“If he didn’t pull the trigger,” she asked, “then who did?”
Richard moved to the bed. Gently he touched her face. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m going to help you find out.”
After Richard left, Beryl turned to her brother. “I don’t trust him,” she said. “He’s told us too many lies.”
“He didn’t lie to us exactly,” Jordan observed. “He just left out a few facts.”
“Oh, right. He conveniently neglects to mention that he knew Mum and Dad. That he was here in Paris when they died. Jordie, for all we know, he could’ve pulled the trigger!”
“He seems quite chummy with Daumier.”
“So?”
“Uncle Hugh trusts Daumier.”
“Meaning we should trust Richard Wolf?” She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Jordie, you must be more exhausted than you realize.”
“And you must be more smitten than you realize,” he said. Yawning, he crossed the floor toward his own suite.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
“Only that your feelings for the man obviously run hot and heavy. Because you’re fighting them every inch of the way.”
She pursued him to the connecting door. “Hot?” she said incredulously. “Heavy?”
“There, you see?” He breathed a few loud pants and grinned. “Sweet dreams, baby sister. I’m glad to see you’re back in circulation.”
Then he closed the door on her astonished face.
When Richard arrived at Daumier’s flat, he found the Frenchman still awake but already dressed in his bathrobe and slippers. The latest reports on the bombing of the St. Pierre residence were laid out across his kitchen table, along with a plate of sausage and a glass of milk. Forty years with French Intelligence hadn’t altered his preference for working in close proximity to a refrigerator.
Waving at the reports, Daumier said, “It is all a puzzle to me. A Semtex explosive planted under the bed. A timing mechanism set for 9:10—precisely when the St. Pierres would be watching Marie’s favorite television program. It has all the signs of an inside operation, except for one glaring mistake—Philippe was in England.” He looked at Richard. “Does it not strike you as an inconceivable blunder?”
“Terrorists are usually brighter than that,” admitted Richard. “Maybe they intended it only as a warning. A statement of purpose. ‘We can reach you if we want to,’ that sort of thing.”
“I still have no information on this Cosmic Solidarity League.” Wearily Daumier ran his hands through his hair. “The investigation, it goes nowhere.”
“Then maybe you can turn your attention for a moment to my little problem.”
“Problem? Ah, yes. The Tavistocks.” Daumier sat back and smiled at him. “Hugh’s niece is more than you can handle, Richard?”
“Someone else was definitely tailing us tonight,” said Richard. “Not just your agent, Colette. Can you find out who it was?”
“Give me something to work with,” said Daumier. “A middle-aged man, short and stocky—that tells me nothing. He could have been hired by anyone.”
“It was someone who knew they were coming to Paris.”
“I know Hugh told the Vanes. They, in turn, could have mentioned it to others. Who else was at Chetwynd?”
Richard thought back to the night of the reception and the night of Reggie’s indiscretion. Blast Reggie Vane and his weakness for booze. That was what had set this off. A few too many glasses of champagne, a wagging tongue. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Poor Reggie was a harmless soul; certainly he’d never meant to hurt Beryl. Rather, it was clear he adored her like a daughter.
Richard said, “There were numbers of people the Vanes might have spoken to. Philippe St. Pierre. Nina and Anthony. Perhaps others.”
“So we are talking about any number of people,” Daumier said, sighing.
“Not a very short list,” Richard had to admit.
“Is this such a wise idea, Richard?” The question was posed quietly. “Once before, if you recall, we were prevented from learning the truth.”
How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt. There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing.
A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself.
The matter of the mole was never officially resolved.
Instead, Bernard Tavistock had been posthumously implicated as Delphi. Conveniently tried and found guilty, thought Richard. Why not pin the blame on Tavistock? A dead man can’t deny the charges.
And now, twenty years later, the ghost of Delphi is back to haunt me.
With new determination, Richard rose from the chair. “This time, Claude,” he said, “I’m tracking him down. And no order from Washington is going to stop me.”
