“Have you seen every gendarme in Paris? I don’t think so—”
“Mademoiselle, think the other way. What if, instead of a policeman, he was the one who shot Monsieur Osborn?”
Oven heard their footsteps retreat across the kitchen floor. The light was turned out and their voices diminished as they walked back down the hallway.
“Perhaps we should inform Monsieur Christian,” Philippe said, as they reached the entrance to the living room.
“No,” Vera said quietly. As yet, only Paul Osborn knew of her breakup with the prime minister. She hadn’t decided how, or even if, to inform those who were privy to their relationship of the change in it. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do now was to expose Francois to Something like this. Francois Christian was one of three would-be successors to the president and the in-fighting moving toward the next election had already become what insiders were describing as a “political bloodbath.” A scandal now, especially one involving murder, would be ruinous and, lovers or not, she still cared for François far too deeply to risk destroying his career.
“Wait here.” Leaving Philippe standing in the hallway, Vera Went into the bedroom.
Philippe watched after her. His job was to serve Mademoiselle Monneray, and if necessary protect her. Not with his life, but with communication. At his desk in the lobby, he had the prime minister’s private telephone number with instructions to call at any time, at any hour, if mademoiselle should be in difficulty.
“Philippe, come here,” she called from the darkened bedroom.
When he entered he saw her standing at the curtain by the window.
“See for yourself.”
Walking over, Philippe stood beside her and peered out. A Peugeot was parked across the street. Spill from a streetlamp was enough to illuminate the figures of two men sitting in the front seat.
“Go back down to the front desk,” Vera said. “Do what you would normally do, as if nothing had happened. In a few minutes call a taxi for me. The destination will be the hospital. If the police should come in, tell them I came home feeling ill but shortly afterward felt better and decided to return to work.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.”
Oven watched from the dimness of the kitchen doorway as Philippe came out of the bedroom and turned down the hallway toward him. Immediately the Walther came up in his hand and he pressed back, out of sight. A moment later he heard the apartment door open, then close. After that came silence.
It meant one thing. The doorman had gone and Vera Monneray was alone in the apartment.
58
* * *
LOOKING UP from the dark of their Peugeot, Inspectors Barras and Maitrot could see the light in Vera’s living room. Lebrun’s instructions to all detail inspectors assigned to shadow her had been explicit. If she leaves the hospital follow her, then report in; don’t tip your hand unless circumstances “Justify” meant “unless she leads you to Osborn” or “to someone you suspect would lead you to him.”
So far they had a writ and a warrant for Osborn’s arrest but that was all they had. Tailing Vera had turned out to be nothing more than an exercise. She’d left her apartment early Sunday morning, arrived at the Centre Hospitalier Ste.-Anne at five minutes to seven and stayed there. Barras and Maitrot had taken over the shift at four and still nothing had happened.
Then at six-fifteen a taxi had driven up to the main entrance, Vera had rushed out and the cab pulled away. Barras and Maitrot radioed they were in pursuit and a second tar pulled in after them as backup.
But the chase had only taken them back to her apartment and she’d gone inside. Leaving the police to sit on their pumped-up expectations and glance every so often at the brightly lit window, waiting for whatever, if anything, happened next.
Upstairs, Vera let go of the curtain and turned away from her bedroom window in the dark. The ornamental clock on her bedside table read 7:20. She’d been gone from the hospital for just over an hour, leaving on a slow night, she’d explained, because of intense menstrual cramps. In an emergency she could be back in no time.
If it had just been the Parisian police, things would have been different. It had been confirmed the night before in Lebrun’s reaction to McVey’s pressing queries. But McVey had no such delusions. She’d seen it in his eyes the first time she’d met him. And that made him extremely dangerous if he was against you. He might be American, but the Paris police, at least the inspectors assigned here, whether they realized it or not, were fully under his spell. What he wanted them to do, in one way or another, they would do. Which was why she believed the tall man who presented the vial to Philippe was a fake. Part of a trick to frighten her into believing Osborn was in danger and thereby leading them to wherever he was hiding. And the police—she was certain the men in the car outside were police—proved she was right.
