“How were my parents involved?”
“They were attached to the British embassy. Bernard in Communications, Madeline in Protocol. Both were really working for MI6. Bernard was one of a few who had access to classified files.”
“So he was a suspect?”
Richard nodded. “Everyone was. British, American, French. Right up to ambassadorial level.” Again he began to pace, carefully measuring his words. “So the dummy file went out to the embassies. And we waited to see if it would turn up, like the others, in East German hands. It didn’t. It ended up here, in a briefcase. In this very room.” He stopped and looked at her. “With your parents.”
“And that closed the file on Delphi,” she said. Bitterly she added, “How neat and easy. You had your culprit. Lucky for you he was dead and unable to defend himself.”
“I didn’t believe it.”
“Yet you dropped the matter.”
“We had no choice.”
“You didn’t care enough to learn the truth!”
“No, Beryl. We didn’t have the choice. We were instructed to call off the investigation.”
She stared at him in astonishment. “By whom?”
“My orders came straight from Washington. Claude’s from the French prime minister. The matter was dropped.”
“And my parents went on record as traitors,” she said. “What a convenient way to close the file.” In disgust she turned and left the room.
He followed her down the stairs. “Beryl! I never really believed Bernard was the one!”
“Yet you let him take the blame!”
“I told you, I was ordered to—”
“And of course you always follow orders.”
“I was sent back to Washington soon afterward. I couldn’t pursue it.”
They walked out of the building into the bedlam of Rue Myrha. A soccer ball flew past, pursued by a gaggle of tattered-looking children. Beryl paused on the sidewalk, her eyes temporarily dazzled by the sunshine. The street sounds, the shouts of the children, were disorienting. She turned and looked up at the building, at the attic window. The view suddenly blurred through her tears.
“What a place to die,” she whispered. “God, what a horrible place to die….”
She climbed into Richard’s car and pulled the door closed. It was a blessed relief to shut out the noise and chaos of Rue Myrha.
Richard slid in behind the driver’s seat. For a moment, they sat in silence, staring ahead at the ragamuffins playing street soccer.
“I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said.
“I want to see Claude Daumier.”
“Why?”
“I want to hear his version of what happened. I want to confirm that you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am, Beryl.”
She turned to him. His gaze was steady, unflinching. An honest look if ever I’ve seen one, she thought. Which only proves how gullible I am. She wanted to believe him, and there was the danger. It was that blasted attraction between them—the feverish tug of hormones, the memory of his kisses—that clouded her judgment. What is it about this man? I take one look at his face, inhale a whiff of his scent, and I’m aching to tear off his clothes. And mine, as well.
She looked straight ahead, trying to ignore all those heated signals passing between them. “I want to talk to Daumier.”
After a pause, he said, “All right. If that’s what it’ll take for you to believe me.”
A phone call revealed that Daumier was not in his office; he’d just left to conduct another interview with Marie St. Pierre. So they drove to Cochin Hospital, where Marie was still a patient.
Even from the far end of the hospital corridor, they could tell which room was Marie’s; half a dozen policemen were stationed outside her door. Daumier had not yet arrived. Madame St. Pierre, informed that Lord Lovat’s niece had arrived, at once had Beryl and Richard escorted into her room.
They discovered they weren’t the only visitors Marie was entertaining that afternoon. Seated in chairs near the patient’s bed were Nina Sutherland and Helena Vane. A little tea party was in progress, complete with trays of biscuits and finger sandwiches set on a rolling cart by the window. The patient, however, was not partaking of the refreshments; she sat propped up in bed, a sad and weary-looking French matron dressed in a gray robe to match her gray hair. Her only visible injuries appeared to be a bruised cheek and some scratches on her arms. It was clear from the woman’s look of unhappiness that the bomb’s most serious damage had been emotional. Any other patient would have been discharged by now; only her status as St. Pierre’s wife allowed her such pampering.
Nina poured two cups of tea and handed them to Beryl and Richard. “When did you arrive in Paris?” she said.
“Jordan and I flew in yesterday,” said Beryl. “And you?”
“We flew home with Helena and Reggie.” Nina sat back down and crossed her silk-stockinged legs. “First thing this morning, I thought to myself, I really should drop in to see how Marie’s doing. Poor thing, she does need cheering up.”
Judging by the patient’s glum face, Nina’s visit had not yet achieved the desired result.
“What’s the world coming to, I ask you?” said Nina, balancing her cup of tea. “Madness and anarchy! No one’s immune, not even the upper class.”
“Especially the upper class,” said Helena.
“Has there been any progress on the case?” asked Beryl.
Marie St. Pierre sighed. “They insist it is a terrorist attack.”
“Well, of course,” said Nina. “Who else plants bombs in politicians’ houses?”
Marie’s gaze quickly dropped to her lap. She looked at her hands, the bony fingers woven together. “I have told Philippe we should leave Paris for a while. Tonight, perhaps, when I am released. We could visit Switzerland….”
“An excellent idea,” murmured Helena gently. She reached out to squeeze Marie’s hand. “You need to get away, just the two of you.”
“But that’s turning tail,” said Nina. “Letting the criminals know they’ve won.”