“Twenty years is a long time. Evidence has vanished. Politics have changed.”
“One thing hasn’t changed—the guilty party. What if we were wrong? What if Sutherland wasn’t the mole? Then Delphi may still be alive. And operational.”
To which Daumier added, “And very, very worried.”
Beryl was awakened the next morning by Richard knocking on her door. She blinked in astonishment as he handed her a paper sack, fragrant with the aroma of freshly baked croissants.
“Breakfast,” he announced. “You can eat it in the car. Jordan’s already waiting for us downstairs.”
“Waiting? For what?”
“For you to get dressed. You’d better hurry. Our appointment’s for eight o’clock.”
Bewildered, she shoved back a handful of tangled hair. “I don’t recall making any appointments for this morning.”
“I made it for us. We’re lucky to get one, considering the man doesn’t see many people these days. His wife won’t allow it.”
“Whose wife?” she said in exasperation.
“Chief Inspector Broussard. The detective in charge of your parents’ murder investigation.” Richard paused. “You do want to speak to him, don’t you?”
He knows I do, she thought, clutching together the edges of her silk robe. He’s got me at a disadvantage. I’m scarcely awake and he’s standing there like Mr. Sunshine himself. And since when had Jordan turned into an early riser? Her brother almost never rolled out of bed before eight.
“You don’t have to come,” he said, turning to leave. “Jordan and I can—”
“Give me ten minutes!” she snapped and closed the door on him.
She made it downstairs in nine minutes flat.
Richard drove with the self-assurance of a man long familiar with the streets of Paris. They crossed the Seine and headed south along crowded boulevards. The traffic was as insane as London’s, thought Beryl, gazing out at the crush of buses and taxis. Thank heavens he’s behind the wheel.
She finished her croissant and brushed the crumbs off the file folder lying in her lap. Contained in that folder was the twenty-year-old police report, signed by Inspector Broussard. She wondered how much the man would remember about the case. After all this time, surely the details had blended together with all the other homicide investigations of his career. But there was always the chance that some small unreported detail had stayed with him.
“Have you met Broussard?” she asked Richard.
“We met during the course of the investigation. When I was interviewed by the police.”
“They questioned you? Why?”
“He spoke to all your parents’ acquaintances.”
“I never saw y
our name in the police file.”
“A number of names didn’t make it to that file.”
“Such as?”
“Philippe St. Pierre. Ambassador Sutherland.”
“Nina’s husband?”
Richard nodded. “Those were politically sensitive names. St. Pierre was in the Finance Ministry, and he was a close friend of the prime minister’s. Sutherland was the American ambassador. Neither were suspects, so their names were kept out of the official report.”
“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, that’s 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 was…a 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 we’re being followed?”
“What?” Beryl turned and scanned the traffic behind them. “Which car?”
“The blue Peugeot. Two cars back.”
“I see it,” said Richard. “It’s been tailing us all the way from the hotel.”
“You knew the car was there all the time?” said Beryl. “And you didn’t think of mentioning it?”
“I expected it. Take a good look at the driver, Jordan. Blond hair, sunglasses. Definitely a woman.”
Jordan laughed. “Why, it’s my little vampiress in black. Colette.”
Richard nodded. “One of the friendlies.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Beryl.
“Because she’s Daumier’s 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 we’re 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?”
“He’s 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 lion’s 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 husband’s 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 can’t 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 Madeline’s 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.
“We’ve 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.”
Broussard’s 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.
“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.
“That’s 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 can’t answer them. There was another detective’s 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 husband’s stroke. Then three months later, they lose Etienne.” Sighing, she turned back to her husband’s 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, let’s 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, “you’re not hungry already, are you?”
“I’ll 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 I’ll pass.”
Jordan gave his sister an affectionate squeeze of the shoulder and closed the car door. “I’ll 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, It’s 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 that’s 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.