'The twins have discovered that first grade isn't as much fun as they'd expected. That old Sister Grace is awful strict. And El Senor caught a toad and was sick. Everything else is fine.'
'Muy Bien. Keep your fingers crossed, querida. This might mean a big break.'
'Evreux!' said Rambeau. 'The museum!' He smote himself on the forehead. 'Ie Musee de l'Archeologie et de l'Histoire Naturelle. And Maman and Papa died only six months ago. Now, indeed we will march! Allons! '
He drove out of Paris at a rate to frighten Mendoza, who didn't like being driven. It was not far out of the city, and Rambeau seemed to know his way. He braked outside an old stone building with several wings, bustled Mendoza in and demanded the director. Within five minutes they were talking to an alert-looking elderly man with a fringe of white hair, Professor Rigaud. 'I ask you to speak in English if it is possible, for the benefit of my colleague.'
Rigaud's English was hesitant, but adequate. Indeed he had known Dr. Andre Martin and his wife, Dr. Martin had been with the museum for nearly thirty years, he was a most distinguished Egyptologist. It had been a great tragedy when they were killed by the drunken motorist. Indeed he had met the daughter-a charming girl and quite brilliant. He did not mingle a great deal in social circles, and the Martins had been younger. Perhaps their closest friends had been the Boyers, Edouard and Leonie Boyer. Dr. Boyer was absent on a field trip in Egypt but he could direct them to the house.
It was a pleasant little stone house with a walled garden where a few roses still bloomed. Leonie Boyer was a pretty woman still, though she was probably in the fifties, with delicately tinted blond hair, skillful makeup, smart clothes. Rambeau was magnificent with her.
'Madame, the reason for this I will recount to you later,' he said after introducing himself and Mendoza and ascertaining that she spoke English. 'I can only tell you that you will be of inestimable aid to Juliette Martin, to my colleague, and to myself if you will answer our questions freely.'
'Of course, Inspector.' She looked a little bewildered, but she responded automatically to his gallantry. 'Come in and sit down. Ask whatever you please. As you hear, I speak English very well. I used to speak it with Elise, Julie's mother, I do miss her so very much,' and her eyes were sad. 'We were dear friends, and I look on Julie as a niece, almost a daughter. I have no children, you see.'
'I'd like to ask you something about her, too,' said Mendoza. 'Had you known her since she came to France, Mrs. Boyer?'
'Oh, yes. Since she and Andre were married. She became Elise then. In America, her name was Elsie, such an ugly name. Like thud, thud. But always she had an affinity for France and the French language.'
'Then you know about her father and about Juliette's visit to him.'
'Yes, indeed. I look forward to hearing about that when Julie is home. Elise, it did not trouble her very much that he was so angry about her marriage. He was a cold hard man, she always said, and her mother had died when she was fifteen. There was no real home for her there. But also he was jealous, you comprehend-no man she wished to marry would have pleased him, for she was his favorite and the only daughter.'
'And then after all, and after all these years, he wishes to be reconciled to his granddaughter,' said Rambeau.
She said,.'I understood why Julie felt she should write to him. There is such a thing as the family feeling. Of course we did not have a proper address, there had been no communication for thirty years-well, twenty-five-for Elise had written him when Julie was born but never had a reply. All I could tell Julie,' she smiled, 'it was a little joke between Elise and me-her old home in America. It was all so different for her here, the country-the people-a cosmopolitan surrounding. But she had become very French. Ah, that curious address in America.' She pronounced it carefully. 'Indian Canyon Road, Rural Route Two, San Fernando. So very American. And Julie's letter sent on, he is not there any longer, but he wrote to her. Yes, he was very pleased to have her letter. He wrote that he had often wanted to get in touch with Elise, but of course did not know where to write. He is,' she sighed, 'very old and feels remorse, and he was pleased to know about Julie. He asked her to send a snapshot, and of course she looks very much like her mother. They had corresponded since then. He sent Julie the money for the airplane fare.'
'Ah,' said Rambeau. 'He has money, then.'
'Oh, no, I do not think so.' She was surprised. 'It was a very poor place they lived when Elise was a young girl.'
'Do you know the name of Claire Ducasse?'
'Why, of course. She is Julie's closest friend. They were at school together. They shared an apartment in Paris until Claire was married a few months ago. Her husband has been transferred to Bordeaux, he is in a wine merchant's office. And Julie had missed her, but she said she would keep the apartment alone until she and Paul are married in January.'
'The fiance, Paul-'
'Paul Goulart. He is a fine young man. A doctor like his father, he is finishing out his term at, what is it in English, internship at the Paris General Hospital, and then he will go into practice with his father. He is such a handsome young man, they are so much in love. I have been very happy for Julie.'
'What,' asked Mendoza, 'is Elise's father's name?'
'Oh, that is very American, too. Elias K. Dobbs-more thud, thud,' and she laughed.
'Juliette's first letter to him was sent on. To where?' demanded Rambeau. 'She agreed to visit him, he sent her the money for the plane ticket, somewhere in or near Los Angeles-where?'
She put her hand to her cheek. 'I could not tell you. I am sorry. Julie must have said the name, but I am not familiar with American names and I do not remember. It was not important. Julie has gone to see him-of the family feeling. The old man, sentimental and sorry-it is only for a short time. Inspector, I must ask you why you are asking me all these questions. I do not understand.'
Rambeau leaned forward and patted her hand. 'Now, you will be brave, madame. We must tell you that Juliette Martin is dead. That is right, you weep for her. I can only say you have helped to avenge her death.'
But when they came back to the Renault, parked in the quiet street, he was looking distracted. He stopped on the sidewalk and said, 'But why does that name ring a small bell in my head? Paul Goulart, Paul Goulart. However, we now have the name of Grandpere.'
'And like the ones I handed you-a common one. But we have telephone directories, too,' said Mendoza.
'So again, allons! You will get there, my friend. You will find Grandpere.' Rambeau reached the key to the ignition and stopped. He sat frozen, motionless for thirty seconds. And then he said very quietly, ' Sacree Mere. I have just remembered. Paul Goulart.' He lit a cigarette and sat smoking silently, staring through the windshield of the Renault.
'He was murdered,' he said softly. 'The reports that pass across my desk, other men investigating other cases than concern me-the names cross my mind and go. But that much I remember. This Paul Goulart has been murdered.'
He switched on the engine. 'We will go to the office and look up the report on him. Your mystery-it gets to be stranger and deeper, my friend.'
THEY TALKED to Dr. Jules Goulart briefly that evening, in the parlor of his rather shabby comfortable old house in a suburb north in the city. 'I have nothing left,' he said. He was a leonine man with an aristocratic profile. 'Paul was a fine doctor, a son to take pride in-and his life is taken for no reason. A burglar stealing what little he had-perhaps a drug addict. He was to have taken my practice. And now you tell me Juliette is dead, such a dear girl, the right wife for Paul.' After a silence, 'If it is possible, I would like to have the ring back. Paul gave it to her as an engagement ring. I had it made for his mother when he was born. It is unique, a diamond and sapphires.'
'You know,' said Mendoza in the Renault, 'that ring is somewhere in the sewers of Los Angeles.'
'It is always well to be thorough,' said Rambeau. It was a small jewelry shop in the Rue Lafayette. The youngish man behind the counter said, 'I remember the ring, sir. M. Goulart brought it in for cleaning, to see if the stones needed tightening. My father was interested, for he designed it. He is in the rear office-you may talk to
