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He bid a good-night and started the car. The gate opened and he swung onto the deserted street. Eight blocks away he parked at the curb between two large homes. He locked the doors and stomped the ignition key into the ground with his heel. What could be more common than a Mercedes-Benz sitting in a stylish residential district, he figured. People who lived in mansions seldom talked to their neighbors. Each would probably think the car belonged to friends visiting next door. The car would be ignored for days.
Gly was on a bus back to Quebec at ten past ten. The exotic poison he had concocted was still in his pocket. It was a foolproof method of murder, used by the Communist intelligence service. No pathologist could detect its presence in a corpse with certainty.
The decision to use the pillow was a spur-of-the-moment afterthought. It seemed a fitting tool for Gly's fetish for inconformity.
Most murderers followed a pattern, developed a routine modus operandi, preferred a particular weapon. Gly's pattern was that he didn't have one. Every kill was completely different in execution from the last. He left no strings to connect him with the past.
He felt a flush of excitement. He had cleared the first hurdle. One more remained, the trickiest, most sensitive one of them all.
Danielle lay in bed and watched the smoke of her cigarette curl toward the ceiling. She was only dimly aware of the warm little bedroom in the remote cottage outside Ottawa, the gathering darkness of the evening, the firm, smooth body beside her.
She sat up and looked at her watch. The interlude was over, and she felt a regret that it could not go on indefinitely. Responsibility beckoned and she was compelled to reenter reality. "Time for you to go?" he asked, stirring beside her.
She nodded. "I must play the dutiful wife and visit my husband in the hospital."
"I don't envy you. Hospitals are nightmares in white."
"I've become used to it by now."
"How is Charles coming along?"
"The doctors say he can come home in a few weeks."
"Come home to what?" he said contemptuously. "The country is rudderless. If an election were held tomorrow, he would surely be defeated."
"All to our advantage." She rose from the bed and began dressing. "With Jules Guerrier out of the way the timing is perfect for you to resign from the cabinet and publicly announce your candidacy for President of Quebec."
"I'll have to draft my speech carefully. The idea is to come on like a savior. I cannot afford to be cast as a rat jumping a sinking ship."
She came over and sat down beside him. The faint smell of his maleness aroused her again. She placed a hand on his chest and could feel his heartbeat.
"You were not the same man this afternoon, Henri." His face seemed to take on a concerned look.
"How so?"
"You were more brutal in your lovemaking. Almost cruel."
"I thought you'd enjoy the change."
"I did." She smiled and kissed him. "You even felt different inside me."
"I can't imagine why," he said casually.
"Neither can I, but I loved it."
Reluctantly she pushed herself away and stood up. She put on her coat and gloves. He lay there, watching her.
She paused and looked down, giving him a penetrating look. "You never told me how you arranged to make Jules Guerrier's death appear natural."
A chilling expression came into his eyes. "There are some things you are better off not knowing."
She looked as though she'd been slapped in the face. "We never had secrets between us before."
"We do now," he said impassively.
She did not know how to react to his sudden coldness. She had never seen him like this and it stunned her. "You sound angry. Is it something I've said?"
He glanced at her uninterestedly and shrugged. "I expected more from you, Danielle."
