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“There’s got to be an explanation.” That was the physicist talking. He furrowed his brow and stared hard at the plate of jumbled coins. “There’s got to be. We just aren’t looking at this from the right angle.”
He was still standing there, thinking, when the faint sound of the noonday bells came drifting up from the town below and broke the peaceful silence of the chapelle. There was nothing more for us to do here, I decided. I tugged at Paul’s sleeve. “Come on, Sherlock, time for lunch.”
“Yeah, OK.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess I ought to check the laundry, anyway, before Simon gets back. Thierry’s probably shrunk everything beyond recognition by now.”
His gloomy fears turned out to be unfounded. From the pristine pile of folded shirts and jeans that met us in the hotel’s entrance lobby, it appeared that Thierry had done quite an expert job.
He flashed his quick disarming smile and ran his thumb along a trouser crease. “I cannot take the credit,” he confessed. “I gave the clothes to Gabrielle for washing.”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “Gabrielle?”
“The girl who does reception this week. Me, I am not good at washing things.”
He’d never have to worry about it, I thought, as long as he could aim a smile like that at a member of the opposite sex. It was a difficult smile to resist. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Gabrielle—small wonder she was so confused, sometimes. “You don’t play fair,” I said to Thierry.
“Comment?”
“She means you take advantage,” Paul explained. “Is Simon back yet?”
“No, he is still with the Whitakers, I think.” Again the grin. “It has been quiet here, today.”
Paul turned from the front desk and looked a question at me. “You sick of my company, yet?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Feel like having a drink or something? I know I could use one.” Paul glanced back at Thierry. “The bar is open, isn’t it?”
“Of course. You have had a nice time, sightseeing?”
“Very nice.” Paul smiled. “But don’t forget, now, it’s a—”
“—secret,” Thierry finished. “Do not worry, I am good at keeping secrets. If I had a franc for every secret in this hotel,” he said, grinning, “I would not be needing to work.”
But he condescended to serve us anyway, before vanishing once more into the back rooms. Paul sipped his beer and leaned an elbow on the stack of freshly laundered clothes, which he’d set carefully beside him on his customary window seat. Behind his shoulder I could see the concrete planter outside, with its single pink geranium. It made a pitiful splash of color against the shadowed backdrop of the busy fountain square.
Paul reached for his cigarettes and offered me the packet. “Want one?”
“What? Oh, no thanks.” Smiling, I shook my head. “No, I gave up smoking, years ago. Last night was just a momentary lapse.”
“A momentary lapse that saved my butt,” he pointed out. He lit one for himself and settled back. “So, what’s our next move?”
I gave a faint, defeatist shrug. “I don’t know. I’m rather tired of thinking about Harry, actually.”
“So take a break,” was his advice, “and drink your drink.”
It was, I decided, sound advice from one so young. I leaned back in my chair and sighed. But I couldn’t let it drop entirely. “What did Martine Muret’s ex-husband do for a living, do you know?”
Paul smiled at my obstinacy. “He
was unemployed, I think. Simon actually met the guy once, he might know. Simon didn’t like Muret—thought he was a real jerk. He was drunk, you know, when he fell over that railing. That’s how he died. And I guess he gave Martine a hell of a rough time when they were married. He didn’t hit her or anything, I don’t think, but he was… well, he was pretty rude. Embarrassing. The kind of guy who likes to play the big shot, you know?”
Like Jim and Garland in reverse, I thought. No wonder Martine hadn’t been upset by her ex-husband’s death. To her, it must have been almost a deliverance.
Close by, a car door slammed and Paul craned his neck to peer out of the window, beyond my line of vision, toward the hotel’s front entrance. “So much for our quiet drink,” he said, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette.
“Why? Are they back already?”
“Do you know,” he mused, his dark eyes twinkling, “I think I’ll just slip round to Christian’s and give him back that key.”
