by Stuart Woods
“Caucasian male, mid-thirties, six feet, a hundred and eighty, very fit, either extensive and expensive dental work or the most perfect natural teeth you’ve ever seen. No identifying marks, tattoos, or scars. No ID, no indication of nationality, had a manicure recently, no possessions, except a pistol, a holster, an extra magazine, the tool bag on the doormat, and a cheap wristwatch. Wears the wristwatch on the right wrist but is right-handed.”
“Why do you think he’s right-handed?”
“Because that’s the hand that went for the gun.”
Rick took another good look at the corpse. “Well observed,” he said. “Part of you is still a cop.”
“Always will be.”
A claxon could be heard approaching from a distance, getting louder. Then it got softer.
“He’s missed the drive,” Stone said.
The claxon got louder again, then found the driveway and a car and an ambulance pulled into the forecourt, lights flashing.
“What an entrance!” Rick said, laughing. “It might be Inspector Clouseau!”
The gendarmes were quiet, quick, and all business.
Before they could speak Rick showed them an ID and jerked a thumb toward Stone and said something in French.
“And where, may I ask, is Mademoiselle Chance?” the officer asked in perfect English.
“Upstairs,” Stone replied. “I’ll get her.”
“If you please.”
Stone went upstairs; Mirabelle was asleep again. He woke her gently. “The police are here.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Merde,” she said. That seemed to be her opinion of the whole business.
“Remember, tell them the truth.” He took her hand and led her down the stairs to the kitchen.
The officer switched to French, and Stone didn’t understand anything for twenty minutes. He hoped she was telling the truth.
Then the room got very quiet, and everyone turned toward the door. Stone followed their gaze. A man stood in the kitchen doorway: he was tall, had a gray crew cut, and was wearing a black leather trench coat. He lacked only an eye patch and a dueling scar to be good casting for a B-movie Gestapo agent. “Allo, Rick,” he said. “How does it go?” His voice was calm and uninflected.
Rick shrugged. “It goes.”
He walked over and looked at the corpse. “And what guest do we have here?”
His officer responded with a stream of French. The man stuck to English, an apparent courtesy to Rick. “Do you believe this to be self-defense?” he asked his officer. “Or do we have murder?” The man shrugged, as if the decision were not his to make. The man walked over to the table and looked at the shotgun. “My grandfather’s,” he said. He walked over to Mirabelle, took her by the arms, and kissed her on the forehead. “Are you all right, ma petite?” She nodded. “Is what my officer said the true thing?” She nodded again.
He walked over to where Stone sat.
“Jacques,” Rick said, “this is Stone Barrington, an American visiting Paris and a prominent New York attorney. Stone, this is Prefect Jacques Chance.”
Chance did not offer his hand. “What are you doing in this house?” he asked.
“I was a guest for dinner . . . and I fell asleep.”
Chance managed a tiny smile. “And do you concur in what my sister has told the police?”
“I do,” Stone said.
“Then you understand French.”
“I was watching. Language was unnecessary.”
The little smile again. “Of course. Mr. Barrington, did you shoot this man?”
“No!” Mirabelle said quickly.
“I was not aware that there was a shotgun in the house,” Stone said. “I saw the man produce a gun. After that he was shot.”
“What were you doing, Mr. Barrington, when the man was shot?”
“I was standing in the doorway, there.” Stone pointed.
Chance turned to LaRose. “And were you watching, too, Rick?”
“No, Jacques, I arrived after the fact.”
“And what brought you here?”
“Stone is a friend.”
“So he called his friend, before he called the police.”
“I called the police,” Mirabelle said.
Chance sighed deeply. “So . . . everyone has the story straight. How very convenient.”
Stone spoke up. “It’s easy when it’s the truth.”
The prefect’s cell phone rang; he answered it and spoke for half a minute, then hung up. “A stolen Fiat 500 was found on a road behind the house. It was an Abarth, so he liked his cars sporty. He walked through the Bois to get here, apparently. Perhaps we will know more when his fingerprints and DNA are run. Anything else from anyone?” He looked around the room, but no one spoke. “Then I bid you all bonne nuit.” He turned and walked toward the door. “I want the shotgun back in this house after it has been properly examined,” he said to his officer as he passed, then he was gone.
The police loaded the corpse on a gurney and took it away. The officer gave them a little salute then followed it.
Stone noticed that there was very little blood left at the scene.
“Stone,” Rick said, “your van awaits in the forecourt. I found it at the end of the drive. My men were asleep.”
“I had dismissed them,” Stone said.
“Then I won’t have them shot.”
“That’s magnanimous of you, Rick.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Rick looked pleased with himself. “All right, everybody, let’s all get some sleep.” He gave them a little salute and left the house.
Stone took Mirabelle in his arms. “I’m glad that’s over,” he said.