The phone rang next to her and she picked up.
“Oui?Merci, Philippe.”
Her taxi was waiting downstairs.
Going into the bathroom, Vera opened a box of Tampax. Pulled a tampon from the paper and flushed it down the toilet. Then threw the wrapper into the wastebasket under the sink. If the police checked after she’d gone and later questioned her, at least she would have left evidence that her menstrual cycle was the reason she’d come home. Considering who she was, they wouldn’t press it further than that.
Glancing in the mirror, she fluffed her hair and for a moment held there—Everything that had happened with Paul Osborn had seemed natural, even until now. The first time she’d seen him on the lectern in Geneva, a sense of change and fate had swept her. The first night she slept with him there was no more sense of cheating on Francois than if he’d been her brother. Before, she’d told herself she had not left Francois for Osborn. But it wasn’t so, because she had. And because she had, what she was doing now was right. Osborn was in trouble and legality didn’t matter.
Turning out the bathroom light, Vera crossed the bedroom in the dark, stopping to glance out the window once more. The police car was still there, and directly below was her taxi.
Picking up her purse, she went into the hallway and stopped. Shadows from the streetlight danced across the living room ceiling and into the hallway where she stood.
Something was wrong.
The light had been on in the living room. But it wasn’t now. She hadn’t turned it off and neither had Philippe. Maybe the bulb had burned out. Yes. Of course. The bulb. Suddenly the thought flashed that she was wrong. That the men outside were not policemen. They were businessmen talking, or friends, or male lovers. Maybe the tall man had not been a policeman at all. Maybe her first instinct had been right. It was the killer who’d found the tetanus vial and delivered it to Philippe. It was he who wanted her to lead him to Osborn.
Oh, God! Her heart was pounding as if it were going to explode.
Where was he now? Somewhere in the building! Even here! In her apartment. How could she have been so stupid as to send Philippe away? The telephone! Pick it up and call Philippe. Quickly!
Turning, she reached out for the wall switch. Abruptly a strong hand clasped around her mouth and she was dragged back against a man’s body. In the same instant she felt the sharp needle point of a blade press up under her chin.
“I really don’t care to hurt you, but I will if you don’t do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
His voice was very calm and he spoke in French but With an accent that was either Dutch or German. Terrified, Vera tried to make herself think, but the thoughts wouldn’t come.
“I asked you if you understood.”
The knife point pressed further into her flesh and she nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We are going to leave the apartment by the service stairway at the back of the kitchen.” He was very collected and precise. “I am going to take my hand from your mouth. If you make a sound, I will cut your throat. Do you understand?”
Think! Vera. Think! If you go with him, he’ll force you to tak
e him to Paul. The taxi! The driver will be impatient! If you stall, Philippe will call again. If you don’t answer, he will come up.
Suddenly there was a noise at the front door a dozen feet away. Vera felt him stiffen behind her, and the knife slid down and across her throat. At the same instant the door opened and Vera let out a cry against the hand over her mouth.
Osborn stood in the doorway. In one hand was the key to her apartment, in the other, Henri Kanarack’s automatic. He was full in the light. Vera and the tall man were almost completely in the dark. It made no difference. They’d already seen each other.
The hint of a smile crossed Oven’s lips. In a blink he shifted Vera to the side and the blade came up in his hand. In the same instant, Osborn raised the gun, screaming for Vera to hit the floor. As he did, Oven threw the knife at Paul’s throat. Instinctively, Osborn flung up his left hand. The stiletto struck it full force, pinning it like a donkey tail to the open door.
