by Mark Pryor
Hugo frowned. “Isn’t that a South American root or something?”
“It’s a plant extract, but yes. I’d heard of it but didn’t know much about it, until now. Apparently Indians in South America use it on the tips of their arrows. It takes effect immediately and paralyzes the muscles so the animal, or person, suffocates. The effects don’t last long, though, and if you get artificial respiration you can survive.”
“Fascinating stuff,” Hugo said, “but I assume you’re not suggesting Paul was shot by a bow-and-arrow-wielding Colombian tribesman.”
“No. But it’s possible to test for it, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t test his remains.”
“Well, you can, but I watched the video surveillance. No one went in or out, no one saw or touched him, or gave him anything to eat or drink. If the effects start immediately and wear off quickly, he wasn’t poisoned before he went into the atelier.” He sighed. “What I’m trying to ask is, How do you see this as a possibility?”
“No idea,” she said lightly. “I’m just ordering the test, Hugo, not claiming it as a fact.”
“Test that water bottle for it, then, too.”
“Merci bien. No way I’d have thought of that,” she said.
“Sorry, I did it again, didn’t I?” Hugo said. “I love the investigation process, but I do like to be in charge of it.”
“That’s OK, I’ll get over it,” Lerens said. “Doctor Sprengelmeyer is doing the preliminary test this evening; I’ll call with any result. What’s your plan?”
“I was thinking about paying a visit to our journalist friend, Alain Benoît. Do you need to come with me?”
“Yes, definitely. We’ve gone beyond the point of you poking casually around to see what you can turn up. With Sarah Gregory’s bruising and now this poison twist, I need you to include me on everything. Preferably, I’ll be the one deciding whether to include you.”
“They both qualify as American citizens, remember.”
“I know, but let’s put it this way: If you interview a witness without me present, it’ll need to be in accordance with our procedures. Which means it’s recorded, and afterward you have to type up a report to go in the investigation file.”
“I’m not about to drown myself in paperwork, so I’ll wait for you to be available. Shall we say seven tonight?”
“No. I have a date. I’ll pick you up at your apartment at nine tomorrow morning.”
“A date? Who with?”
“I don’t kiss and tell, Hugo. And if you send Tom to follow me, which I know he’d love to do, I’ll shoot you both.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next morning, Hugo waited for Camille Lerens on the sidewalk, ignoring the curious eyes of the passers-by who watched as he climbed into the police car. Their plan was to drive out to Alain Benoît’s house in Vincennes and ask him about his friendship with Sarah Gregory and Paul Rogers. They’d discussed doing the interview over the phone or asking Benoît to come to the police station, but Hugo had insisted that the element of surprise might be useful. If Sarah’s death was indeed murder, Hugo pointed out that Benoît was about the only real suspect they had, and they’d need every advantage possible.
Hugo felt his stomach rumble as he buckled his seatbelt, cursing Tom for cleaning out the fridge, again, and not restocking it. He nodded to Lerens that he was ready but just as they were about to pull away, Merlyn turned the corner into Rue Jacob.
“Hold on,” Hugo said, and lowered the window. “Hey, you. Not looking for me, are you?”
“Yes, actually,” Merlyn said. She stopped, waved, and smiled at Lerens. “Bonjour, je suis Merlyn.”
“This is Lieutenant Lerens,” Hugo said. “I’ve told you all about each other, good bits and bad.”
“Uh-oh,” said Merlyn with a smile. “You guys coming or going?”
“We’re just heading out, what’s up?”
“Heading out where?” Merlyn demanded. “I’ve barely seen you. Don’t tell me you work weekends, too.”
“Occasionally. How about we have dinner tonight, my treat.”
“In that case, I want to eat at Les Deux Magots, where Hemmingway used to drink and write.”
“That’s a little touristy, isn’t it?” Hugo said. Merlyn frowned, so he added, “But still fun, it’s a neat place. Meet you there at seven?”
“Sure. Where are you guys going?” Merlyn asked.
“To see a man about a horse.” Hugo winked. “Or whatever the Parisian version might be. What about you, any plans?”
“Thought I’d wander around, maybe stumble into a museum.”
“Where’s Miki?”
“I don’t know. She was gone when I woke up this morning. She was on the phone with some guy last night, then went out to meet him and I didn’t see her all evening. But she should be back by dinner.”
“Invite her, if you want. How’s her story coming along?”
“Not well,” Merlyn said. “She’s a little frustrated, I think. Or desperate, if you’d rather put it that way.”
“Sounds bad.”
“Well, no one’s helping her. Not a criticism, don’t take it that way. But with what’s happened at the library, no one has the time or inclination to talk. I mean, they’ll bring her the collection bit by bit, but it’s the back story she wants.”
“Still assuming there is one.”
“She’s sure of it. She found letters between Isabelle Severin and Josephine Baker.”
“Oh, yes? The singer?”
“Seriously, Hugo? She was more than a singer. She was a spy, too, or so Miki says. Traveled around Europe gathering information on German troop movements and stuff like that. She used to pin notes inside her underwear, and because she was famous, she wasn’t searched.” Merlyn shrugged. “Miki thinks Severin did the same kind of thing, used her status to get access and information.”