“It’s not over,” she replied.
16
Mirabelle would not go upstairs until she had scrubbed the few flecks of blood from the floor and kitchen cabinets. “We will not shock Marie,” she explained.
She fell asleep immediately, but Stone did not. Over and over he tried to explain the night’s events to himself but could not. There were too many possibilities. As they were having a breakfast of eggs scrambled by Mirabelle, Rick LaRose called.
“Something Jacques and his boys didn’t bother to tell us last night: the bag on the doorstep contained a few tools, but it also contained a length of rope, a black hood with no eyeholes, and a roll of duct tape. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered duct tape in Paris. It’s an American thing.”
“So what are you thinking?” Stone asked. He didn’t say it himself, because he didn’t want Mirabelle to hear.
“He may have come to kidnap somebody,” Rick replied. “I suppose he was strong enough to throw you over his shoulder.”
“No,” Stone said.
“Okay, he would have made you walk to his car, blindfolded.”
“Perhaps.”
“Easier to deal with her, huh?”
“Perhaps.”
“I think I’d better do some looking into Mademoiselle Chance,” Rick said.
“Why not?”
“I’ll get back to you when I know more.”
“Do that.” He hung up.
“Was that your Rick?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He called to say he didn’t know anything.”
“Come now.”
“Everybody’s just guessing, even your brother. Who’s next, your father?”
“I don’t think Jacques will discuss it with my father.”
“He seemed more concerned about the shotgun than anything else, except me.”
“You answered him well. You told him we were none of his business. Jacques would have appreciated your subtlety. I would have been blunt.”
“We could still make the papers, but I think the policemen were too afraid of your brother to b
lab, so maybe not.”
“Quiet intimidation is Jacques’s, how do you say . . . ?”
“Stock-in-trade?”
“Yes, stock-in-trade.”
“Mirabelle, do you have any enemies?”
“An old lover or two, perhaps,” she said, “or one of their girlfriends. I don’t think anyone is angry enough with me to send an assassin. What would be their complaint, an ill-fitting dress? I think it is more likely your Russians.”
“You could be right.”
“I am worried about you, not me.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “Try not to worry at all. What did you mean last night when you said this wasn’t over?”
“Nothing in particular. It is just a pattern in my life that when some event occurs, it always seems to be followed by other, related events. I’ve come to expect it.”
“It’s a pessimistic outlook.”
“Then perhaps I am a pessimist.” She looked at her watch. “I must go to work. Will you drop me there?”
“Of course. My chariot awaits.”
—
STONE HAD NO TROUBLE falling asleep again in his own bed at l’Arrington. He awoke in time to make his board meeting, which included a tour of the hotel to inspect the premises. He thought Marcel’s people had done a fine job of finishing their work on time. The hotel was beginning to look like what it was supposed to be.
—
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Rick called. “Your alleged kidnapper’s corpse did not yield much,” he said. “The man has never been arrested in Europe, his prints didn’t ring any country’s bell, and his DNA showed him to be of Western European origins, which could apply to half the population of the United States, as well as Europe, but that may indicate that he’s not Russian. Oh, and his beautiful teeth were his own. All in all, the man’s a cipher.”
“Swell.”
“By the way, the ambassador says she forgot to tell you that dinner tonight is black tie.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“See ya.” Rick hung up.
Nobody tried to kill or kidnap him that day, for which Stone was grateful.
17
Stone’s van driver knew where the American ambassador’s residence was without being told, and Stone presented himself to a butler and a pair of armed guards in the entrance hall, while some Marines looked on. He was scanned and passed through the metal detector on his second attempt, after his pen and his money clip had been deposited in a tray.
Having proved himself harmless, he followed the butler into a larger hall and blushed a little when the man loudly announced, “Mr. Stone Barrington, of New York City.” Only a few people of the two dozen present bothered to glance his way.
After a brief discussion with the bartender, Stone was rewarded with a glass of Knob Creek, selected from a dozen patriotic whiskeys among the embassy’s stock. This being U.S. territory, ice was not in short supply.
He did not know a soul present, except the ambassador, who held court at the far end of the hall, surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen. The room seemed short of women, until Stone felt a breeze at his back; he turned and a tall, fairly slim redhead in a knockout green dress came straight for him, as the butler hollered, “Miz Holly Barker, of New York City.”
Holly threw her arms around his neck, and he gave her a little spin while she cuddled there. “I thought you would be dead before I had a chance to come to your rescue,” she whispered in his ear.
“I stayed alive only for you,” Stone said. She felt warm and familiar in his arms. She was slimmer than the last time he had seen her, and she had at least six inches more of the red hair. “How good to see you in Paris! How long can I keep you here?”
“Well, if you should die, my instructions are to accompany your body back to New York, but until then, I am all yours. I’m staying at the embassy.”