Crying out, Osborn twisted around in pain. Shoving Vera aside, Oven dug for the Walther in his waistband. Vera’s scream was lost in a stab of flame that was followed by a tremendous explosion. Oven fell sideways and Osborn, still pinned to the door, fired again. The big automatic thundered three times in rapid succession, turning the hallway into a howling storm of muzzle flashes punctuated by the deafening roar of gunshots.
On the floor, Vera caught a glimpse of Oven as he fled down the hallway and through the kitchen door. Then Osborn was tearing his hand from the door and hobbling past her after him.
“Stay here!” he screamed.
“Paul! Don’t!”
Blood was running down Oven’s face as he crashed through the pantry. Tipping over a rack of pots and pans, he flung open the service door and bolted down the stairs.
Seconds later, Osborn eased out into the dimly lit stair well and listened. There was only silence. Craning his heck, he looked up the stairs behind him, then back down.
Nothing.
Where the hell is he? Osborn breathed. Be careful. Be very careful.
Then, from below, came the slightest creaking. Looking down, he thought he saw the door to the street just swing closed. Beyond it, on the far side of the landing, was gaping blackness where the stairs continued down, bending in a curl and vanishing into the basement below.
Swinging the automatic toward the door, Osborn took a guarded step down. Then another. Then another. A wooden stair moaned beneath his foot and he stopped short, his eyes probing the darkness beyond the door.
Did he go out? Or is he down there in the basement, waiting? Listening to me come down the stairs.
For some reason the thought came to him that his left hand felt cold and sticky. Looking down, he saw the tall man’s knife still sticking in it. But there was nothing he could do. If he pulled it out, it would start bleeding again and he had nothing to stop it. His only choice was to ignore it.
One more step and he was on the landing opposite the door. Holding his breath, he cocked his head toward the basement. Still he heard nothing. His eyes went to the door to the street, then back to the darkness below it. He could feel the blood begin to pulsate around the knife in his hand. Soon the shock would wear off and the pain would begin. Shifting his weight, he took a step down. He had no idea how far the stairs went before they reached the cellar floor or what was down there. Stopping, he listened again, hoping he could hear the tall man breathe.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the scream of a car’s engine and the shriek of tires on the street outside. In an instant Osborn had pushed off with his good leg and was at the door. Headlights raked his face as he came through it. Throwing up an arm, he fired blindly at a green blur as the car swept past. Then, tires squealing, it rounded the corner at the end of the block, flashed under a streetlight and was gone.
The automatic fell to his side and Osborn watched after it, not hearing the door as it slowly opened behind him. Suddenly he did. Terrified, he swung around, bringing the gun up to fire.
“Paul!” Vera was in the doorway.
Osborn saw her just in time. “Jesus God!”
Somewhere off came the singsong of sirens. Taking his arm, Vera pulled him back inside and closed the door.
“The police. They were waiting outside.”
Osborn wavered, as if he were disoriented. Then she saw the knife sticking in his hand.
“Paul!” She started.
Above them a door opened. Footsteps followed. “Mademoiselle Monneray!” Barras’ voice echoed down the staircase.
The reality of the police brought Osborn back. Tucking the gun under his arm, he reached down, grasped the hilt of the knife and pulled it out of his hand. A splattering of blood hit the floor.
“Mademoiselle!” Barras’ voice was closer. By the sound of it, there was more than one man coming down the stairs.
Pulling a silk scarf from her neck, Vera wrapped it tightly around Osborn’s hand. “Give me the gun,” she said. “Then go to the basement and stay there.” The footsteps were louder. The inspectors had reached the floor above and were starting down.
Osborn hesitated, then handed her the gun. He started to say something, then their eyes met and for a moment he was afraid he would never see her again.
“Go on!” she whispered, and he turned and hobbled out of sight around the curve of darkened stairs, vanishing into the black of the basement below. A second and a half later, Barras and Maitrot reached the landing. “Mademoiselle, are you all right?”
Henri Kanarack’s gun in her hand, Vera turned to face them.
