“Why do you think he’s right-handed?”
“Because that’s the hand that went for the gun.”
Rick took another good look at the corpse. “Well observed,” he said. “Part of you is still a cop.”
“Always will be.”
A claxon could be heard approaching from a distance, getting louder. Then it got softer.
“He’s missed the drive,” Stone said.
The claxon got louder again, then found the driveway and a car and an ambulance pulled into the forecourt, lights flashing.
“What an entrance!” Rick said, laughing. “It might be Inspector Clouseau!”
The gendarmes were quiet, quick, and all business.
Before they could speak Rick showed them an ID and jerked a thumb toward Stone and said something in French.
“And where, may I ask, is Mademoiselle Chance?” the officer asked in perfect English.
“Upstairs,” Stone replied. “I’ll get her.”
“If you please.”
Stone went upstairs; Mirabelle was asleep again. He woke her gently. “The police are here.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Merde,” she said. That seemed to be her opinion of the whole business.
“Remember, tell them the truth.” He took her hand and led her down the stairs to the kitchen.
The officer switched to French, and Stone didn’t understand anything for twenty minutes. He hoped she was telling the truth.
Then the room got very quiet, and everyone turned toward the door. Stone followed their gaze. A man stood in the kitchen doorway: he was tall, had a gray crew cut, and was wearing a black leather trench coat. He lacked only an eye patch and a dueling scar to be good casting for a B-movie Gestapo agent. “Allo, Rick,” he said. “How does it go?” His voice was calm and uninflected.
Rick shrugged. “It goes.”
He walked over and looked at the corpse. “And what guest do we have here?”
His officer responded with a stream of French. The man stuck to English, an apparent courtesy to Rick. “Do you believe this to be self-defense?” he asked his officer. “Or do we have murder?” The man shrugged, as if the decision were not his to make. The man walked over to the table and looked at the shotgun. “My grandfather’s,” he said. He walked over to Mirabelle, took her by the arms, and kissed her on the forehead. “Are you all right, ma petite?” She nodded. “Is what my officer said the true thing?” She nodded again.
He walked over to where Stone sat.
“Jacques,” Rick said, “this is Stone Barrington, an American visiting Paris and a prominent New York attorney. Stone, this is Prefect Jacques Chance.”
Chance did not offer his hand. “What are you doing in this house?” he asked.
“I was a guest for dinner . . . and I fell asleep.”
Chance managed a tiny smile. “And do you concur in what my sister has told the police?”
“I do,” Stone said.
“Then you understand French.”
“I was watching. Language was unnecessary.”
The little smile again. “Of course. Mr. Barrington, did you shoot this man?”
“No!” Mirabelle said quickly.
“I was not aware that there was a shotgun in the house,” Stone said. “I saw the man produce a gun. After that he was shot.”
“What were you doing, Mr. Barrington, when the man was shot?”
“I was standing in the doorway, there.” Stone pointed.
Chance turned to LaRose. “And were you watching, too, Rick?”
“No, Jacques, I arrived after the fact.”
“And what brought you here?”
“Stone is a friend.”
“So he called his friend, before he called the police.”
“I called the police,” Mirabelle said.
Chance sighed deeply. “So . . . everyone has the story straight. How very convenient.”
Stone spoke up. “It’s easy when it’s the truth.”
The prefect’s cell phone rang; he answered it and spoke for half a minute, then hung up. “A stolen Fiat 500 was found on a road behind the house. It was an Abarth, so he liked his cars sporty. He walked through the Bois to get here, apparently. Perhaps we will know more when his fingerprints and DNA are run. Anything else from anyone?” He looked around the room, but no one spoke. “Then I bid you all bonne nuit.” He turned and walked toward the door. “I want the shotgun back in this house after it has been properly examined,” he said to his officer as he passed, then he was gone.
The police loaded the corpse on a gurney and took it away. The officer gave them a little salute then followed it.
Stone noticed that there was very little blood left at the scene.
“Stone,” Rick said, “your van awaits in the forecourt. I found it at the end of the drive. My men were asleep.”
“I had dismissed them,” Stone said.
“Then I won’t have them shot.”
“That’s magnanimous of you, Rick.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Rick looked pleased with himself. “All right, everybody, let’s all get some sleep.” He gave them a little salute and left the house.
Stone took Mirabelle in his arms. “I’m glad that’s over,” he said.
“It’s not over,” she replied.
16
Mirabelle would not go upstairs until she had scrubbed the few flecks of blood from the floor and kitchen cabinets. “We will not shock Marie,” she explained.
She fell asleep immediately, but Stone did not. Over and over he tried to explain the night’s events to himself but could not. There were too many possibilities. As they were having a breakfast of eggs scrambled by Mirabelle, Rick LaRose called.
“Something Jacques and his boys didn’t bother to tell us last night: the bag on the doorstep contained a few tools, but it also contained a length of rope, a black hood with no eyeholes, and a roll of duct tape. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered duct tape in Paris. It’s an American thing.”
“So what are you thinking?” Stone asked. He didn’t say it himself, because he didn’t want Mirabelle to hear.
“He may have come to kidnap somebody,” Rick replied. “I suppose he was strong enough to throw you over his shoulder.”
“No,” Stone said.
“Okay, he would have made you walk to his car, blindfolded.”
“Perhaps.”
“Easier to deal with her, huh?”
“Perhaps.”
“I think I’d better do some looking into Mademoiselle Chance,” Rick said.
“Why not?”
“I’ll get back to you when I know more.”
“Do that.” He hung up.
“Was that your Rick?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He called to say he didn’t know anything.”
“Come now.”
“Everybody’s just guessing, even your brother. Who’s next, your father?”
“I don’t think Jacques will discuss it with my father.”
“He seemed more concerned about the shotgun than anything else, except me.”
“You answered him well. You told him we were none of his business. Jacques would have appreciated your subtlety. I would have been blunt.”
“We could still make the papers, but I think the policemen were too afraid of your brother to blab, so maybe not.”
“Quiet intimidation is Jacques’s, how do you say . . . ?”
“Stock-in-trade?”
“Yes, stock-in-trade.”
“Mirabelle, do you have any enemies?”
“An old lover or two, perhaps,” she said, “or one of their girlfriends. I don’t think anyone is angry enough with me to send an assassin. What would be their complaint, an ill-fitting dress? I think it is more likely your Russians.”
“You could be right.”
“I am worried about you, not me.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “Try not to worry at all. What did you mean last night when you said this wasn’t over?”
“Nothing in particular. It is just a pattern in my life that when some event occurs, it always seems to be followed by other, related events. I’ve come to expect it.”