‘Where are the others?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged, uncaring. ‘Out.’
Thank heaven for that, I thought. Aloud I said: ‘I’ll just go on upstairs, then. If anyone asks, tell them I’m sleeping, will you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He pulled himself back with an effort, and showed me a smile that held a hint of his old cockiness. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured me, ‘I will see that you are not disturbed.’
* * *
I did sleep, as it happened – a restless sleep of troubled dreams that ended as the sun was striking full upon my window. My first thought was that the château bell had woken me, because even as I turned my face from the light I heard the deeper echo of the sister chime from City Hall.
It didn’t penetrate too fully. The memory of sleep lingered like a drug, tangling my thoughts and weighting me to the wide bed. I was still lying there, listening to the fourth and final chime fade ringing through the rooftops, when I heard somebody moving in the room next door. A faint thump, followed by the unmistakeable crash of a curtain rod falling from its hooks. I smiled faintly into the pillow, and thought: The boys are back. And then, in a painful rush that burned like blood returning to a frozen limb, I remembered.
I opened my eyes.
The noises in the next room had grown louder, now. I heard a scuffling footfall and a burst of boyish laughter, and the creaking of the window swinging inward on its ageing hinges. Stumbling to my feet, I tugged on jeans and a loose sweater and went out into the hall to investigate. I’d probably not have done it if I’d been awake; but I wasn’t awake, not really, and this tiny part of me still hoped … still hoped that …
‘Yes?’ The door to the boys’ room opened to my knock and a tall young woman, blonde and florid and full of life, peered politely out at me. ‘Can I help you?’ She spoke in English, but it wasn’t her first language. Swedish, I decided, or perhaps Danish. Something Scandinavian.
I shook my head, my smile an unconvincing cover for the stab of disappointment. ‘No, I … I was looking for someone else. I’m sorry.’
That only made it worse. She looked at me with feminine suspicion. ‘There is only my husband.’
I rushed to fix the blunder. ‘Oh, no, I meant that I must have the wrong room. Sorry to have bothered you.’
I don’t think I completely reassured her. The round blue eyes were rather glacial when she finally shut the door, and I felt a twinge of guilt. Her husband, poor chap, was no doubt going to be called upon to answer a question or two. Stupid, I chided myself. What had I been expecting? Some sort of miracle, that’s what – Paul Lazarus … Lazarus, risen from death … only I was old enough to know that miracles didn’t happen.
I suddenly felt very much alone.
Downstairs, the cool and shadowed bar was empty. On the radio, a folk-rock balladeer was strumming out a sad poetic tune, and the candles burned for no one on the low round tables. The tall glass doors stood open to the afternoon breeze. I walked on through and crossed into the fountain square, into the sunlight, where the bright white tables and red chairs were clustered, waiting, underneath the acacias.
I wanted to sit alone, but Garland wouldn’t hear of it. She all but dragged me to the table she was sharing with her husband, and I was much too tired to argue with her. Apart from which, I rather liked Jim Whitaker. He smiled kindly at me as I took the chair beside him. ‘Can we buy you a drink?’ he asked.
‘No, thank you. I’m quite fine.’
‘Well, I could use another,’ he confessed, raising his hand to catch the server’s eye. To my surprise it wasn’t Thierry who came over, but the flustered pretty Gabrielle.
‘Such a bother,’ Garland said, as Gabrielle went off to fetch Jim’s Pernod, ‘when Thierry isn’t working. I mean, he’s a pain sometimes, but at least he gets your order straight. I ask you, does this look like a Manhattan?’
I confessed I’d never seen one. ‘Where is Thierry?’ I asked.
She took a look around, leaned forward and stage-whispered the answer: ‘Police. They came to get him after lunch, to ask him questions. About Paul. Do you know,’ she leaned in closer, ‘they’ve started an investigation. That’s what Martine said. They don’t think that it was an accident, Paul falling off that wall.’
‘Garland …’ Jim warned.
‘What? It’s common knowledge, dear, she’s bound to hear about it. Nazis,’ she said, turning back to me.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s who did it, just you watch. They’ve come back for the diamonds, the way they did in Germany, where Jim and I used to live. Don’t you remember? I told you all about—’ She paused, distracted by a scene just past my shoulder at the entrance to the rue Voltaire. ‘Well, well, well, isn’t this interesting? Look who’s here.’
Jim and I turned to look, as we were meant to. In front of the phone box, two police cars had drawn up to park against the curb. The drivers got out first, young officers in uniform who both deferred respectfully to an older plain-clothed colleague whose calm unhurried movements marked him as a man of high authority.
‘His name’s Prieur,’ said Garland, when I asked. ‘I think he’s a Chief Superintendent, or something – someone important, anyway. From Paris. He came to the hotel this morning, during breakfast, to ask us all some questions about Paul. Very nice man,’ was her considered opinion. ‘Real class, if you know what I mean. And he smiles at you when he’s talking, not like those other policemen. I gather,’ she added, leaning towards me, ‘that the local boys aren’t too happy to have him sticking his nose into their investigation.’