EVENING
“Something simple this evening, Philippe,” Charles said. “What would you suggest?”
The waiter looked carefully around. “A hamburger, monsieur.”
Charles was shocked. “A what?”
“A hamburger,” he said even quieter than before. “The chef tried today to make a new dish, um…” He struggled to find the word. “It is like meatloaf.” He shook his head. “She-” he glanced across the room at the hostess-“she did not like it.”
“It wasn’t good?” Dorothy asked.
Philippe shrugged. “It was not so good. But the ground beef is very good. In it he has garlic and tomato and basil. I will tell him to make a hamburger for you.”
“Well, if that’s all right.”
“Yes,” Philippe said. “Just don’t tell…” He nodded toward Antoinette.
“She might see it,” Dorothy said.
“If madame does not mind.” He blew out the candle on their table, leaving their corner even dimmer. “And for you?”
“I wonder if I should order french fries and a Coke.”
Philippe considered. “A baked potato? Or…” He paused, thinking carefully. “From yesterday, the soup was potato and leek. With mushrooms and shallots, and a touch of sherry. There is a little in the kitchen still. It is not so fresh, but for potatoes? So what if a potato is not fresh?”
“That sounds lovely,” Dorothy said.
Philippe withdrew on his dangerous mission into the Parisian dark.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Charles said.
As silverware clinked and some semblance of Edith Piaf played on speakers, he and Dorothy sipped their water and watched the room. There were diners who were obvious tourists, and others who likely were locals, and some from the suburbs or across the Potomac who had come for the food and atmosphere.
“I’m so glad to live here,” Dorothy said.
“It’s just right, isn’t it?”
“It is. It’s fun but not too much.”
“Alexandria is nicely American, and just a little French,” Charles said.
The illicit hamburger was stealthily delivered. Charles ate it furtively.
“And is there anything to say about Mr. Kelly?” Dorothy asked.
“Not really. I looked through the report about Derek, but I don’t want to describe it to you. I also asked about Derek’s desk. I don’t see yet how anyone could have done anything to it. And I don’t know yet why Mr. Kelly thought to ask Mr. Jones about it. Mr. Kelly said he asked around in general, although it sounds like rather a coincidence that he would happen to pick Galen Jones to talk to, or that he would even know of Galen Jones.”
“Another coincidence?”
“It makes me wonder if Mr. Kelly has some other source of information. If I could find out who he was talking to, it might answer some questions.”
“Could you ask him?”
“I might, but he would want to know why I was asking. So I’ll tread carefully for now.”
“Quick,” Dorothy said. “She’s coming.”
Antoinette approached like a cavalry charge, and Charles stuffed in the last bite of his hamburger.
“That finishes the trio. Montesquieu and Voltaire, and now Rousseau. Charles, you can be pithy: How would you compare them?”
“Is this a test of my vocabulary, Derek, or are you admitting you haven’t read them yourself?”
“I never admit anything.”
“Because you are like Voltaire. He was the bon vivant, the consummate Man of Letters, the biting wit. He admired enlightened monarchs and he despised religion, he hobnobbed with Frederick the Great and Catherine the Great and all the other Greats. He would have sat right here to play chess and discuss-well, himself.”
“How am I like Montesquieu?”
“Not temperamentally. He wasn’t subtle. But I think you share his insight into human nature. The Spirit of Laws introduces separation of powers as a form of government, because he knew how too much power in too few hands would lead to tyranny.”
“Although he didn’t think that was necessarily bad, Charles.”
“You admit that you’ve read him.”
“Some of it. The part where he said despotism was preferable in some circumstances.”
“More stable. I wouldn’t say he thought it preferable.”
“All right. And Rousseau?”
“You have nothing in common with him, Derek. Nothing at all. He was mystic, tragic and poor.”
“And I am practical, complacent and rich.”
“Your words, Derek, not mine.”
“Again, I admit nothing. And yet, Charles, I think Rousseau was the most influential of the three.”
“He didn’t care about government. He cared about the individual and how we build societies out of individuals. Always based on the individual. Now you have his Social Contract. That is the one you should read, Derek.”
“It’s the one I least want to.”
“Because it will upset your own ideology?”
“No, Charles, I have no fear of that. When he first wrote it, it was fashionable in Paris to cry while reading it, and I don’t want to stain my desk.”
WEDNESDAY MORNING
A few minutes past ten, and Charles stopped on the walk in front of the shop. A much nicer day than Tuesday with downy breezes and feathery clouds.
He opened the door and smiled at Alice behind the counter. Her return smile was not all it could have been and her eyes were a bit wider than even they usually were. They darted from Charles to another point in the room, and Charles’s eyes followed.
They were met by another pair of eyes, slitted beneath a brooding brow; the storms were inside the building.
“Mr. White,” Charles said. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I came to ask again. I want to know where you are in this.”
“Let’s go upstairs, why don’t we?”
Charles had to hurry to stay in front. In the office, he put Patrick White in Dorothy’s chair and himself in his own.
“Now,” he said, “Mr. White, I’m still trying to understand exactly what this is.”
“I told you Monday.”
“Yes, I know what you said. You believe John Borchard was behind the scandal that cost you your position. Then you said that he killed Derek Bastien.”
“That’s what he did.”
“But those are very serious accusations. I can’t just take your word for them.”
The reaction was calm enough, but still hostile. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think.”
“Surely, as a judge, you understand.”
“Former judge. And it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to find out what you think. I’m here to find out how you
