-thin dart impaled in the dead man’s scalp. It was almost invisible among the salt-and-pepper hairs of his temple.
“What in blazes…?” muttered Jordan. Swiftly he glanced around the floor for a syringe, a dart gun—whatever might have injected that needle point. He saw nothing on the floor or on the bed. Then he looked down at the dead man’s hand and saw something clutched in his left fist. He pried open the frozen fingers and the object slid out and landed on the bedcovers.
A ballpoint pen.
At once he was hauled back and shoved toward the cell door. “Go,” said the guard. “Walk!”
“Where?”
“Where you can hurt no one.” The guard directed Jordan into the corridor and locked the cell door. Jordan caught a fleeting glimpse of his cellmates, watching him in awe, and then he was hustled down the hallway and into a private cell, this one obviously reserved for the most dangerous prisoners. Double-barred, no windows, no furniture, only a concrete slab on which to lie. And a light blazing down relentlessly from the ceiling.
Jordan sank onto the slab and waited. For what? he wondered. Another attack? Another crisis? How could this nightmare possibly get any worse?
An hour passed. He couldn’t sleep, not with that light shining overhead. Footsteps and the clank of keys alerted him to a visitor. He looked up to see a guard and a well-dressed gentleman with a briefcase.
“M. Tavistock?” said the gentleman.
“Since there’s no one else here,” muttered Jordan, rising to his feet, “I’m afraid that must be me.”
The door was unlocked, and the man with the briefcase entered. He glanced around in dismay at the Spartan cell. “These conditions…Outrageous,” he said.
“Yes. And I owe it all to my wonderful attorney,” said Jordan.
“But I am your attorney.” The man held out his hand in greeting. “Henri Laurent. I would have come sooner, but I was attending the opera. I received M. Vane’s message only an hour ago. He said it was an emergency.”
Jordan shook his head in confusion. “Vane? Reggie Vane sent you?”
“Yes. Your sister requested my immediate services. And M. Vane—”
“Beryl hired you? Then who the hell was…” Jordan paused as the bizarre events suddenly made sense. Horrifying sense. “M. Laurent,” said Jordan, “a few hours ago, there was a lawyer here to see me. A M. Jarre.”
Laurent frowned. “But I was not told of another attorney.”
“He claimed my sister hired him.”
“But I spoke to M. Vane. He told me Mlle Tavistock requested my services. What did you say was the other attorney’s name?”
“Jarre.”
Laurent shook his head. “I am not familiar with any such criminal attorney.”
Jordan sat for a moment in stunned silence. Slowly he raised his head and looked at Laurent. “I think you’d better contact Reggie Vane. At once.”
“But why?”
“They’ve already tried to kill me once tonight.” Jordan shook his head. “If this keeps up, M. Laurent, by morning I may be quite dead.”
Eight
They were following her again. Black hounds, trotting across the dead leaves of the forest. She heard them rustle through the underbrush and knew they were moving closer.
She gripped Froggie’s bridle, struggled to calm her, but the mare panicked. Suddenly Froggie yanked free of Beryl’s grasp and reared up.
The hounds attacked.
Instantly they were at the horse’s throat, ripping, tearing with their razor teeth. Froggie screamed, a human scream, shrill with terror. Have to save her, thought Beryl. Have to beat them away. But her feet seemed rooted to the ground. She could only stand and watch in horror as Froggie dropped to her knees and collapsed to the forest floor.
The hounds, mouths bloodied, turned and looked at Beryl.
She awakened, gasping for breath, her hands clawing at the darkness. Only as her panic faded did she hear Richard calling her name.
She turned and saw him standing in the doorway. A lamp was shining in the room behind him, and the light gleamed faintly on his bare shoulders.
“Beryl?” he said again.
She took a deep breath, still trying to shake off the last threads of the nightmare. “I’m awake,” she said.
“I think you’d better get up.”
“What time is it?”
“Four a.m. Claude just phoned.”
“Why?”
“He wants us to meet him at the police station. As soon as possible.”
“The police station?” She sat up sharply as a terrible thought came to mind. “Is it Jordan? Has something happened to him?”
Through the shadows, she saw Richard nod. “Someone tried to kill him.”
“An ingenious device,” said Claude Daumier, gingerly laying the ballpoint pen on the table. “A hypodermic needle, a pressurized syringe. One stab, and the drug would be injected into the victim.”
