Osborn stood up and looked off while Maitrot made a note in the folder. What was he going to tell him? That the man he had chased had stabbed his father to death in Boston, Massachusetts, the United States of America, on Tuesday, April 12, 1966? That he saw him do it and had never seen him again until just a few hours ago? That the Boston police had listened with great compassion to the horror tale of a little boy and then spent years trying to track the killer down until finally they admitted there was nothing more they could do? Oh yes, the procedures had been correct. The crime scene and technical analysis, the autopsy, the interviews. But the boy had never seen the man before, and his mother couldn’t place him from the boy’s description, and since there had been no fingerprints on the murder weapon, and the weapon nothing more than a supermarket knife, the police had had to rely on the only thing they had, the testimony of two other eyewitnesses. Katherine Barnes, a middle-aged sales clerk who worked at Jordan Marsh, and Leroy Green, a custodian at the Boston Public Library. Both had been on the sidewalk at the time of the attack and each had told slight variations of the same story as the boy. But in the end, the police had exactly what they had in the beginning. Nothing. Finally Kevin O’Neil, the brash young homicide detective who’d befriended Paul and been on the case from the start, was killed by a suspect he’d testified against, and the George Osborn file went from a personally handled homicide investigation to simply another unsolved murder crammed into central files alongside hundreds of others. And now, three decades later, Katherine Barnes was in her eighties, senile and in a nursing home in Maine, and Leroy Green was dead. That made, for all intents, Paul Osborn the last surviving witness. And for a prosecutor, any prosecutor, thirty years after the fact, to expect a jury to convict a man on the testimony of the victim’s son who had been ten at the time, and had glimpsed the suspect for no more than two or three seconds, would be lunatic. The truth was the killer had simply gotten away with it. And tonight in a Paris jail that truth still reigned because even if Osborn could convince the police to try to track the man down and arrest him, he would never be brought to trial. Not in France, not in America, not anywhere, in a million years. So why tell the police? It would do no good and might only complicate things later, if by some twist of fortune, Osborn was able to find him again.
“You were in London today. This morning.” Suddenly Osborn was aware that Maitrot was still talking to him.
“Yes.”
“You said you came to Paris from Geneva.”
“Via London.”
“Why were you there?”
“I was a tourist. But I got sick. A twenty-four-hour bug of some kind.”
“Where did you stay?”
Osborn sat back. What did they want from him? Book him or let him go. What business was it of theirs what he had done in London?
“I asked you where you stayed in London.” Maitrot was staring at him.
Osborn had been in London with a woman, also a doctor, an intern at a Paris hospital, who he later found out was the mistress of a preeminent French politician. At the time she’d told him how it was important for her to be discreet and begged him not to ask why. Accepting it, he’d carefully selected a hotel known for maintaining its guests’ privacy and checked in using his name only.
“The Connaught,” Osborn said. Hopefully the hotel would live up to its reputation.
“Were you alone?”
“Okay, enough.” Abruptly, Osborn pushed back from the table and stood up. “I want to see the American consul.” Through the glass Osborn saw a uniformed patrolman with a submachine gun over his shoulder turn and stare in at him.
“Why don’t you relax, Doctor Osborn. . . . Please, sit down,” Maitrot said quietly, then leaned over to make a notation in the file.
Osborn sat back down and stared deliberately off, hopeful Maitrot would pass on the London business and get on with whatever was next. A clock on the wall read almost eleven. That made it three in the afternoon in L.A., or was it two? This time of year, time zones in Europe seemed to jump by the hour, depending where you were. Who the hell did he know there who he could call in a situation like this? He’d only had one encounter with the police in his life. That had been after a particularly grueling day when he’d accosted a careless and remorseless parking lot attendant outside a Beverly Hills restaurant for crushing the front fender of his new car while attempting to park it. Osborn had not been arrested but merely detained and then released. That was all, one experience in a lifetime. When he was fifteen and in boys’ school the police had arrested him for throwing snowballs through a classroom window on Christmas Day. When they asked him why he did it, he’d told them the truth. He’d had nothing else to do.
Why? That was a word they always asked. The people at the school. The police. Even his patients. Asking why something hurt. Why surgery was or was not necessary. Why something continued to hurt when they felt it shouldn’t. Why they did not need medication when they felt they did. Why they could do this but not that. Then waiting for him to explain it. “Why?” seemed to be a question he was destined to answer, not ask. Although he did remember asking “Why?” twice, in particular: to his first wife and then to his second, after they said they were leaving him. But now, in this glassed-in police interrogation room in the center of Paris, with a French detective making notes and chain-smoking cigarettes in front of him, he suddenly realized that
As quickly, the thought came to him that if the police had interviewed the waiters at the brasserie who reported the incident, they might have the man’s name. Especially if he was a regular customer or had paid with a check or credit card. Osborn waited until Maitrot finished writing. Then, as politely as possible, said, “Can I ask a question?” Looking up, Maitrot nodded.
“This French citizen I’m accused of assaulting. Do you know who he was?”
“No,” Maitrot said.
Just then the glass door opened and the other plainclothes inspector came back in and sat down opposite Osborn. His name was Barras and he glanced at Maitrot, who vaguely shook his head. Barras was small, with dark hair and black, humorless eyes. Dark hair covered the back of his hands, and his nails were cut to perfection.
“Troublemakers are not welcome in France. Physicians are no exception. Deportation is a simple matter,” Barras said flatly.
Barras studied him. “How much longer had you planned to stay in France?”
“Five days,” Osborn said. “To see Paris. . . .“
Barras hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket and took out Osborn’s passport. “Your passport, Doctor. When you are ready to leave, see me and I’ll return it.”
Osborn looked from Barras to Maitrot. That was their way of taking care of it. No deportation, no arrest, but keeping tabs on him just the same and making sure he knew it.
“It’s late,” Maitrot said, standing.
It was eleven twenty-five when Osborn left the police station. The rain had stopped and a bright moon hung over the city. He started to wave at a cab, then decided to walk back to his hotel. Walk and think about what to do next about the man who was no longer a childhood memory but a living creature, here, somewhere within the sweep of Paris. With patience, he was a man who could be found. And questioned. And then destroyed.
4
London.
THE SAME bright moon illuminated an alley just off Charging Cross Road in the theater district. The
