Kolb walked around the taxi and opened the trunk. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “I’ve done it a few times.”
She climbed in, and curled up on her side.
“Nice and snug?” Kolb said.
“You’re good at this, aren’t you,” she said.
“Very good,” Kolb said. “Ready?”
“The reason I asked, about going to my house, is that my dogs are there. They are dear to me, I wanted to say goodby.”
“We can’t go anywhere near your house, Frau von Schirren.”
“Forgive me,” she said. “I should not have asked.”
“Yes, it might be possible.”
“Ready now?”
“Now I am.”
Kolb lowered the lid of the trunk, then pressed it down until it locked.
11 July.
It was after ten at night by the time Weisz climbed out of a taxi in front of the Hotel Dauphine. The night was warm, and the front door was propped open. Inside, it was quiet, Madame Rigaud sitting in a chair behind the desk, reading the newspaper. “So,” she said, taking off her spectacles, “you have returned.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“One never knows,” she said, quoting the French adage.
“Is there, perhaps, a message for me?”
“Not a one, monsieur.”
“I see. Well then, good evening, madame. I’m off to bed.”
“Mmm,” she said, putting on her spectacles and rattling the newspaper.
He was on the fourth step when she said, “Oh, Monsieur Weisz?”
“Madame?”
“There has been one inquiry. A friend of yours has come to stay with us. And she did ask, when she arrived, if you were here. I’ve given her Room Forty-seven, just down the hall from you. It looks out on the courtyard.”
After a moment, Weisz said, “That was kind of you, Madame Rigaud, it’s a pleasant room.”
“A very cultured sort of woman. German, I believe. And she is, one suspects, anxious to see you, so perhaps you should be on your way upstairs, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“In that case, I will wish you a good night.”
“For all of us, monsieur. For all of us.”
