Claude Rambuteau nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Thierry, look for a blue envelope near your maman's picture."
Thierry glanced at him quizzically, as his father slumped in the bucket seat.
"In the breakfast room, don't forget!" Monsieur Rambuteau was gasping now.
"My son," he gurgled as Thierry pulled over.
Thierry frantically searched his father's pockets. "Of course, don't worry. . .Papa!" he cried in alarm.
Claude Rambuteau's face was turning from beat red to purple. His knees spasmodically jerked against the leather dashboard.
"Where are your pills? Your pills?" Thierry screamed.
But Claude couldn't hear him as Thierry raced through the half-empty streets to the emergency entrance of St. Catherine's Hospital.
Wednesday Afternoon
AIMÉE CHANGED INTO CRISP wool trousers and a tailored cashmere cardigan. She looped the silk Hermes foulard, another treasure found at the flea market, around her neck. She popped more aspirin as she downed a generous shot of Ricard. Her head felt sore but the ice had prevented any major swelling. The dull throb had subsided and if it recurred she would drink more vermouth. Around the corner from her apartment she climbed onto the open-backed bus bound for the Palais Royal.
The law offices of notaire Maurice Barrault were located at street level of what had once been an hôtel particulier on rue du Temple. Renovated probably in the seventies, the high-ceilinged salon had been chopped into office suites. Much of the charm had been lost but not the cold drafts, Aimee noted with discomfort.
"Monsieur Barrault is in conference," the clipped secretarial voice behind designer wire-frame glasses informed her.
"Oh, what can I do?" Aimee sighed. "My aunt's will is supposed to be read today. Of all days!"
"I'm sorry. Would you like to reschedule?" The secretary pushed some files to the side of her desk and pulled out an appointment book.
Aimee parted her sleek black shoulder-length wig with her fingers. "But I have a reservation on the TGV to Bordeaux in two hours."
She eyed the framed baby photos lining the secretary's desk. French people loved children, giving excessive warmth and attention to any child.
"My one-year-old came down with croup! The doctor is worried about complications with pneumonia."
The secretary's concerned gaze radiated from behind the wire frames. "I understand. Your name, please." she said.
"Celine Rambuteau," she said. "Nathalie Rambuteau was my aunt."
"I'll see what I can do." The secretary patted the chair next to her desk and there was warmth in her voice. "Calmez-vous."
The secretary disappeared behind a wooden partition. Aimee heard a door open, then click shut. She stood up quickly and scanned the file of some fifteen legal briefs piled next to the baby photos. Nothing. Then she rifled through a stack next to them labeled "To be transcribed," fuming to herself. The will was probably right on the lawyer's desk and she'd never be able to get a look at it.
In the secretary's open drawer, she saw hanging files. Under the "To file for probate section," a folder hadn't been shoved in completely. She peeked, then started in excitement. In the middle was a file labeled NATHALIE RAMBUTEAU.
Beside her, the telephone rang loudly on the desk. She jumped. The red light blinked on and off. She wouldn't have time to pull Nathalie Rambuteau's file out. Her hands shook. She knew the secretary would be on her way to answer.
Suddenly the light stopped blinking and went off. Aimee took a deep breath. Deftly, she slid the file out, flipped the cover, and scanned the sheets. She turned the pages hurriedly, looking for anything about Thierry. Deeds of property and legalese. Nothing about Thierry. Behind the wooden partition, she heard a door close and the click of heels. What story had Rambuteau been feeding her? Had he lied about this whole thing to throw her off the track?
Stapled to the back of the will was an envelope with THIERRY RAMBUTEAU in black spidery writing. Aimee coughed, covering the noise as she tore it off and slipped it in her pocket. As the secretary rounded the partition, Aimee dropped the will back in the hanging folder.
"I'm afraid there's been a complication, Madame Rambuteau." The secretary looked worried. "Your aunt's will goes into probate."
"But why?" Aimee said.
"Monsieur Barrault wanted to tell you; unfortunately, he is in conference. He'll call you later this afternoon."
"Probate?" Aimee raised her eyebrows.
"I apologize if this seems unexpected. . .," the secretary began.
"Unprofessional is what it seems to me." Aimee stood up, adjusted her silk scarf, then made for the lawyer's door. "I need an explanation."
The secretary barred the way but her eyes were evasive. "Monsieur Barrault is meeting with a vice president of the Bank of France. As soon as he's finished he'll call and explain."
Aimee was about to make a scene and barge through the tall oak doors but she stopped herself. The reason a will went to probate clicked in her brain.
"My uncle is dead, isn't he?"
The woman's eyes shifted nervously, then she nodded. "I'm sorry. Monsieur Rambuteau suffered a heart attack after the funeral. Now the reading of the will is blocked until your uncle's estate goes through probate."
Aimee sat back down, shaken.
"I'm sorry you heard it from me." The secretary bent down, patting Aimee's arm. Her eyes were kind. "Truly sorry." The woman took Aimee's shocked behavior for grief.
"A heart attack?" Aimee shook her head.
"Right after the funeral, on the way back to his apartment. And you have just seen him at the cemetery! What a shock for you."
"And my poor cousin, Thierry. . .I have to go to him!" More than ever, she had to discover Thierry's identity.
The secretary threw her hands up. "Please don't let Monsieur Barrault know I've told you. My job would be. . ."
"Of course." Aimee nodded and stood up. "I'll find my cousin. We'll keep this between us."
ENTERING HER office, Aimee was immediately alarmed by the look on Rene's face. He avoided her eyes and concentrated on his computer screen.
"Rene, what happened?"
He sucked in his breath, bowing his large head and pointing to the fax machine.
Miles Davis scampered noisily into her arms as she bent down to pick him up. He licked and nuzzled her wetly with his nose.
A long fax feed had come in from Martine, curling all the way down to the floor. Martine had scribbled at the top, "I've lost my appetite. . .let's do dinner another time."
Enlarged from microfiche records were one-page cheat sheets titled, in crudely set print, CITOYEN—CITIZEN. Full of vindictive articles and accusations about collaborators, a starved and widowed France vented its spleen. J'ACCUSE headed each of the articles.
There were photos of collaborators hung garroted from streetlights with swastikas painted on their grotesque figures, village squares filled with contorted bodies shot by vigilante firing squads, and groups of women with their heads shaved, being stoned by crowds. The rest was a hideous description. No wonder Martine was sick.
Aimee looked sadly at these photos of women, herded like sheep before a people's street tribunal at Liberation. Just like Claude Rambuteau had said. The line under one photo read: Not only did French whores take the Germans' food while their neighbors starved but Jewesses slept with the Nazis as their families burned under Gestapo orders!
In the motley-dressed group of women with shaved heads, one carried a baby. She looked young, her expression stony, her head held high. Aimee pulled a magnifying glass from her drawer to see the details more clearly.