“Easy for you to say,” muttered Helena. “It wasn’t your house that was bombed.”
“And if it was my house, I’d stay right in Paris,” Nina retorted. “I wouldn’t give an inch—”
“You’ve never had to.”
“What?”
Helena looked away. “Nothing.”
“What are you muttering about, Helena?”
“I only think,” said Helena, “that Marie should do exactly what she wants. Leaving Paris for a while makes perfect sense. Any friend would back her up.”
“I am her friend.”
“Yes,” murmured Helena, “of course you are.”
“Are you saying I’m not?”
“I didn’t say anything of the kind.”
“You’re muttering again, Helena. Really, it drives me up a wall. Is it so difficult to come right out and say things?”
“Oh, please,” moaned Marie.
A knock on the door cut short the argument. Nina’s son, Anthony, entered, dressed with his usual offbeat flair in a shirt of electric blue, a leather jacket. “Ready to leave, Mum?” he asked Nina.
At once Nina rose huffily to her feet. “More than ready,” she sniffed and followed him to the door. There she stopped and gave Marie one last glance. “I’m only speaking as a friend,” she said. “And I, for one, think you should stay in Paris.” She took Anthony’s arm and walked out of the room.
“Good heavens, Marie,” muttered Helena, after a pause. “Why do you put up with the woman?”
Marie, looking small as she huddled in her bed, gave a small shrug. They are so very much alike, thought Beryl, comparing Marie St. Pierre and Helena. Neither one blessed with beauty, both on the fading side of middle age, and trapped in marriages to men who no longer adored them.
“I’ve always thought you were a saint just to let that bitch in your door,” said Helena. “If it were up to me…”
/>
“One must keep the peace” was all Marie said.
They tried to carry on a conversation, the four of them, but so many silences intervened. And overshadowing their talk of bomb blasts and ruined furniture, of lost artwork and damaged heirlooms, was the sense that something was being left unsaid. That even beyond the horror of these losses was a deeper loss. One had only to look in Marie St. Pierre’s eyes to know that she was reeling from the devastation of her life.
Even when her husband, Philippe, walked into the room, Marie did not perk up. If anything, she seemed to recoil from Philippe’s kiss. She averted her face and looked instead at the door, which had just swung open again.
Claude Daumier entered, saw Beryl, and halted in surprise. “You are here?”
“We were waiting to see you,” said Beryl.
Daumier glanced at Richard, then back at Beryl. “I have been trying to find you both.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Richard.
“The matter is…delicate.” Daumier motioned for them to follow. “It would be best,” he said, “to discuss this in private.”
They followed him into the hallway, past the nurses’ station. In a quiet corner, Daumier stopped and turned to Richard.
“I have just received a call from the police. Colette was found shot to death in her car. Near Place Vendme.”
“Colette?” said Beryl. “The agent who was watching Jordan?”
Grimly Daumier nodded.
“Oh, my God,” murmured Beryl. “Jordie—”
“He is safe,” Daumier said quickly. “I assure you, he’s not in danger.”
“But if they killed her, they could—”
“He has been placed under arrest,” said Daumier. His gaze, quietly sympathetic, focused on Beryl’s shocked face. “For murder.”
Long after everyone else had left the hospital room, Helena remained by Marie’s bedside. For a while they said very little; good friends, after all, are comfortable with silence. But then Helena could not hold it in any longer. “It’s intolerable,” she said. “You simply can’t stand for this, Marie.”
Marie sighed. “What else am I to do? She has so many friends, so many people she could turn against me. Against Philippe….”
“But you must do something. Anything. For one, refuse to speak to her!”
“I have no proof. Never do I have proof.”
“You don’t need proof. Use your eyes! Look at the way they act together. The way she’s always around him, smiling at him. He may have told you it was over, but you can see it isn’t. And where is he, anyway? You’re in the hospital and he scarcely visits you. When he does, it’s just a peck on the cheek and he’s off again.”
“He is preoccupied. The economic summit—”
“Oh, yes,” Helena snorted. “Men’s business is always so bloody important!”
Marie started to cry, not sobs, but noiseless, pitiful tears. Suffering in silence—that was her way. Never a complaint or a protest, just a heart quietly breaking. The pain we endure, thought Helena bitterly, all for the love of men.
Marie said in a whisper, “It is even worse than you know.”
“How can it possibly be any worse?”
Marie didn’t reply. She just looked down at the abrasions on her arms. They were only minor scrapes, the aftermath of flying glass, but she stared at them with what looked like quiet despair.
So that’s it, thought Helena, horrified. She thinks they’re trying to kill her. Why doesn’t she strike back? Why doesn’t she fight?
But Marie hadn’t the will. One could see that, just by the slump of her shoulders.
My poor, dear friend, thought Helena, gazing at Marie with pity, how very much alike we are. And yet, how very different.
A man sat on the bench across from him, silently eyeing Jordan’s clothes, his shoes, his watch. A well-pickled fellow by the smell of him, thought Jordan with distaste. Or did that delightful odor, that unmistakable perfume of cheap wine and ripe underarms, emanate from the other occupant of the jail cell? Jordan glanced at the man snoring blissfully in the far corner. Yes, there was the likely source.
