“That isn’t saying much.” Grand-mère picked an imaginary speck of dust from her silk crepe dress. “As long as you’re happy and able to visit me every day I expect we can continue. The moment the woman becomes difficult you let me know, and I will have my lawyers deal with her. I don’t trust Americans.”
“If you met her yourself …”
“I have no need to. You forget, I just spent the last year in California.” The old woman shuddered. “I know just what Mlle. Claire MacIntyre is like without seeing her. I know your stepfather’s taste far too well, and it would take an idiot not to see through him. Therefore, she must be an idiot. Besides, she doesn’t speak French—the interview would be a waste.”
“But you speak English perfectly.”
Madame nodded graciously. “True enough, chérie. But I have no intention of doing so. You’ll simply ha
ve to be the go-between. I imagine we’ll do just fine until your father comes back.” She looked at her granddaughter piercingly, and once more Nicole felt that odd frisson of fear that was becoming far too frequent a companion. “You love your great-aunt Jacqueline, do you not?”
“Of course,” Nicole replied, mystified.
“And California really isn’t that bad. It’s very sunny, and everyone has five color televisions and swimming pools and cars without roofs. You would enjoy yourself.”
“Maybe Marc would let me visit,” Nicole said. “Maybe you could take me.”
Grand-mère smiled, a cool, distant smile that frightened her granddaughter very much. “We’ll see, chérie. We’ll see.”
Gilles Sahut sat alone in his room over the butcher shop, staring out into the bright sunlight as he devoured his noonday meal. He hadn’t taken the trouble to wash the blood from his hands, and the bread and cheese tasted of freshly slaughtered lamb.
He felt restless, angry, ready to jump, and the smell of blood and death from the animals below only increased his edginess. He shoved the heel of bread into his mouth and stomped over to the window, glaring into the bright spring day. He would have to buy a newspaper. Usually he didn’t bother—he could scarcely read and seldom found it worth the trouble.
When the old women started dying he used to buy the paper, spending painstaking hours deciphering the details just to be certain. When he’d taken up his part he continued to read, curious whether anyone linked him with the deaths.
Of course no one had any idea. And they never would. Gilles knew that the truth defied belief—no one would guess and if they did they would dismiss it as impossible. They were safe, all of them.
No, he didn’t need to buy a paper to see if anything new had come from the latest murder. What he needed, quite desperately, was a weather prediction. What he needed, quite desperately, was more rain.
* * *
Claire sat alone in the kitchen of the huge old apartment, delicate hands cradling the mug of coffee. Marc was gone, promising to call every few nights. She hated answering the telephone. Most of the time it was someone babbling at her in French, talking too fast and too loud, never giving her a chance for her halting explanations.
As often as she could she had Nicole answer the phone. But arrangements had been made for Nicole to spend each day with her grandmother, being transported by the old woman’s chauffeur. There was no need for Claire to present herself to Harriette Langlois—that much had been made clear. And indeed, Claire had no wish to subject herself to the humiliation of trying to converse with someone Marc stigmatized as an old harridan, with a reluctant Nicole as translator.
No, she was happy to have her days free, and if part of that freedom meant she was lonely, she would learn to deal with it. She would have Nicole write something in French to leave by the phone, something she could read to whomever was trying to communicate without listening.
She shoved the coffee away. The day stretched ahead of her, bright and clear and shining, with no duties, no responsibilities. She could even leave the dishes sitting in the sink without fear of reprisals.
All she had to do was relax and enjoy herself. She had every intention of doing so when the telephone rang, its shrill bell racing across her nerve endings.
She sat at the table letting brief fantasies play across her mind. It was the man from the park—he’d somehow found out who she was. It was Marc—he couldn’t bear to be away from her. It was Nicole—no, it was her grandmother, and Nicole was hurt.
She couldn’t ignore the telephone. Slowly she rose from the table, crossing the room with dragging feet. Without Marc around she went barefoot, not minding the chill in exchange for the blessed feeling of freedom. The ring was angry, insistent, and Claire held her breath for a long moment before snatching it from its cradle.
Hello was a universal word. The voice on the other end spoke English, and she wished it hadn’t.
“Ms. MacIntyre?” The voice had flat American vowels. “This is James Donner at the United States embassy. We’d like you to come in and answer a few questions for us.”
And Claire dropped the phone from nerveless fingers, watching it clatter to the floor.
CHAPTER 6
Paris was blessed with six sunny days in a row, a miraculous phenomenon after the ceaseless rain. Someone, Nicole perhaps, had told Claire that the old women had only been murdered on rainy days. That knowledge, coupled with the relief from various different sources, was enough to send her into a mood of almost lightheaded happiness, one Nicole tolerated with cynical patience.
Claire hadn’t asked the man from the embassy a thing when she’d retrieved the telephone from the floor, except, “What time would be convenient for you?” Her voice had been wooden, lifeless, a martyr heading for the stake, but James Donner had noticed nothing.
“At your convenience, Ms. MacIntyre,” he’d replied, and Claire had almost laughed into the telephone. There was no convenient time for the conversation she’d been dreading for the last six months, but part of her had been relieved it was over with. They’d send her back to the States, of course. She’d probably be charged as an accessory, or something. She’d have to see Brian again, something she dreaded. But the worst part of all would be to leave Nicole, sullen, prickly Nicole.