59
* * *
IT WAS 9:20 before McVey heard anything about it. His sojourn to the Brasserie Stella on rue St.-Antoine two hours earlier had started off as a flop, nearly became a fiasco, then ended with a jackpot.
Arriving at 7:15, he found the place packed. The waiters were running around like ants. The maitre d’, seemingly the only one who spoke even a hint of English, informed him the wait for a table was at least an hour, maybe more. When McVey had tried to explain he didn’t want a table but only to speak to the manager, the maitre d’ had rolled his eyes, thrown up his hands saying that tonight even the manager couldn’t get him a table, because the owner was giving a party and taking up the entire main room—and with that he’d rushed off.
So McVey simply stood there with Lebrun’s police sketch of Albert Merriman in his pocket and tried to figure out another approach. He must have looked lonely or lost or both because the next thing he knew a short, slightly inebriated Frenchwoman in a bright red dress took him by the arm and led him to a table in the main room where the party was and began introducing him as her “American friend.” While he was trying to extricate himself politely, somebody asked him in broken English where in the States he was from. And when he said, “Los Angeles,” two more people started throwing questions about the Rams and the Raiders. Somebody else mentioned UCLA. Then an exceedingly thin young woman who looked and dressed like a fashion model slid between them. Smiling seductively, she asked him in French if he knew any of the Dodgers. The black man translated for her and stared, waiting for an answer. By now, all McVey wanted to do was get the hell out of there, but for some reason he said something like “I know Lasorda.” Which was true because Dodger manager Tommy Lasorda had been involved in a number of police benefits and over the years they’d more or less become friends. At mention of Lasorda’s name, another man turned around and in perfect English said, “I know him too.”
The man was the owner of Brasserie Stella and within fifteen minutes two of the three waiters who had wrestled Osborn off Henri Kanarack the night of Osborn’s attack were assembled in the manager’s office looking at the sketch of Albert Merriman.
The first looked at it. “Oui,” he said, then handed it to the second. The second studied it for a moment, then gave it back to McVey.
“L ‘homme.” He nodded. The man.
Los Angeles.
“Robbery-Homicide, Hernandez,” the voice had answered. Rita
Hernandez was young and sexy. Too sexy for a cop. At twenty-five she had three kids, a husband in law School, and was the newest, and probably brightest, detective in the department,
“Buenas tardes, Rita.”
“McVey! Where the hell are you?” Rita leaned back in her chair and grinned.
“I am the hell in Paris, France.” McVey sat down on the bed in his hotel room and pulled off a shoe. Eight forty-five at night in Paris was 12:45 in the afternoon in L.A.
“Paris? You want me to come be with you? I’ll leave my husband, my kids, everything. Pleeeeze, McVey!”
“You wouldn’t like it here.”
“Why not?”
“Not one decent tortilla, at least that I’ve found. Not like you make, anyway.”
“The hell with tortillas. I’ll take a brioche.”
“Hernandez, I need a comprehensive sheet pulled on an orthopedic surgeon from Pacific Palisades. You got time?”
“Bring me back a brioche.”
At 8:53 McVey hung up, used his key to open the “honor bar” and found what he was looking for, a half bottle of the Sancerre he’d had when he’d stayed in the room the last time. Whether he liked it or not, French wine was beginning to grow on him.
Opening the wine, he poured half a glass, took off his other shoe and put his feet up on the bed.
What were they looking for? What had Osborn wanted with Merriman so badly that after the initial attack and Merriman’s escape he’d gone to the trouble and expense of hiring a private detective to find him?
It was possible that Merriman had somehow provoked Osborn in Paris. Maybe Osborn’s story about Merriman’s roughing him up in the airport and trying to take his wallet was true. But McVey doubted it, because Osborn’s attack on Merriman in the brasserie had been too sudden and too violent. Hot-tempered as Osborn was, he was still a physician and smart enough to know you didn’t assault people in public in foreign countries without risking all kinds of repercussions, especially if all the man had done was try and shake you down for your wallet.