“Plus stab Gestapo officers. Or was it SS?”
“Are you making fun of her, or of me?”
“Neither. So what was in the letter?” Beside him, Camille coughed unsubtly.
“She didn’t say exactly, although I got the impression she was a little disappointed. There was some sheet music in there, too, but apart from that, I have no idea.”
“Original sheet music, eh?” Hugo said. “That’s kind of cool. I’ll let her tell me about it tonight. Need a ride anywhere?”
“In the back of a cop car? Been there, done that. Actually, I like this part of the city so I’m happy to walk.” She waved at Hugo and Camille Lerens, then turned back the way she’d come, a slow saunter in the direction of the flower sellers on Rue de Buci.
Lerens pulled away from the curb and drove them east across Paris toward Vincennes, the roads relatively quiet on a Saturday morning. As she drove, she talked.
“So I asked you before but didn’t get much of an answer. What’s going on with you and Claudia?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you two are good together. You’re happy when you’re with her.”
“Am I usually unhappy?”
“No, you’re just Hugo. Slightly serious Hugo, who needs lightening up and a good woman to love.”
Hugo looked out of the window. “Yeah, you may have something there.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Yesterday, as it happens.”
“Yesterday?” Lerens punched him on the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m not Tom, I’m more like you. I tend to keep my love life to myself. Such as it is.”
“Yeah, that’s like Hugo Lloris not bragging about the goals he’s scored for France.”
“What now?”
“He’s a goalkeeper. They don’t score, so he’s got nothing to brag about.” She looked over her shoulder and changed lanes. “Like you.”
“You know, I’ve been following football for several years now, so no need to patronize me.” Hugo heard huffiness in his tone, so lightened it. “What
about you, how was the date?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You just told me I have nothing to talk about.” Hugo shook his head in mock disgust. His phone rang, and he answered, glad to dodge any more questions. “Hugo Marston.”
The voice on the other end snapped with anger. “Monsieur Marston, this is Janelle Cason. From Madame Severin’s place of residence.”
“Bonjour, madame, how can I help you?”
“I told you to make an appointment. I was very clear about that indeed.”
Hugo kept his voice calm. “And that’s what I did yesterday, I requested an appointment and left my contact details. I presume that’s how you have my phone number.”
“Maybe you did, but I’ve called the police, and if they see you here you’ll be arrested.”
“Arrested? I don’t—”
“Poor Madame Severin was quite upset this morning, she rarely likes to see people and never first thing in the morning. I mean, goodness, have you never had an elderly relative or friend? Mornings are never good. And after I told you to go through the proper channels, it’s an outrage.”
“I’m still not understanding.”
“Perhaps you will when the police speak to you. I told you, I’ve called them and they don’t take kindly to people trespassing here. We have any number of well-known residents and the local police are very good at keeping us safe and free from harassment.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Hugo said. “But are you saying someone tried to visit Madame Severin this morning?”
“Don’t act like it wasn’t you—you’re not fooling anyone.”
“I wasn’t out there early this morning, Madame Cason. In fact, I’m spending my morning with a police lieutenant. She’s sitting right next to me if you’d like to confirm that.”
Janelle Cason snorted with derision and then, without another word, cut the connection.
Hugo stared at his phone for a moment as Lerens glanced across at him. “What was that about?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Claudia and I took a trip out to visit Isabelle Severin yesterday.”
“The actress?”
“Yes, the one who gave her papers to the library.”
“What for? You think her collection has something to do with Paul’s and Sarah’s deaths?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, Camille, partly it was out of curiosity. This was the most beautiful woman in the world, the most glamorous, the greatest actress. She worked with Alfred Hitchcock, my favorite director.”
“Alors, so partly the case and partly curiosity.”
“Pretty much.”
“And how did it go?”
“It was going fine until Madame Cason busted in. That’s the lady who just called. When we showed up she insisted we make an appointment and not just drop by.”
“Ah, but you dropped by anyway, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and Madame Severin seemed fine with that. Like I say, until Cason showed up and chased us off.”
“Well, to be fair, they need to be careful; they can’t just let people wander around, knocking on doors over there.”
“I know—it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Maybe not the best idea, but not entirely the worst.”
“And she called just to yell at you again?”
“No. She called to yell at me for going back there this morning.”
Lerens threw him a puzzled look. “You didn’t have the embassy car this morning, that’s why I’m driving. How would you have . . . ?”
“Quite apart from the fact that I fell out of bed about thirty minutes before you showed up. Which reminds me, if you see a boulangerie, pull over and I’ll buy croissants.”
“I will. Why did she think it was you?”
“She didn’t say. I guess she just assumed that it was after what happened yesterday.”
“How odd. Look up the number for the nearest police station to the retirement community. I’ll call them and see if that woman really made a report.” Lerens signaled right and brought the police car to a halt in front of a row of shops, one of which was a bakery. She waited as Hugo found the number and handed her the phone. She clicked on the number to dial it and said, “I’ll take a regular croissant and a chocolate one. And coffee, too, if they have it. Black, no sugar.”
