Wednesday, July 10, Place Malesherbes, 17th arrondissement. Dexter rapidly climbed up the stair steps of the Metro station and out to the sidewalk. He stood in the middle of the bustling pedestrian traffic on the square. He looked around, saw the apartment building, and walked briskly over to the entrance. He presented himself to the concierge, who waved him towards a small ascenseur situated against the rear wall of the grand stairwell in the center of the building. He looked up at the curved staircases sweeping in arcs towards the upper floors.
Reaching an upper floor, Dexter got out of the ascenseur and walked over to a large door, looked at the brightly polished brass plaque, and then knocked. The door opened and an elderly servant led him into the drawing room. The servant said softly, “She will be with you shortly.”
Dexter walked over to the tall French windows and looked out into the bright morning sunshine and the elegant Place Malesherbes below. Presently, a woman in her early forties, stylishly but simply dressed, came in and walked up to him holding out her hand in welcome. Dexter turned and smiled, casually taking in her whole presence, the brownish blond hair cut short over a handsome angular face with high cheekbones, a svelte figure, an assured smile—all the aristocratic breeding effortlessly casual, he thought. She was the niece of the two Cambron brothers, France’s two most important ambassadors before and during the First World War. She had almost been bred for her current position as diplomatic correspondent for one of Paris’ leading center-left newspapers, L’Oeuvre. The paper had a large following across the country; her writings were syndicated to other papers. She took his hand in hers, clasped her other hand over it in familiar greeting. “So nice of you to come early, Dexter. Gives us a chance to talk before the lunch guests arrive.”
Dexter bowed slightly from the waist. “Madame Tabouis, always a pleasure to be invited to one of your lunches.”