“Good morning,” she said, entering. Once again she carried the tray, this time with hot coffee and croissants, and a plastic refrigerator box with fruit, cheese and a small loaf of bread. “How are you feeling?”
Osborn let out a sigh and set the cane on the bed. “Fine,” he said. “Especially now that I know who was coming to visit.”
Vera set the tray on the small table under the window and turned to look at him. “The police came back last night. An American policeman was with them, he seemed to know you quite well.”
Osborn started. “McVey!” My God, he was still in Paris.
“You seem to know him too . . . .” Vera’s smile was thin, almost dangerous, as if in some crazy way she liked all this.
“What did they want?” he said quickly.
“They found out I picked you up at the golf course. I admitted I’d taken a bullet out of you. They wanted to know where you were. I said I left you off at the railway station, that I didn’t know where you were going and you didn’t want me to know. I’m not sure they believed me.
“McVey will have you watched like a hawk, waiting for you to get in touch with me.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going back to work. I’m on for thirty-six hours. Hopefully, by the time I’m through, they’ll be bored and assume I was telling the truth.”
“What if they don’t? What if they decided to search your apartment and then the building?” Osborn was suddenly frightened. He was in a corner with no way out. Never mind the condition of his leg; if he tried to get out and they were watching, they’d nab him before he’d gone a half block. If they decided to search the building, eventually they’d find their way up to where he was and he was done for anyway.
“There’s nothing else we can do.” Vera was strong, unruffled. Not only on his side and protecting him, but very much in control. “You have water in the bathroom and enough to eat until I get back. I want you to start exercising. Stretching and leg lifts if you can, otherwise make sure you walk back and forth across the room for as long as you can, every four hours. When we do leave, you’re going to have to walk.
“And make certain you keep the window curtain pulled when it gets dark. The dormer is hidden in the roofline, but if someone’s watching, the light would give you away in a moment. Here—”
Vera pressed a key into his hand.
“It’s to my apartment—in case you have to get in touch with me. The telephone number is on a pad next to the phone. The stairs open into a closet on the floor below. Take the service stairway to the second floor.” Vera hesitated and looked at him. “I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”
“And I don’t have to tell you you can still walk away from this. Go to your grandmother’s and deny you had any idea of what went on here.”
“No,” she said, and turned for the door.
“Vera.”
She stopped and looked back. “What?”
“There was a gun. Where is it?”
Vera reacted, and Osborn could see she didn’t like the sound of what he’d said.
“Vera—” He paused. “If the tall man finds me, what am I supposed to do?”
“How could he find you? He has no way to know about me. Who I am, or where I live.”
“He didn’t know about Merriman, either. But he’s dead just the same.”
She hesitated.
“Vera, please.” Osborn was looking directly at her. The gun was to defend his life, not shoot policemen.
Finally, she nodded toward the table under the window. “It’s in the drawer.”
52
Marseilles.
MARIANNE CHALFOUR BOUGET reluctantly left eight o’clock Mass only ten minutes after it had begun, and only because her sister’s weeping was causing other parishioners, most of whom she knew well, to turn and look. Michele Kanarack had been with her less than forty-eight hours and in the entire time had been unable to control her tears.
Marianne was three years older than her sister and had five children, the oldest of whom was fourteen. Her husband, Jean Luc, was a fisherman whose income varied with the season and who spent much of his time away from the family. But when he was home, as he was now, he wanted to be with his wife and children.
Especially with his wife.
Jean Luc had a voracious sexual appetite and was not ashamed of it. But it could be problematical, even embarrassing, when his urges overcame him and he suddenly swept his wife off her feet or out of her chair and carried her bodily into the bedroom of their tiny three-room apartment, where they made wild, and loud, love, for what seemed hours at a time.
Why Michele had suddenly come to live with them and for how long he couldn’t understand. All married people had problems. But usually, with the help of a priest, they worked them out. Therefore, he was certain that Henri would show up at any moment, begging Michele to forgive him and go back to Paris.
But Michele, through her tears, was just as certain he would not. She had been there two nights, trying to sleep
By Sunday morning Jean Luc had had enough of her tears and told Marianne so, directly and to the point in front of Michele. Take her to church and, before the eyes of God, make her stop crying! Or if not God, at least the monseigneur.
But it hadn’t worked. And now as they left the church and walked out into the warm Mediterranean sunshine, turning onto the boulevard d’Athens toward Canebiere, Marianne took her sister’s hand.
“Michele, you are not the only woman in the world whose husband has suddenly walked out. Nor are you the first pregnant one. Yes, you hurt and I understand. But life goes its merry way, so that is enough! We are here for you. Find a job and have your baby. Then find someone decent.”
Michele looked at her sister, then at the ground. Marianne was right, of course. But it didn’t help the hurt or the fear of being alone or the sense of emptiness. But thinking never took away tears. Only time did.
Having said what she had, Marianne stopped at a small open-air market on the Quai des Beiges to pick up a boiling chicken and some fresh vegetables for dinner. The market and the sidewalk, even at this hour, were crowded, and the sound of people and passing traffic kept the noise level high.
Marianne heard a strange little “pop” that seemed to rise above the other sounds. When she turned to ask Michele about it, she saw her sister leaning back against a counter packed high with melons, looking as if she’d been genuinely surprised by something. Then she saw a spot of bright red appear at the base of the white collar at Michele’s throat and begin to spread. At the same time she felt a presence and looked up. A tall man stood in front of her and smiled. Then something came up in his hand and again she heard the “pop.” As quickly, the tall man vanished and suddenly, it seemed as if the day was getting dark. She looked around her and saw faces. Then, curiously, everything faded.
53
BERNHARD OVEN could have flown back to Paris the same way he’d come to Marseilles, but a round-trip ticket bracketing the hours of a multiple murder was too easily traceable by the police. The Grande Vitesse TGV bullet train from Marseilles to Paris took four and three-quarter hours. Time for Oven to sit back in the first-class compartment and assess what had happened and what would come next.