The man on the bench was still staring at him. Jordan tried to ignore him, but the man’s gaze was so intrusive that Jordan finally snapped, “What are you looking at?”
“C’est en or?” the man asked.
“Pardon?”
“La montre. C’est en or?” The man pointed at Jordan’s watch.
“Yes, of course it’s gold!” said Jordan.
The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. He rose and shuffled across the cell to sit beside Jordan. Right beside him. His gaze dropped speculatively to Jordan’s shoes. “C’est italienne?”
Jordan sighed. “Yes, they’re Italian.”
The man reached over and fingered Jordan’s linen jacket sleeve.
“All right, that’s it,” said Jordan. “Hands to yourself, chap! Laissez-moi tranquille!”
The man simply grinned wider and pointed to his own shoes, a pair of cardboard and plastic creations. “You like?”
“Very nice,” groaned Jordan.
The sound of footsteps and clinking keys approached. The man sleeping in the corner suddenly woke up and began to yell, “Je suis innocent! Je suis innocent!”
“M. Tavistock?” called the guard.
Jordan jumped at once to his feet. “Yes?”
“You are to come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You have visitors.”
The guard led him down a hall, past holding cells jammed full with prisoners. Good grief, thought Jordan, and he’d thought his cell was bad. He followed the guard through a locked door into the booking area. At once his ears were assaulted with the sounds of bedlam. Everywhere phones seemed to be ringing, voices arguing. A ragtag line of prisoners waited to be processed, and one woman kept yelling that it was a mistake, all a mistake. Through the babble of French, Jordan heard his name called.
“Beryl?” he said in relief.
She ran to him, practically knocking him over with the force of her embrace. “Jordie! Oh, my poor Jordie, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, darling.”
“You’re really all right?”
“Never better, now that you’re here.” Glancing over her shoulder, he saw Richard and Daumier standing behind her. The cavalry had arrived. Now this terrible business could be cleared up.
Beryl pulled away and frowned at his face. “You look ghastly.”
“I probably smell even worse.” Turning to Daumier, he said, “Have they found out anything about Colette?”
Daumier shook his head. “A single bullet, nine millimeters, in the temple. Plainly an execution, with no witnesses.”
“What about the gun?” asked Jordan. “How can they accuse me without having a murder weapon?”
“They do have one,” said Daumier. “It was found in the storm drain, very near the car.”
“And no witnesses?” said Beryl. “In broad daylight?”
“It is a side street. Not many passersby.”
“But someone must have seen something.”
Daumier gave an unhappy nod. “A woman did report seeing a man force his way into Colette’s car. But it was on Boulevard Saint-Germain.”
Jordan groaned. “Oh, great. That would’ve been me.”
Beryl frowned. “You?”
“I talked her into giving me a ride back to the hotel. My fingerprints will be all over the inside of that car.”
“What happened after you got into the car?” Richard asked.
“She let me off at the Ritz. I went up to the room for a few minutes, then came back down to talk to her. That’s when I found…” Groaning, he clutched his head. “Lord, this can’t be happening.”
“Did you see anything?” Richard pressed him.
“Not a thing. But…” Jordan’s head slowly lifted. “Colette may have.”
“You’re not sure?”
“While we we
re driving to the hotel, she kept frowning at the mirror. Said something about imagining things. I looked, but all I saw was traffic.” Miserable, he turned to Daumier. “I blame myself, really. I keep thinking, if only I’d paid more attention, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up—”
“She knew how to protect herself,” interrupted Daumier. “She should have been prepared.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” said Jordan. “That she was caught so off guard.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s still plenty of daylight. We could go back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. Retrace my steps. Something might come back to me.”
His suggestion was met with dead silence.
“Jordie,” said Beryl, softly, “you can’t.”
“What do you mean, I can’t?”
“They won’t release you.”
“But they have to release me! I didn’t do it!” He looked at Daumier. To his dismay, the Frenchman regretfully shook his head.
Richard said, “We’ll do whatever it takes, Jordan. Somehow we’ll get you out of here.”
“Has anyone called Uncle Hugh?”
“He’s not at Chetwynd,” said Beryl. “No one knows where he is. It seems he left last night without telling anyone. So we’re going to see Reggie and Helena. They’ve friends in the embassy. Maybe they can pull some strings.”
Dismayed by the news, Jordan could only stand there, surrounded by the chaos of milling prisoners and policemen. I’m in prison and Uncle Hugh’s vanished, he thought. This nightmare is getting worse by the second.
“The police think I’m guilty?” he ventured.
“I am afraid so,” said Daumier.
“And you, Claude? What do you think?”
“Of course he knows you’re innocent!” declared Beryl. “We all do. Just give me time to clear things up.”
Jordan turned to his sister, his beautiful, stubborn sister. The one person he cared most about in the world. He took off his watch and firmly pressed it into her hand.
She frowned. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Safekeeping. I may be in here a rather long time. Now, I want you to go home, Beryl. The next plane to London. Do you understand?”
In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts Page 9
