by Rickie Blair
“Then when—?”
“We can see him tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“So those first-class seats on the red-eye were—”
“Not strictly necessary, no. But weren’t they cozy? It was like sleeping in my own bed, except at home no one brings me hot towels and ice water with flowers in it.”
“I had no idea your bedroom was that crowded.”
“Funny.”
“Why don’t you ask Zelda to stuff flowers in your water bottles at home? She can line them up in the fridge for you. You should ask her before she sees the invoice for our flight, though.”
“So we spent a little money. Was that wrong? Anyway, if we can’t meet Monsieur de Montagny, we might as well hit the hotel.”
“We can’t check in until four o’clock or we’ll have to pay for an extra night.”
“When did you become such a penny pincher?”
“When? Let’s see, that would be … oh yes, after the Securities Exchange Commission seized all my assets.”
“You poor thing.” She patted his face. “What you need is a nice walk along the Seine followed by a lovely dinner. We’ll drop our bags at the hotel and then I’ll take you sight-seeing.”
“I have been in Paris.”
“Not with me.”
Their taxi drove through the narrow streets of La Motte-Picquet, past six-story limestone buildings with gray slate roofs, and dropped them in front of a small hotel. After checking in and stowing their bags, they stood outside and looked around. Sunlight sparkled off windows on the upper floors, where greenery spilled over narrow wrought iron balconies. A warm breeze ruffled Ruby’s hair, and a tantalizing aroma wafted from a nearby bakery. By the time they had stopped for croissants and café crèmes, hiked the few blocks to the subway, negotiated the crowded platforms, and disembarked at Alma-Marceau station, it was mid-afternoon.
They crossed the Seine River via Pont de l’Alma and strolled west along the bank to the Debilly footbridge. They walked onto its wide wooden surface, pausing in the middle to gaze at the river. Ruby rested her elbows on the railing.
“Remember Femme Fatale? With Rebecca Romijn-Stamos?”
Hari frowned intently for a moment, and then shook his head.
“Not really.”
“Yes, you do. The tall blonde? In the black lace? The bar scene with the French sailors?”
His face lit up.
“Oh! The one where she—”
“Does the strip tease, yes.” Ruby grinned. “I knew you’d remember that. This is where the bad guys threw her into the river.”
Hari peered over the side of the railing and nodded.
“That was a good movie.”
They crossed the bridge and strolled along the streets on the other side, pausing so Ruby could window shop, and ordered more café cremes, which they drank at a sidewalk table. Eventually they reached avenue Kléber.
Ruby stopped across the street from the elaborate wrought iron double doors of No. 104.
“There,” she said, pointing, “Matt Damon’s flat in The Bourne Identity.”
Hari peered up at the third floor.
“It’s not as impressive when there’s no one crashing through the window.”
“Oh, you didn’t say you wanted the deluxe tour.” Ruby shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid it’s too late to arrange that now. Je suis désolé.” She grinned. “Let’s walk back to the Metro. There’s one other place I want to show you. Pont Mirabeau, my favorite bridge in Paris.”
After more strolling, more café crèmes, and more window shopping, they reached Pont Mirabeau. They stood by the river for a close-up view of the massive pilings and their statuesque female guardians.
“Impressive,” Hari said.
“It’s even more beautiful at night, when the lights under the bridge are lit. I know it’s not seven o’clock yet, but I’m starving. We passed a nice bistro a while back. Let’s ask them to serve us an early dinner.”
* * *
The manager summoned a waiter, who had been smoking by the river, to bring Les Américains bread and soup. The waiter plunked down the small bowls so heavily that soupe au potiron sloshed over the edges.
After draining her bowl, Ruby put down her spoon and sighed.
“That was delicious.”
Her face was flushed, whether from the exercise and fresh air, or the clouds of steam that emanated from the kitchen, Hari wasn’t sure. But it brought out the roses on her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle.
The waiter returned to refill Hari’s wine glass and take away the soup bowls.
“Merci, monsieur,” Ruby said, looking up at him with her most beguiling grin. The waiter’s mouth turned up as he walked away.
Hari reached for the bread and tore off a chunk, his lips twitching. Two more courses and Ruby would have the waiter wrapped around her finger, too.
“You haven’t told me why Mirabeau is your favorite bridge in Paris. Did you go there with Antony?”
Ruby went still and stared at him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean no, it wasn’t Antony.”
“Someone else?”
“Can we change the subject?”
He gave a dry chuckle. “I didn’t mean to pry.” So it was someone else. Before or after Antony? He put down his butter knife, leaving the bread untouched on his plate. It was none of his business.
Ruby reached over and put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He looked into her eyes and for an instant imagined he saw something there. An invitation?
She squeezed his arm. “It’s private, sorry.”
And just like that, despite the warmth of her hand, a wall had been raised. He nodded and gently pulled his arm away.
The waiter arrived with their duck. It was perfectly roasted, pink and juicy. He laid the slices on their plates, added a helping of potatoes, and spooned sauce over all.