“Not while I have a large hotel at my disposal.”
“Oh, can you get me into l’Arrington?”
“All the rooms are booked for the opening, but there is room in my bed.”
“I accept,” she said. “The better to guard you.”
“Well,” said a voice from behind them, “I see that either you two have met, or you are getting along way too well.”
Stone turned to find the ambassador standing there. “Madame Ambassador, how good to see you again. May I present Ms. Holly Barker?”
The two women shook hands. “Ah, yes,” the ambassador said, “yet another gift from Lance Cabot’s merry band.”
“I’ve never heard it described quite that way,” Holly said, “but I’m sure Lance would take it and be happy.”
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” the butler wailed, “dinner is served.”
A pair of mahogany doors opened at one side of the hall, and the group meandered among the half-dozen round tables, looking for their place cards. Stone found himself next to Holly; the ambassador, to his relief, after Mirabelle’s comments, was at another table.
A large slab of foie gras had already been delivered to each plate, and a waiter was pouring Mondavi Reserve wines from California. “Given the new California laws,” Holly said, “I’ll bet the foie gras is from New York State.”
Introductions were exchanged with their dinner partners, and everyone fell upon the food, hardly bothering to chat.
The second course arrived, and the waiter announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the main course is Georgia fried chicken, and it is customary to eat it with your fingers, so silverware has not been provided for this dish.”
The Europeans at the table made positive noises and dug in. Stone turned to Holly, who had a mouthful of chicken. “Why are you really in Paris?”
“Tell you later,” she mumbled. “God, this is perfect fried chicken!”
After only bones remained of the chicken, the butler came into the room. “M’lords, ladies, and gentlemen, please turn over your place cards, rise, and find your new seats.”
Everyone did so and learned that they now had new tables. Stone found his card two tables over, and the ambassador was waiting for him to his left.
“Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “I’ve missed you. How was the fried chicken?”
“Superlative,” Stone cried, “and the pâté before it.”
“A gift from Governor Jerry Brown, of California,” she said. “Apparently, he has to get rid of a lot of it.” A hand squeezed his knee.
Uh-oh, he thought; how am I going to handle this?
But the ambassador was doing all the handling, and she was making progress up his thigh. Dessert came, announced to be blueberry pie from Maine, and at the first bite Stone flew into a fit of coughing. The hand was already at his zipper as he excused himself from the table, still coughing, and made his way to a men’s room.
He hoped to God she didn’t follow.
18
By the time Stone had returned to his table, dessert was gone, a small musical combo was playing, and everyone was dancing.
The ambassador took his hand from behind. “Dance with me,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. Stone took her in his arms, and they swirled to the music.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon, Linda, I inhaled some blueberry pie.”
The music changed to a slow ballad. She moved closer; being tall, her crotch met his. “Ah,” she said, “a response.”
“It would be caddish of me not to,” Stone said. He preferred this position to a hand under the tablecloth.
“We seem to be just the right relative heights,” she said, sounding a little drunk.
“I can’t complain,” he said, thrusting a little to please her.
“You are an attractive man,” she said.
“And you are an attractive woman.”
“Why don’t you stick
around after the others leave?” she asked. “We can discuss our mutual attraction.”
“What a good idea,” Stone said. “Unfortunately, Ms. Barker seems to have Agency business to discuss, and she has preempted the remainder of my evening.”
“That is unfortunate,” she said. “Perhaps I should ring up Lance Cabot and have her recalled.”
Stone shook his head. “People would talk, and we can’t have that.”
She sighed. The music ended. “On another occasion, perhaps?”
“I would enjoy that.”
“I’ll see that you do,” she said, and was whisked away by another partner.
“May I have this dance?” Holly stepped into his arms. “What was that conversation about?”
“You. She suggested she might call Lance and get you yanked.”
“Jealous, is she? Then the stories I’ve heard about her must be true.”
“Oh? What have you heard?”
“That she was not unreasonably unhappy when she found herself a widow.”
“She struck me that way.”
“Would you like to hear what she’s said to be particularly good at?”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure you are her superior.”
Holly laughed. “I’m sure of that, too. Is it too early for us to get out of here?”
“Nothing could please me more.”
“We’ll see about that,” Holly said.
Half an hour later Holly’s clothes were hung in his closet at l’Arrington, and she was demonstrating her superiority to the ambassador. Stone responded in kind, and so it went for the better part of an hour.
—
THEY AWOKE in each other’s arms and reengaged for half an hour before breakfast arrived. Holly ran for a robe before Stone opened the door to admit the room service waiter.
Shortly, they were sitting up in bed with eggs Benedict in their laps.
“So,” Stone said, “what got you to this side of the pond?”
“Well, Lance has been pestering me to take some time off.”