“Which drug?” asked Beryl.
“It is still being analyzed. The autopsy will be performed in the morning. But it seems clear that this drug, whatever it was, was the cause of death. There is not enough trauma on the body to explain otherwise.”
“Then Jordan won’t be blamed for this?” said Beryl in relief.
“Hardly. He will be placed in isolation, no other prisoners, a double guard. There should be no further incidents.”
The conference room door opened. Jordan appeared, escorted by two guards. Dear Lord, he looks terrible, thought Beryl as she rose from her chair and went to hug him. Never had she seen her brother so disheveled. The beginnings of a thick blond beard had sprouted on his jaw, and his prison clothes were mapped with wrinkles. But as they pulled apart, she gazed in his eyes and saw that the old Jordan was still there, good-humored and ironic as ever.
“You’re not hurt?” she asked.
“Not a scratch,” he answered. “Well, perhaps a few,” he amended, frowning down at his bruised fist. “It’s murder on the old manicure.”
“Jordan, I swear I never hired any lawyer named Jarre. The man was a fraud.”
“I suspected as much.”
“The man I did hire, M. Laurent, Reggie swears he’s the best there is.”
“I’m afraid even the best won’t get me out of this fix,” Jordan observed disconsolately. “I seem destined to be a long-term resident of this fine establishment. Unless the food kills me first.”
“Will you be serious for once?”
“Oh, but you haven’t tasted the goulash.”
Beryl turned in exasperation to Daumier. “What about the dead man? Who was he?”
“According to the arrest record,” said Daumier, “his name was François Parmentier, a janitor. He was charged with disorderly conduct.”
“How did he end up in Jordan’s cell?” asked Richard.
“It seems that his attorney, Jarre, made a special request for both his clients to be housed in the same cell.”
“Not just a request,” amended Richard. “It must’ve been a bribe. Jarre and the dead man were a team.”
“Working on whose behalf?” asked Jordan.
“The same party who tried to kill Beryl,” said Richard.
“What?”
“A few hours ago. It was a high-powered rifle, fired at her hotel window.”
“And she’s still in Paris?” Jordan turned to his sister. “That’s it. You’re going home, Beryl. And you’re leaving at once.”
“I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing,” said Richard. “She won’t listen.”
“Of course she won’t. My darling little sister never does!” Jordan scowled at Beryl. “This time, though, you don’t have a choice.”
“You’re right, Jordie,” said Beryl. “
I don’t have a choice. That’s why I’m staying.”
“You could get yourself killed.”
“So could you.”
They stood facing each other, neither one willing to give ground. Deadlock, thought Beryl. He’s worried about me, and I’m worried about him. And we’re both Tavistocks, which means neither of us will ever concede defeat.
But I have the upper hand on this one. He’s in jail. I’m not.
In disgust, Jordan turned and flopped into a chair. “For Pete’s sake, work on her, Wolf!” he muttered.
“I’m trying to,” said Richard. “Meanwhile, we still haven’t answered a basic question—who wants you both dead?”
They fell silent for a moment. Through a cloud of fatigue, Beryl looked at her brother, thinking that he was supposed to be the clever one in the family. If he couldn’t figure it out, who could?
“The key to all this,” said Jordan, “is François, the dead man.” He looked at Daumier. “What else do you know about him? Friends, family?”
“Only a sister,” said Daumier. “Living in Paris.”
“Have your people spoken to her yet?”
“There is no point to it.”
“Why not?”
“She is, how do you say…?” Daumier tapped his forehead. “Retardataire. She lives at the Sacred Heart Nursing Home. The nuns say she cannot speak, and she is in very poor health.”
“What about his job?” said Richard. “You said he worked as a janitor.”
“At Galerie Annika. An art gallery, in Auteuil. It is a reputable establishment. Known for its collection of works by contemporary artists.”
“What does the gallery say about him?”
“I spoke only briefly to Annika. She says he was a quiet man, very reliable. She will be in later this morning to answer questions.” He glanced at his watch. “In the meantime, I suggest we all try to catch some sleep. For a few hours, at least.”
“What about Jordan?” asked Beryl. “How do I know he’ll be safe here?”
“As I said, he will be kept in a private cell. Strict isolation—”