“Why yes,” he replied with a friendly smile.
I’m sure he thought that I wanted to impose some decorum on our meeting, when really I was stalling for time. The cafe disturbed me, though I had no idea why. I had never been on that street as far as I remembered. But still there was a vague apprehension.
“I like this spot,” Bradford continued. “It reminds me of my younger days in Paris, before the war.”
It was him saying my name, that’s what did it. My name, the capital of France, the country where people spoke French, where the term
“You lived in Europe?” I asked.
“Yes. I was the assistant to Parnell Wexler, Maestro’s uncle, in the thirties. I had a small apartment on the Left Bank and walked down the Seine to work every morning.”
“I hear that the weather is terrible in Paris,” I said. “My friend Fearless spent six months there, on and off, after they threw out the Germans. He said that he didn’t see the sunshine again until he was back in the U.S.”
“It’s a glorious town,” Bradford said, the nostalgia in his voice deepening his Australian accent. “Beyond weather concerns. The art and architecture, the people and the language, are the very top of human potential.”
He was a white man and he had an accent. Maybe Charlotta didn’t know any accents but the ones that Mexicans had. Maybe the word Mexican meant accent to her.
“What’s your first name, Bradford? You know, if we’re going to be working together. We might as well be on a first-name basis. You can call me Paris.”
“Bradford
“Well, Brad, I can hear how much you love Paris, not me but the city,” I said. “Must be great now you’re goin’ back there in style.”
Bradford turned his head slowly, as if he really didn’t want to see what I had become there next to him.
“Come again?”
“You ever meet a guy named Timmerman?” I asked.
“Timmerman? What is his first name?”
“Theodore.”
“No. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Think hard, Brad. He’s the man that called you after he pulled your number off a man that he had just gave a heart attack. He didn’t know it, but he really wanted to speak to Maestro, but it was your number he called, your private line.”
“I, I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tall white guy, ugly, likes the color brown in his wardrobe,” I said, pretending to jog his memory. “You sent him off to look for a book.”
“What book is that?”
When he didn’t want more details about the murder I knew my suspicions were true.
“I don’t know what it’s about but it’s real old, over two hundred years. Winifred’s family prizes that one handwritten manuscript over all their other possessions.”
“I don’t know anything about what you’re saying,” Bradford said.
“Yes you do. I know it. You know it. So let’s stop playin’ and get down to brass tacks.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Does this have anything to do with Lance or Minna?”
“Late last night, after I talked to you, this Timmerman snatched me and my friend Fearless. When he had the upper hand he let it slip about the book and a fellah named Craighton that he met on a park bench in front of a French cafe. He even told us the time you guys met. Ten-thirty.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would he tell you all that?”
“Because I’m not a brave man, Mr. Craighton. He asked me what I knew and I threw your name at him, hoping to save myself from a beating.”
“You say that he had the upper hand?”
“My friend is tough. Theodore let his guard down and Fearless laid him low.”
“Where is this Timmerman now?”
“They admitted him to the hospital this morning. Fearless busted his leg for sure. His jaw too.”
“Why was he after you?”
“He wanted me to bring him to Winifred Fine. I think he had something for her.”
“What, what was that?”
“That’s enough from me for the moment,” I said. “That’s all I got to say until I hear somethin’ from you.”
“I already told you,” Bradford Craighton said, sounding almost like an Englishman, “I don’t know this Theodore Timmerman.”
“You ain’t never gonna get that book lyin’ like that, man. If you want to stay in the game you got to