“Bon appétit,” he said and walked away.
Hari sliced off a big chunk and popped it into his mouth. He chewed with his eyes closed, swallowed, and sighed.
“Worth the trip to Paris.” He sliced off another piece.
“See? You just needed a good dinner.” Ruby speared a potato slice and contemplated it. “You know, you’re not that forthcoming with personal details yourself.”
Hari loaded his fork with more duck.
“What are you talking about? My life is an open book.”
Ruby put down her fork and stared, astonished.
“An open book? Is that what you call it?”
“Well, isn’t it? Antony’s trial was on every front page and newscast in New York, and all over the Internet. People recognize me on the street, and they’re not looking for autographs.” He winced, remembering the fracas at the convention center in Manhattan.
“That’s not I meant and you know it.”
Hari put down the fork and spread his hands.
“All right. What do you want to know?”
“The name of your wife in Mumbai.”
“Meera. Her name is Meera.”
“Why don’t you live with her?”
“It’s private.”
“See? I rest my case.”
He gave a heavy sigh, glancing around the bistro. The waiter had disappeared again. Probably outside having another smoke. Hari looked at Ruby, who raised her eyebrows. In all these years, they’d never discussed Meera. Why start now?
“We were very young when we married and it was our parents’ idea, not ours. Meera and I are good friends, but she has … other interests.” He picked up his fork and resumed his attack on the duck. “Ask me something else.”
“All right, what about you and Leta? Are you friends with benefits? Or is it something more?”
His jaw dropped.
“What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you.” A knot tightened in his stomach. He wasn’t
surprised so much by the question as by the realization it was the first time he had thought of Leta in hours. All day, in fact.
“I’m sorry,” Ruby said. “You haven’t known her very long, so—”
He cleared his throat. “That’s—”
“Private? Yeah, I thought so.” She gave him a wistful look. “There was a time when we told each other everything.”
He glanced down to avoid her gaze.
“Well, the secret of being a bore is to tell everything.”
“Voltaire? I’m impressed.” She smiled at him, tossing her rumpled napkin onto the table. “So, what will we ask Monsieur de Montagny tomorrow? Do you think he knows Gregory Keller?”
“It seems unlikely. But he should know if there’s a connection between the Castlebar Fund and Global TradeFair.”
“Do you think he’ll tell us?”
“He might. It might not seem important to him. Besides, if the money Keller embezzled from TradeFair went into Roche Noire, we’re entitled to know. We have that investment statement Mrs. Keller gave us and we can pull it out to jog his memory. I hope we can recover TradeFair’s money without getting any lawyers involved. It would be better for everyone.” Hari smiled and leaned back, tapping his hand on the table. “You were right, you know.”
“About what?”
“About coming to Paris. We could have the whole case wrapped up by this time tomorrow.”
* * *
They strolled back to Pont Mirabeau, where they sat on a bench overlooking the water. The majestic statues glowed in the spotlights that cast pools of golden light on the river.
Ruby sighed as a poetry fragment tugged at her mind. How did that go? Softly she recited:
“Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine.”
Hari looked at her, eyebrows raised.
“It’s an old poem, by Apollinaire,” she said.
“‘The days and weeks pass in a ceaseless train
But no past time
Or past love comes again
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine.’”
“That’s sad.”
“Sorry. The refrain’s more cheerful, though.
‘Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en font je demure.
Let the night come, the hour sound clear,
The days all pass, I’m still here.’”
“I’m still here? What, forever?” Hari nodded, smirking. “Yes, that’s much more cheerful.” He was still nodding when she punched his arm. He smiled and they sat in silence.
Ruby shivered as the breeze penetrated her thin cardigan.
The days all pass, I’m still here.
Hari slipped off his jacket, put it around her shoulders and briskly rubbed her back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I guess I didn’t sleep as much as I thought on that flight. Would you mind if we went back to the hotel?”
“We’ll hail a cab.”
* * *
In the hotel lobby they waited side by side for the elevator.
“Big day tomorrow,” Ruby said, without looking at him.
He smiled slightly and nodded. The elevator door hissed open. Ruby got in and held the door for him.
“Are you coming?”
“No, you go ahead. I think I’ll get a nightcap.” Hari turned to walk alone across the tiny lobby and into the hotel bar, where a table of tourists laughed uproariously. A bartender drying glasses with a white cloth gave him a friendly nod as he entered. Hari sat on a bar stool and pointed at a bottle of Glenlivet.
“Neat, s’il vous plait.”
Two shots later, he swirled his empty glass and debated having a third. Hari Bhatt, master of moderation. He smiled at the memory, then pushed his glass away with a frown. Why was he thinking of Ruby again? He had trained himself not to do that years ago. Or thought he had. He gestured for the bill and initialed it with his room number, wondering idly how much the Scotch had cost. There had been a time when he could have ordered an entire case without so much as a glance at the total. The question that tormented him off and on tickled yet again. Had Antony been right? Could they have simply disappeared with the money?
