“Of course, Chief Inspector.”
Josef watched the old man leave. It was funny how he’d aged in the last few years. The chief inspector couldn’t be more than fifty, yet he looked at least ten years older. Would the job do the same thing to him?
He had every intention of finding out. And the way Malgreave was going, it would be soon. When they cracked this case, Josef had every intention of seeing that he was in line for his share of the glory. Malgreave was always generous in sharing the credit. If he could just keep Vidal down where he belonged, and if Malgreave did as he threatened and retired once they put a stop to the recent killings, then his future looked rosy indeed.
He settled down into Malgreave’s chair, his broad bottom fitting nicely into the worn leather seat. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of dead cigarettes. A filthy habit, and as far as he could see it, Malgreave’s only weakness. That, and the bitch he was married to.
Lucky for him that Helga was so understanding. Her ambition rivaled his, and she had no objections to late nights, early mornings, and an absentee husband if his salary and prestige continued to rise. And if sometimes he felt a little lonely, if he missed his son and daughter as they grew up without him, then that was the price he had to pay for the good life.
But things would be much better once he took over Malgreave’s job, Malgreave’s private office with the window overlooking the street. He could set his own hours, not have to put in twelve- and fourteen-hour days to impress his superior. He’d leave that to brownnoses like Vidal.
Pierre Gauge’s shaved head ducked inside the door. If he was surprised to see Josef relaxing in his superior’s chair his bland face didn’t show it. “I’m going off duty, sir,” he said, and Josef took pleasure in the respectful title. “Do you want the transcripts in here?”
“Leave them on my desk,” he said airily. “I’ll check them tomorrow morning.”
“Very good, sir.” And Pierre Gauge departed, leaving Josef to his dreams of glory.
It had taken them longer than five minutes. Claire had thrown clothes together into a large suitcase, paying little attention to her choices, but Nicole had proven almost impossible to wake. Her clothes were filthy, and she managed to swim to consciousness only long enough to struggle into clean clothes and submit to having her face and hands washed by a maternal Claire before drifting back into a semi-stupor.
Without a word Tom scooped her up, wrapping a blanket around the thin, frail body. “Are you sure she’s all right?” Claire worried. “Maybe we should take her to a doctor.”
“She’s fine, Claire. She’s just drugged. All she needs to do is sleep it off.”
“You’re certain?”
“Reasonably so.
If she seems to be falling deeper into sleep we’ll stop at the first hospital we can find. Does that satisfy you?”
“It’ll have to. A hospital will want to know where her father is, and I’d rather not have to answer those sorts of questions.”
“We could tell them I’m her father.”
“Which would work fine until she woke up enough to start speaking in French,” Claire said. “God knows, I wish you were her father.”
“At least Bonnard isn’t either. Come on, Claire. Hélène said she’d meet us out front.”
“Hélène?” Claire echoed. “Your friend is a woman?”
He managed the ghost of a grin. “I told you I tried being a vintner, a writer, a dancer, and an artist. I never told you I tried being a monk.”
“No,” she said. “You never did.”
The Peugeot had definitely acquired more than its share of rust. Claire wished she could say the same thing for its driver. As she and Nicole bundled into the back seat she caught a whiff of Opium, a mane of black hair, and a decidedly hostile smile from the driver, who then proceeded to involve Tom in a raucous conversation held entirely in French. Claire tried to summon up enough energy to seethe, but the heavily drugged child in her arms took all the emotions she had to spare, so she merely leaned back in the cramped seat and tried not to concentrate on the back of Tom’s head as he flirted with the French woman.
His hair was too long. There was a badly mended hole in the thick black sweater, and Claire wondered who’d darned it. Certainly not the exotic creature with the mundane car who couldn’t seem to control her high-pitched laughter. Claire told herself if the woman giggled one more time she’d scream. She’d wanted to scream for hours now, and had controlled herself. It wouldn’t take much to break that control.
Traffic in Paris was always ghastly; in rush hour it was bordering on criminal. It took forty-five minutes and several close brushes with death for the aging French car to travel less than a city mile, with Hélène laughing all the way. When they finally pulled up outside a block of modern, soulless apartments, the dark-haired woman slipped from the car, once more casting the subdued Claire a calculating look, and then proceeded to kiss Tom full on the mouth.
It was a very long, fishy kiss, and while Claire could see Tom’s participation was more polite than enthusiastic, it didn’t keep from arousing at least a trace of fury in her apathetic body. She glared at the woman’s departing wave, glared at Tom’s amused expression, and hugged Nicole’s sleeping body tighter.
“Are you going to sit in the back seat and glower?” he inquired coolly. “Or are you going to keep me company up here?”
“I think I should watch Nicole.”
“And I think I’ll have a hard time driving with you fuming behind my back. It’s not my fault Hélène’s an affectionate girl.”
“Hélène’s a …” Nicole’s sleepy moan stopped Claire before she said something she knew she’d regret. “I’ll stay back here,” she said again.