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“Yeah, right.” Simon flipped the card around to show his brother. “To the Clos des Cloches.”
Paul whistled, impressed. “Who’d you have to kill to get that?”
“No one.” I smiled. “They just gave it to me. Aha!” I found the aspirin at last, and handed the bottle to Simon.
He took it absently, tapping the edge of the card with one finger. “The Clos des Cloches is where that tunnel leads, from the château.”
Paul caught my eye. “Oh, here we go.”
“No, no,” said Simon, “I was only thinking that it might be kind of neat to get inside, you know. To find out what the tunnel looks like at that end.”
“I would think it looks a lot like a wine cellar,” was Paul’s dry comment. “And they probably would have noticed by now if Queen Isabelle’s jewel box was lying around.”
“Not if she buried it.”
“You are not,” Paul said firmly, “going to dig up the poor guy’s wine cellar.”
Simon ignored him and rocked back in his chair, deep in thought. “I wonder if there’s any place in town that rents out metal detectors.”
Paul looked at me. “I told you this would happen.”
I laughed. “I don’t mind, honestly. And Simon, if you want to use the invitation—”
“Oh, no, it’s yours, I wouldn’t steal it from you. But,” he added, with a grin, “there’s nothing here that says you can’t bring guests.”
He was quite right. The card wasn’t even addressed to a specific person. A small, mischievous thought began to glimmer at the back of my mind. Armand Valcourt had flung a challenge down last night—he expected me to come. I didn’t doubt that he was used to having women swoon in all directions when he smiled. He was probably sitting up there now, waiting for me to ring him, and feeling smug about the whole affair. And I knew just the way to wipe that smug look off his face. “All right. I’ll ring the Clos des Cloches and arrange a tour for the three of us. For today, if you like.”
“But no metal detectors,” Paul instructed, turning knowing eyes on his brother. “And no shovels.”
Simon promised nothing. “This morning would be good,” he said. “We don’t have anything planned for this morning.”
Indulgently, I checked my watch. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Paul had been right about Simon, I thought—once he set his mind to something, he was rather like a great shaggy dog with a bone. When I would have dawdled an extra minute over my coffee cup, he pushed and prodded me up the stairs instead. He would probably have followed me right to my room, to see that I dialed the telephone properly, if he hadn’t been distracted by the sudden, shocking oath that greeted us on the first floor landing.
“Careful, Neil,” Paul called out. “It’s Sunday.”
“I don’t bloody care,” Neil’s voice came back, and then his head came round the open door to his room. “Do any of you know anything about hi-fis?”
Forty-something? I thought, looking at his longish hair and unlined face. I’d not believe it. He looked half that age this morning. Something had clearly irritated him—his mouth was set in a thin, tight line, his dark eyes narrow with impatience.
“Stereos, you mean?” Simon asked. “What kind of stereos?”
“The kind that don’t bloody work.”
Paul couldn’t keep the smile from showing. “Yeah, I have a little experience with those. Want me to take a look?”
“Please.” Neil relaxed a little in response, pushing the door wider to let the boys in. Catching my eye, he flashed a brilliant smile. “I don’t bite, honestly.”
I hung back, and was relieved when Simon boldly came to the rescue. “She has to make a phone call.” One couldn’t argue with that tone of voice, I thought, and with a tiny shrug that absolved me from blame, I turned my back on Neil and continued up the stairs.
The man at the Clos des Cloches picked up the phone on the second ring. It wasn’t Armand Valcourt. The older man, perhaps—François. At any rate, his voice was kind. Yes, he assured me, it was possible to take a tour that morning. Would ten-thirty be agreeable? That gave them nearly an hour to prepare. And for one? For three. That threw him for a moment, and he asked again, just to be sure.
“Three,” I repeated, and thanked him. Replacing the receiver, I sat back and waited for Simon and Paul to come upstairs.
The minutes stretched.
Finally I crossed to my door and opened it a crack, listening. They were still one floor down, in Neil’s room—I could just hear the murmur of voices. I was about to close my door again when I remembered what Paul had called me, yesterday: Mäusele. Little Mouse. I’m not afraid of anything, I told myself stoutly. Convinced of that, I stepped into the corridor and headed downstairs.
