She stepped back into the street and walked to the south end of rue du Dragon, crossing rue de Sèvres on to the much wider thoroughfare of rue de Rennes. As she reached the corner, she heard the rumble of a car starting somewhere behind her, and as she walked north on rue de Rennes, she risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the grilled nose of the vehicle emerging on to the same street. The car rolled forward until the cab was in full view, but the sunlight flaring from the windscreen prevented her from making out the driver. Auger quickened her pace, and when she allowed herself another glance back, there was no sign of the car. But there were many similar cars parked along the roadside, and it would not have been difficult for the driver to lose his amongst them.
Auger continued along rue de Rennes, stopping every now and then to try to flag down a taxi. But either it was the wrong time of day, or there was some Parisian knack she hadn’t yet grasped, for the taxis sped on in an indifferent blur of black metal and chrome, leaving her muttering under her breath. Auger glanced back once more and thought she saw the same car again, inching along at walking pace, but no sooner had her suspicions begun to build than the car swerved away down a side street.
Auger told herself sternly that she was being just as paranoid as Susan White’s fictitious persona. The trick was to see things from Floyd’s point of view, not hers. The detective could have no possible idea of the significance of the paperwork in the box. Her story was entirely reasonable, and Floyd should have no grounds to doubt her word. Susan White had even mentioned that her sister would be coming for her belongings.
Still nervous, but forcing herself to act a little more calmly, Auger realised that she had arrived at the entrance to the Métro station at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She would have preferred the speed and safety of a taxi ride, but the train was the next best thing. She fished money from her purse, still not completely familiar with the coinage, and bought a one-way ticket. A train was grinding into the underground station as she cleared the turnstile.
Auger got aboard, moving along the compartment as the doors closed themselves and the train lurched away. She found a seat next to two young women who had their faces buried in fashion magazines. The train burrowed its way south, slowing into Saint-Sulpice, the station’s walls plastered with faded sepia-tinted advertisements for perfume, stockings and tobacco. As people moved on and off the train, Auger checked them out in her peripheral vision, searching for anyone who looked like Floyd or the figure she had seen descending the stairs. But she recognised no one, and as the train pulled away into the darkness of the next tunnel, she allowed herself to relax a notch. After a minute or so, the train slowed into the next station on the line, Saint-Placide, and Auger once again kept an eye on the passengers coming and going. This time, however, it was with less apprehension and more a guarded interest in the private lives of these unwitting prisoners. It was then that Auger noticed a woman stepping out of the train two carriages ahead of the one she was in. The woman had a pretty face framed by very black hair, and it took Auger a moment to place her as the girl who had been cleaning the stairs in rue du Dragon. She had removed her headscarf and apron, but her features were unmistakable. Rather than heading for the exit, the woman walked alongside the train until she reached carriage next to Auger’s, reboarding just as the doors hissed shut and the train hurtled back into darkness.
Auger clutched the handbag tightly against her stomach, resisting the urge to open it to make sure that the paperwork was still safe and sound. Presently, the train began to slow into Montparnasse. Auger made sure she was standing right next to the door as the train pulled to a stop, and was relieved when a surge of people followed her from the train, enveloping and jostling her towards the tiled corridors and stairs that led to the number six line. She pushed ahead of them, all the while clutching her handbag against her like a living thing that needed protection. Climbing stairs, she glanced back and saw the black-haired woman behind her, but almost lost amongst the faces and hats of the other passengers. The number six line ran on an elevated section of track, and when Auger reached daylight she was relieved to see that a train was already in the station, on the point of departure. She ran for it, nearly tripping in her painfully tight shoes, and just managed to get aboard as the doors slid shut. As the train pulled away and Auger caught her breath, she saw the black-haired woman still waiting on the platform.
Auger checked her watch. It was just before ten. Barely an hour had passed since she had walked into the detective’s office.
Floyd picked up the telephone on the first ring. “Greta?”
“It’s me,” she confirmed, sounding a little out of breath.
“I lost her,” Floyd said. He was sitting in the sad, shuttered spare room in Montparnasse. Sophie was upstairs with Marguerite, and the house had a peculiar kind of Sunday-morning calm about it, even though it was only Saturday. “I expected her to get into a taxi as soon as she left the office. But she was on foot, and there was no way I could keep up with her in the car without her getting suspicious. I don’t think she recognised me, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. Better to lose her this time and hope we can pick her up again near Blanchard’s apartment.”
“You think she’ll go back there?”
“She might have unfinished business, especially when she gets a look at what’s inside the box.”
“Maybe she will. In any case, we haven’t lost her yet. I know where she’s staying.”
Floyd brightened. Now and then a piece of unexpected good fortune dropped into his hands like an early Christmas present. “You managed to keep up with her?”
“Not exactly,” Greta said. “I followed her on foot until she reached the station at Saint-Germain. I skulked in the shadows while she bought a ticket, then bought one for myself while she headed for the train. I got on the same train as she did, but made sure I wasn’t in the same carriage. I moved up the train in Saint-Placide, then followed her as she changed on to the number six line at Montparnasse. Luckily, I know that station pretty welclass="underline" I spent most of my childhood changing trains there. I saw the direction she was taking, but she managed to get on to a train before I reached the platform.”
“Then you lost her.”
“Only for a couple of minutes. I caught the next train out of Montparnasse. We were on the elevated line, moving west, and you have a good view of the street from those elevated stations, so I kept my eyes peeled. It paid off. I saw her walking away from the station at Dupleix, just as we were slowing down. I got off the train, hared down the steps and followed her all the way home, always hanging a block behind her.”
“I’m impressed,” Floyd said. “Did she look as though she thought she was being followed?”
“I’m not a mind-reader, Floyd, but she seemed a lot less twitchy than before. My guess is she thought the change of trains had thrown anyone following her off her scent.”
“I’ll make a detective out of you one of these days, just you watch.” Floyd reached for his notebook and pen. “Tell me where she’s staying.”
Greta gave him the address of a hotel on avenue Emile Zola, a short walk from Dupleix Métro station. She was calling from a brasserie frequented by change-of-shift car workers from the nearby Citroën factory. “I can’t tell you her room number, or how she likes her toast done. And I can’t stay here all day, either.”