“Have you seen every gendarme in Paris? I don’t think so—”
“Mademoiselle, think the other way. What if, instead of a policeman, he was the one who shot Monsieur Osborn?”
Oven heard their footsteps retreat across the kitchen floor. The light was turned out and their voices diminished as they walked back down the hallway.
“Perhaps we should inform Monsieur Christian,” Philippe said, as they reached the entrance to the living room.
“No,” Vera said quietly. As yet, only Paul Osborn knew of her breakup with the prime minister. She hadn’t decided how, or even if, to inform those who were privy to their relationship of the change in it. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do now was to expose Francois to Something like this. Francois Christian was one of three would-be successors to the president and the in-fighting moving toward the next election had already become what insiders were describing as a “political bloodbath.” A scandal now, especially one involving murder, would be ruinous and, lovers or not, she still cared for Francois far too deeply to risk destroying his career.
“Wait here.” Leaving Philippe standing in the hallway, Vera Went into the bedroom.
Philippe watched after her. His job was to serve Mademoiselle Monneray, and if necessary protect her. Not with his life, but with communication. At his desk in the lobby, he had the prime minister’s private telephone number with instructions to call at any time, at any hour, if mademoiselle should be in difficulty.
“Philippe, come here,” she called from the darkened bedroom.
When he entered he saw her standing at the curtain by the window.
“See for yourself.”
Walking over, Philippe stood beside her and peered out. A Peugeot was parked across the street. Spill from a streetlamp was enough to illuminate the figures of two men sitting in the front seat.
“Go back down to the front desk,” Vera said. “Do what you would normally do, as if nothing had happened. In a few minutes call a taxi for me. The destination will be the hospital. If the police should come in, tell them I came home feeling ill but shortly afterward felt better and decided to return to work.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.”
Oven watched from the dimness of the kitchen doorway as Philippe came out of the bedroom and turned down the hallway toward him. Immediately the Walther came up in his hand and he pressed back, out of sight. A moment later he heard the apartment door open, then close. After that came silence.
It meant one thing. The doorman had gone and Vera Monneray was alone in the apartment.
58
LOOKING UP from the dark of their Peugeot, Inspectors Barras and Maitrot could see the light in Vera’s living room. Lebrun’s instructions to all detail inspectors assigned to shadow her had been explicit. If she leaves the hospital follow her, then report in; don’t tip your hand unless circumstances “Justify” meant “unless she leads you to Osborn” or “to someone you suspect would lead you to him.”
So far they had a writ and a warrant for Osborn’s arrest but that was all they had. Tailing Vera had turned out to be nothing more than an exercise. She’d left her apartment early Sunday morning, arrived at the Centre Hospitalier Ste.-Anne at five minutes to seven and stayed there. Barras and Maitrot had taken over the shift at four and still nothing had happened.
Then at six-fifteen a taxi had driven up to the main entrance, Vera had rushed out and the cab pulled away. Barras and Maitrot radioed they were in pursuit and a second tar pulled in after them as backup.
But the chase had only taken them back to her apartment and she’d gone inside. Leaving the police to sit on their pumped-up expectations and glance every so often at the brightly lit window, waiting for whatever, if anything, happened next.
Upstairs, Vera let go of the curtain and turned away from her bedroom window in the dark. The ornamental clock on her bedside table read 7:20. She’d been gone from the hospital for just over an hour, leaving on a slow night, she’d explained, because of intense menstrual cramps. In an emergency she could be back in no time.
If it had just been the Parisian police, things would have been different. It had been confirmed the night before in Lebrun’s reaction to McVey’s pressing queries. But McVey had no such delusions. She’d seen it in his eyes the first time she’d met him. And that made him extremely dangerous if he was against you. He might be American, but the Paris police, at least the inspectors assigned here, whether they realized it or not, were fully under his spell. What he wanted them to do, in one way or another, they would do. Which was why she believed the tall man who presented the vial to Philippe was a fake. Part of a trick to frighten her into believing Osborn was in danger and thereby leading them to wherever he was hiding. And the police—she was certain the men in the car outside were police—proved she was right.
The phone rang next to her and she picked up.
Her taxi was waiting downstairs.
Going into the bathroom, Vera opened a box of Tampax. Pulled a tampon from the paper and flushed it down the toilet. Then threw the wrapper into the wastebasket under the sink. If the police checked after she’d gone and later questioned her, at least she would have left evidence that her menstrual cycle was the reason she’d come home. Considering who she was, they wouldn’t press it further than that.
Glancing in the mirror, she fluffed her hair and for a moment held there—Everything that had happened with Paul Osborn had seemed natural, even until now. The first time she’d seen him on the lectern in Geneva, a sense of change and fate had swept her. The first night she slept with him there was no more sense of cheating on Francois than if he’d been her brother. Before, she’d told herself she had not left Francois for Osborn. But it wasn’t so, because she had. And because she had, what she was doing now was right. Osborn was in trouble and legality didn’t matter.
Turning out the bathroom light, Vera crossed the bedroom in the dark, stopping to glance out the window once more. The police car was still there, and directly below was her taxi.
Picking up her purse, she went into the hallway and stopped. Shadows from the streetlight danced across the living room ceiling and into the hallway where she stood.
Something was wrong.
The light had been on in the living room. But it wasn’t now. She hadn’t turned it off and neither had Philippe. Maybe the bulb had burned out. Yes. Of course. The bulb. Suddenly the thought flashed that she was wrong. That the men outside were not policemen. They were businessmen talking, or friends, or male lovers. Maybe the tall man had not been a policeman at all. Maybe her first instinct had been right. It was the killer who’d found the tetanus vial and delivered it to Philippe. It was he who wanted her to lead him to Osborn.
Oh, God! Her heart was pounding as if it were going to explode.
Where was he now? Somewhere in the building! Even here! In her apartment. How could she have been so stupid as to send Philippe away? The telephone! Pick it up and call Philippe. Quickly!
Turning, she reached out for the wall switch. Abruptly a strong hand clasped around her mouth and she was dragged back against a man’s body. In the same instant she felt the sharp needle point of a blade press up under her chin.
“I really don’t care to hurt you, but I will if you don’t do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
His voice was very calm and he spoke in French but With an accent that was either Dutch or German. Terrified, Vera tried to make herself think, but the thoughts wouldn’t come.
“I asked you if you understood.”
The knife point pressed further into her flesh and she nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We are going to leave the apartment by the service stairway at the back of the kitchen.” He was very collected and precise. “I am going to take my hand from your mouth. If you make a sound, I will cut your throat. Do you understand?”
Think! Vera. Think! If you go with him, he’ll force you to take him to Paul. The taxi! The driver will be