He shook his head, slid off the stool and headed for the elevator. Time for bed.
* * *
As Ruby watched Hari walk into the hotel bar, the sorrow she felt on Pont Mirabeau washed over her again. She released the elevator door and repeated the poem under her breath.
‘Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent.’
It had been her sister, Lily, who had shown her the bridge and taught her that poem during a family trip to France. The days all pass, I’m still here. But you’re not, are you? The questions that had plagued her for more than two years swirled through her mind. Did Lily see the car before it hit her? Was she breathing when it drove away? Did she suffer?
In her room, Ruby dropped her handbag on the floor, collapsed onto the bed and closed her eyes. With a heavy sigh, she sat up again. She should go downstairs to the lounge and join Hari. It was still early, and she could have a ginger ale. No, this was Paris. Make that a mineral water.
As she reached for her handbag, a wine bottle on the bureau caught her eye. She walked over and picked it up to check the label. It was an excellent Bordeaux, much too good to waste. Perhaps one glass? No. As she put the bottle down, she noticed a note, ‘Avec les compliments de la maison.’ A complimentary bottle of wine? That was nice.
She picked up the television remote and stretched out on the bed, clicked through the pay-for-view offerings and found Casablanca in English. Ruby settled in to watch, but her gaze kept returning to the bottle. One glass? She shook her head. Better not.
‘I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.’
The wine glowed red under the bureau’s lamp. Why had the hotel provided such an expensive vintage for guests who were staying only two nights?
‘Nothing can stop them now. Wednesday, Thursday at the latest, they’ll be in Paris.’
On impulse, she called the desk to thank them for the wine.
“Mais non,” said the clerk, “it was not us. Monsieur de Montagny asked us to leave that wine.”
Ruby hung up the phone and crossed the room to study the bottle’s label again. Even Antony would have been impressed with this wine.
‘Why did you have to come to Casablanca? There are other places.’
One small glass. How could that hurt? She picked up the bottle opener. And then, somehow, her glass was empty. Perhaps a few drops more.
By the time Rick and Ilsa arrived at the airport, Ruby was reciting their lines in advance while lying on the bed and tilting the empty glass back and forth in her hand.
“But what about us?” she said.
In a lower voice, “We’ll always have Paris.”
Back to the higher voice. “I said I would never leave you.”
Low voice. “I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do—”
The glass fell from her hand onto the carpet.
“—you can’t be any part of.”
Chapter Thirty-One
La Bastide-Gourdon
Jourdain de Montagny awakened to a stridently ringing phone in the middle of the night. He had been asleep, for once, but was instantly alert. The bedroom was dark, but beside him he felt Thérèse sit up. He turned his head as she picked up the phone.
“Hallo, oui? Ginette? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? … Quoi? … Il n’est pas possible!”
Thérèse threw back the comforter, swung her feet over the side of the bed, and snapped on the bedside lamp with the phone still in her hand. She nudged Jourdain and pointed at her robe, which lay across the ottoman at the foot of the bed. He retrieved it and held it up for her. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered to him in French as she
slid one arm into the robe.
“Brigitte has been killed. In New York. Shot.” She shook her head and took her hand off the mouthpiece. “I’m here, Ginette. I am so sorry.”
Brigitte? Killed? Jourdain stared at her. So it was true?
She mouthed coffee and pointed at the door.
“Anything, Ginette,” Thérèse said into the phone. “Whatever you need.”
Jourdain put on his own robe, slid into his slippers, and started downstairs. Halfway down his knees went weak and he clutched the railing, bending over as if kicked in the stomach. His wife’s words echoed in his head.
Brigitte has been killed. Shot. Brigitte has been killed.
There were other words, too.
Because I found her. Wasn’t that the plan?
Nothing has happened to this girl, I promise you.
All we wanted was our money.
He straightened up, breathing heavily, and trudged down the stairs and into the kitchen. After snapping on the light, he fumbled with the coffee grinder. A door opened and Berthe, her gray hair in rollers, stepped into the room. She took the grinder from his hands.
“Let me do that, Monsieur.”
“I’m sorry, Berthe, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She motioned to a chair and he sat.
“I heard the phone,” she said. “A call at this hour is always bad news. Is Madame coming down?”
“I don’t know. She’s talking to Ginette.” He rubbed his throat. “Brigitte’s been murdered. In New York.”
“Madame’s niece?” Berthe gasped and shook her head. “That’s terrible. Poor woman.”
Jourdain sat at the table and watched Berthe prepare the coffee. She handed him a cup, then put another cup on a tray with a roll and marmalade and took it upstairs.
Cradling his coffee, Jourdain contemplated the centuries-old stone arch that had once sheltered a fireplace big enough to roast a pig and now harbored the family’s La Cornue range. He knew every crack and striation in the rock. Usually he found it soothing to contemplate the ancient stone and reflect on the generations of his family who had gathered around the massive oak-and-walnut farm table. He would imagine their voices, mingling in his head. But today his untouched coffee grew cold as he tried to silence other, unbidden voices.