old woman would respond. And then, in his mind, he saw the succession of goodbye hugs and farewells and chastisements for so short a visit as Vera waited for her taxi that would take her to the railroad station. Osborn had no idea where Vera’s grandmother lived in Calais, or even her last name for that matter. Was it her maternal or paternal grandmother?
It was then he realized it didn’t make any difference. What he was really thinking about was that Vera would be on the two o’clock Calais-to-Paris train.
In less than forty minutes his bags were pulled from the 747 and he was in” the check-in line for the British Airways shuttle to Paris.
11
VERA WATCHED from the window of her first-class compartment as the train slowed and came into the station. She’d tried to relax and read for the few short hours she’d been on the train. But her mind had been elsewhere and she’d had to put her reading material aside. What impulse had caused her to introduce herself to Paul Osborn in Geneva in the first place? And why had she slept with him in Geneva and then gone with him to London? Was it simply that she had been restless and had acted on a whim at the attraction of a handsome man, or had she immediately sensed in him something else, a rare and kindred spirit who shared on many levels an understanding of what life really was and what it could be and where it might lead if they were together?
Suddenly she was aware the train had stopped. People were getting up, taking their luggage from the overhead racks and leaving the train. She was in Paris. Tomorrow she would go back to work, and London and Geneva and Paul Osborn would be a memory.
Suitcase in hand, she stepped from the train and moved along the platform in a crowd. The air felt humid and close as if it were about to rain.
“Vera!”
She looked up.
“Paul?” She was astonished.
“In sickness and in health.” He smiled, coming toward her out of the crowd, taking her suitcase, carrying it for her. He’d taken the shuttle from London and then a cab from the airport to Gare du Nord, where they were now In between he’d booked a flight from Paris to Los Angeles. He would be in Paris for five days. For five days they would do nothing but be together.
He wanted to take her home, to her apartment. He knew she had to go to work, but he wanted to make love to her all the hours between then and now. And after, when she’d finished her shift and came home, they would do the same all over again. Being with her, making love to her, was all that mattered.
“I can’t,” she told him flatly, angered that he’d even come. How dare he presume upon her like that?
It wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d counted on. Their time together had been too close, too perfect. Too loving. And it hadn’t come from him alone.
“You agreed that after London there would be no more between us.”
He grinned. “Besides a few hours at the theater and dinner, there wasn’t an awfully lot to London, was there? Unless you count the throwing up, the high fevers and alternating chills.”
For a moment Vera said nothing, then the truth came out. She told him quickly and directly. There
It would not be prudent to reveal his name, but he was important and powerful in France and he must never know they had been together in Geneva or London. It would hurt him deeply and that was something she would not do. What she and Paul had had, what they had shared in the past few days, was done. And he knew that. Because they had agreed upon it. Painful as it was, she could not and would not see him again.
They reached the escalator and went up and out to the cabs. He gave her the name of his hotel on avenue Kleber. He would be there for five days. He wanted to see her again, if only to say goodbye.
Vera looked away. Paul Osborn was unlike any man she’d ever met. He was gentle and kind and understanding even in his hurt and disappointment. But even had she wanted to, she couldn’t give in to him. Where she was in her life, he could not be part of. There was no other way.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him. Then she got into a cab, the door closed and she was gone.
“Simple as that,” he heard himself say out loud.
Less than an hour later he found himself sitting in a brasserie somewhere off rue St.-Antoine trying to piece the whole thing together. If he had followed his original plans, never taken the shuttle to Paris, in a few hours he’d be landing in L.A., taking a cab back to his house overlooking the Pacific, getting his Chesapeake retriever out of the kennel, seeing if the deer had come over his fence and eaten his roses. The day after that he would be going back to work. That would have been the natural course of things had he done it. But he hadn’t.
Vera, who she was and what she stirred in him, was all that mattered. Nothing else was worth anything. Not the present, the past or the future. At least that was what he’d been thinking when he looked up and saw the man with the jagged scar.
12
Wednesday, October 5.
IT WAS just after ten in the morning when Henri Kanarack stepped into a small grocery a half block from the bakery. He was still disturbed by the incident with the American, but nothing had happened in two days and he was beginning to agree with both his wife and Agnes Demblon that the man had either picked the wrong person or just been crazy. He was bent over collecting several bottles of mineral water to take back to work when Danton Fodor, the store’s overweight and nearly blind owner, suddenly took him by the arm and brought him into the back room.
“What is it?” Kanarack said, indignantly. “I’m current with my bill.”
“It’s not that,” Fodor said, peering out through thick glasses to make sure no customers were waiting at the cash register. Fodor was not only the owner but clerk, cashier, stock boy and custodian.
“A man was here earlier today. A private detective with an awkward drawing of you.”
“What?” Kanarack felt his heart jump.
“He was showing it around. Asking people if they knew you.”
“You didn’t say anything!”
“Of course not. I knew he was up to something right away. The tax man?”
“I don’t know.” Henri Kanarack looked away. A private detective, and he’d gotten this far. How? Suddenly he looked back. “What was his company? Did you get his name?”
Fodor nodded and opened the lone drawer of a table that served as a desk. Pulling out the card, he handed it to Kanarack. “He said we should call if we saw you.”
“We, who’s we?” Kanarack demanded.
“The other people in the store. He asked everyone. Luckily they were all strangers and no one recognized you. Where he went from here or who else he talked to, I don’t know. I’d be careful when I went back to work if I were you.”
Henri Kanarack wasn’t going back to work. Not today anyway, maybe never again. Glancing at the card in his hand he dialed the bakery and got Agnes on the telephone.
“The American,” he said. “He’s got a private detective after me. If he shows up, make sure he talks to you. Make sure nobody else says anything. His name is—” Kanarack looked down at the card again—”Jean Packard. He works for a company called Kolb International.” Suddenly he got angry. “What do you mean, what should you tell him? Tell him I no longer work there and haven’t for some time. If he wants to know where I live, you don’t know. You sent some paperwork to me after I left and it came back with no forwarding address.” With that, and saying
