Old Bones

'Who's Dr. Loti?'

'He's the one who came out to look at Claude's body. He was also Guillaume's doctor, and I thought I might ask him a question or two. Want to come along?'

'What happened to taking care of this by yourself?'

'I didn't say I couldn't use a little moral support from my friends. Besides, I know you; you think there's something weird going on too.'

John considered the idea for some seconds. “To tell the truth, Doc, I don't. But what are friends for?'

* * * *

THE next morning, as they breakfasted in the dining room of the Hotel Terminus, a commissaire of police from one of the southern provinces came up to shake hands with them.

'I'm very sorry,” he said to Gideon in correct but tentative English. “I cannot stay for the second week. I have enjoyed the program very much.'

'Problems back home?” John asked, policeman to policeman.

'Letter-bombs,” he replied gravely. “Two last week to local politicians.'

'Anyone killed?'

'Both recipients were killed. And two bystanders injured. It's terrible; like a plague. Like guns in America. France is afflicted with it.'

'I didn't know that,” Gideon said.

'Oh, yes. Everywhere: Paris, Marseilles, even St. Malo. These damned...” His pale, lined face flushed angrily, then set. He bowed and left.

Gideon drank the last of his coffee. “Whose turn?'

'Yours,” John said, and slid the bill to him.

Gideon signed it, put down his room number, and the two of them walked out to the hotel lobby.

'Letter-bombs suck,” John said.

'I'm not too keen on them myself.'

'No, I mean there are some kinds of killers you can almost sympathize with. But shredding a guy's face through the mail, when you can be a thousand miles away...not giving a damn if someone else opens it up and gets his eyes blown out or his hand torn off—you just spend another ten bucks for a couple of ounces of commercial explosive and a cheap detonator, pack it in a manila envelope, and send off another one. Ah, it sucks.'

'John, I agree with you. You don't have to get graphic.'

When they stopped at Reception to leave their keys, the man at the desk pulled a thick, plain manila envelope out of a rack behind him. It was heavily stamped, but there was no return address. Just “M. Oliver, Hotel Terminus, 20, rue Nationale, 35400 St. Malo,” penciled on the front.

Gideon and John glanced at each other and laughed with a marked lack of conviction.

'Uh, when did it come?” Gideon asked. “I wasn't expecting anything.'

'It was in this morning's mail. An express delivery. Is something wrong?'

'Wrong?” Gideon said. “No, of course not.” He lifted the envelope—gingerly—and carried it carefully from the desk, resting it on both palms like an unstable souffle. It was stiff and heavy, about a quarter of an inch thick.

'John,” he said, walking very slowly and keeping his eyes on the envelope, “am I being overly paranoid?'

'I don't know about ‘overly,’ but, yeah, I'd say you're being paranoid. Who'd want to kill you?'

'That's what Ray said about Claude Fougeray,” Gideon muttered.

'Come on, you're just spooked because of what that French cop said. Let's get out of here. We're supposed to be in that doctor's office in twenty minutes.'

'No, wait up a minute.” The bar, which extended into the lobby, wasn't open yet. Gideon set the envelope face up on one of the round, plastic-topped tables and looked at it. John was right; if not for that brief discussion with the commissaire, he would already have torn it open and been on his way to St. Malo. All the same...

'John, let's say I thought this thing might be a bomb—'

'For the sake of argument, you mean.'

'Right. Is there any way I could check it out, or would I just have to put it in the bathtub and turn on the water? Or call the police?'

'No, there's a kind of commonsense standard routine you go through, if it makes you feel any better. You look at the point of origin and the sender. If they're unusual—'

'It doesn't say who the sender was. The point of origin's Marseilles, according to the postmark.” He frowned at John. “Marseilles?'

'Okay, so who in Marseilles would want to send you a letter-bomb?'

'Nobody. Nobody in Marseilles would want to send me anything. I don't know anyone in Marseilles.'

'Mm,” said John. “Well, moving right along, you check the handwriting on the address. If it looks disguised —'