Hugo smiled and climbed out of the car. He heard Lerens starting to talk just as he slammed the door, earning himself a dark look from the lieutenant. The warm, buttery smells enveloped him as soon as he stepped into the pâtisserie and he breathed it in, getting the same feeling of happiness as always at the sights and smells of the pastries and cakes all around him. He never minded waiting in line at places like this; it gave him time to tempt himself with which delicacy he might like for dessert that night.
Only about forty of them, he thought.
Five minutes later, he climbed back into the car with their still-warm breakfast in paper bags, and handed Lerens her order.
“No coffee—if you want something in a paper cup, we’ll have to find a Starbucks.”
“Over my dead body,” Lerens muttered.
Hugo smiled and pointed to her food. “Then just enjoy those. The place smelled amazing.”
“Merci.” She stuck her nose in the bag and inhaled. “Vive la France.”
“Amen,” said Hugo. “Any luck with the local flics?”
“Yes, actually. And I can see why Madame Cason is mad at you.”
“Because I’m a time traveler? Or because I have a magic carpet?”
“I spoke to a captain there, Mariel Bard. The officer who responded to the retirement community didn’t file his report yet, but Captain Bard was able to pull up the call text, what the operator types into the system when the call comes in. It’s the information that the first officer on scene has.”
“Sounds like the same system back home. Go on.”
“The call text said that two people had knocked on Madame Severin’s door and basically forced their way in. Not hurting her, but just being a little too assertive.”
“Two people?”
“A man and a woman.”
Hugo immediately thought of Tom. Subtlety wasn’t his greatest strength, but he also wasn’t the type to bully ninety-year-old movie stars. “Was there a description?”
“Tall, good-looking man and an attractive woman. Severin was unsure of their ages, she’d just woken up and was very confused.”
“I bet.” Tall and good-looking rules Tom out, Hugo thought. “Anything else?”
“The captain said the couple was in the house for only a few minutes, asking questions and upsetting the old lady. A groundskeeper happened to drive by and see the front door open. He called security and they called the police. By the time the officer arrived, the couple was gone.”
“Sounds like me and Claudia, but it wasn’t.” Had Claudia gone back with someone else? But why?
“One more thing,” Lerens said. She pulled a croissant from the bag and made Hugo wait as she slowly chewed her first bite. “They stole from her.”
“Stole? Like, money?”
“That’s the odd thing,” Lerens said. “No money or jewelry, just something of sentimental value, and Madame Severin is apparently very upset about it.”
Dread filled Hugo’s chest as he pictured the old woman’s desk. “What did they take?”
“It’s strange. All they took was an old letter opener.” She took another bite and nudged Hugo with an elbow. “Dig in before they go cold. Delicious.” She looked up. “Why the hell would someone steal a letter opener?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They parked outside Alain Benoît’s apartment building, which sat on a quiet street in Vincennes, a clean and tree-lined pocket of eastern Paris. They stayed in the car for a moment, just to see who was coming and going. Hugo watched as a sanitation worker in green overalls and a yellow reflective jacket wielded a brush that had green, plastic bristles. The man swept at the gutter in a gentle but constant rhythm, pushing along
the stream of water that flowed past his feet from a hydrant fifty yards away, ushering discarded cigarette butts toward a grill in the curb with the measured patience and precision of a painter.
“You don’t think we should have called before coming out?” Lieutenant Lerens asked. “At least had someone come by and see if he’s here?”
“You have other plans for today?” Hugo asked.
“You do. Your friends from England are in town.”
“I’ll see them tonight. You should come out with us.”
“I have plans.”
Hugo glanced at her face but he couldn’t tell whether she was making fun of him or was serious. “Look,” he said, “it’s not a surprise if we let the guy know we’re coming.”
“Surprises are overrated. In my experience, the badge and uniform are more persuasive.”
“Well, today we have all three.”
“Assuming he’s in.”
“Let’s go find out.” Hugo checked his watch, 10:00 a.m., then pointed to a woman who was pushing a stroller laden with shopping bags and was headed toward the main doors to the building. Hugo and Lerens climbed out of the car quickly and hurried in that direction, timing their arrival so that Hugo could hold the door for the harried woman once she’d punched in the code. The woman was surprised at first but seemed reassured by the police uniform, flashing them a smile as they followed her inside. She headed for the elevator as they angled off to the right, toward Alain Benoît’s ground-floor apartment.
Lerens raised her fist to knock, but they both turned when the building’s door buzzed and opened, and Benoît walked in. He didn’t see them at first, his head down as he scanned the headlines of the newspaper in his left hand, which also held a to-go cup of coffee. A set of keys jangled in his right hand.
He was ten feet from his front door when he looked up and stopped in his tracks. His eyes darted between Hugo and Lerens, and he shifted his body back, either an unconscious response to their presence or the first step of flight.
“Monsieur Benoît,” Lerens said. Her voice was low, forceful, letting him know they were there for a good reason and not about to let him run away.
