'Yes, he did.'
Cloucharde seemed amazed. 'Really? I didn't think he believed my story. He was so rude-as if he thought I were lying. But my story was accurate, of course. I pride myself on accuracy.'
'Where is the ring?' Becker pressed.
Cloucharde didn't seem to hear. He was glassy-eyed, staring into space. 'Strange piece really, all those letters-looked like no language I'd ever seen.'
'Japanese, maybe?' Becker offered.
'Definitely not.'
'So you got a good look at it?'
'Heavens, yes! When I knelt down to help, the man kept pushing his fingers in my face. He wanted to give me the ring. It was most bizarre, horrible really-his hands were quite dreadful.'
'And that's when you took the ring?'
Cloucharde went wide-eyed. 'That's what the officer told you! That I took the ring?'
Becker shifted uneasily.
Cloucharde exploded. 'I knew he wasn't listening! That's how rumors get started! I told him the Jap fellow gave away the ring-but not to me! There's no way I would take anything from a dying man! My heavens! The thought of it!'
Becker sensed trouble. 'So you don't have the ring?'
'Heavens, no!'
A dull ache crept through the pit of his stomach. 'Then who has it?'
Cloucharde glared at Becker indignantly. 'The German! The German has it!'
Becker felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him. 'German? What German?'
'The German in the park! I told the officer about him! I refused the ring but the fascist swine accepted it!'
Becker set down his pen and paper. The charade was over. This was trouble. 'So a German has the ring?'
'Indeed.'
'Where did he go?'
'No idea. I ran to call the police. When I got back, he was gone.'
'Do you know who he was?'
'Some tourist.'
'Are you sure?'
'My life is tourists,' Cloucharde snapped. 'I know one when I see one. He and his lady friend were out strolling the park.'
Becker was more and more confused every moment. 'Lady friend? There was somebody with the German?'
Cloucharde nodded. 'An escort. Gorgeous redhead. Mon Dieu! Beautiful.'
'An escort?' Becker was stunned. 'As in… a prostitute?'
Cloucharde grimaced. 'Yes, if you must use the vulgar term.'
'But… the officer said nothing about-'
'Of course not! I never mentioned the escort.' Cloucharde dismissed Becker with a patronizing wave of his good hand. 'They aren't criminals-it's absurd that they're harassed like common thieves.'
Becker was still in a mild state of shock. 'Was there anyone else there?'
'No, just the three of us. It was hot.'
'And you're positive the woman was a prostitute?'
'Absolutely. No woman that beautiful would be with a manlike that unless she were well paid! Mon Dieu! He was fat, fat, fat! A loudmouthed, overweight, obnoxious German!' Cloucharde winced momentarily as he shifted his weight, but he ignored the pain and plowed on. 'This man was a beast-three hundred pounds at least. He locked onto that poor dear like she was about to run away-not that I'd blame her. I mean really! Hands all over her. Bragged that he had her all weekend for three hundred dollars! He's the one who should have dropped dead, not that poor Asian fellow.' Cloucharde came up for air, and Becker jumped in.
'Did you get his name?'
Cloucharde thought for a moment and then shook his head. 'No idea.' He winced in pain again and settled slowly back into his pillows.
Becker sighed. The ring had just evaporated before his eyes. Commander Strathmore was not going to be happy.
Cloucharde dabbed at his forehead. His burst of enthusiasm had taken its toll. He suddenly looked ill.
Becker tried another approach. 'Mr. Cloucharde, I'd like to get a statement from the German and his escort as well. Do you have any idea where they're staying?'
Cloucharde closed his eyes, his strength fading. His breathing grew shallow.
'Anything at all?' Becker pressed. 'The escort's name?
There was a long silence.
Cloucharde rubbed his right temple. He was suddenly looking pale. 'Well… ah… no. I don't believe…' His voice was shaky.
Becker leaned toward him. 'Are you all right?'
Cloucharde nodded lightly. 'Yes, fine… just a little… the excitement maybe…' He trailed off.
'Think, Mr. Cloucharde.' Becker urged quietly. 'It's important.'
Cloucharde winced. 'I don't know… the woman… the man kept calling her…' He closed his eyes and groaned.
'What was her name?'
'I really don't recall…' Cloucharde was fading fast.
'Think.' Becker prodded. 'It's important that the consular file be as complete as possible. I'll need to support your story with statements from the other witnesses. Any information you can give me to help locate them…'
But Cloucharde was not listening. He was dabbing his forehead with the sheet. 'I'm sorry… perhaps tomorrow…' He looked nauseated.
'Mr. Cloucharde, it's important you remember this now.' Becker suddenly realized he was speaking too loudly. People on nearby cots were still sitting up watching what was going on. On the far side of the room a nurse appeared through the double doors and strode briskly toward them.
'Anything at all,' Becker pressed urgently.
'The German called the woman-'
Becker lightly shook Cloucharde, trying to bring him back.
Cloucharde's eyes flickered momentarily. 'Her name…'
Stay with me, old fella…
'Dew…' Cloucharde's eyes closed again. The nurse was closing in. She looked furious.
'Dew?' Becker shook Cloucharde's arm.
The old man groaned. 'He called her…' Cloucharde was mumbling now, barely audible.
The nurse was less than ten feet away yelling at Becker in angry Spanish. Becker heard nothing. His eyes were fixed on the old man's lips. He shook Cloucharde one last time as the nurse bore down on him.
The nurse grabbed David Becker's shoulder. She pulled him to his feet just as Cloucharde's lips parted. The single word leaving the old man's mouth was not actually spoken. It was softly sighed-like a distant sensual remembrance. 'Dewdrop…'
The scolding grasp yanked Becker away.
Dewdrop? Becker wondered. What the hell kind of name is Dewdrop? He spun away from the nurse and turned one last time to Cloucharde. 'Dewdrop? Are you sure?'
But Pierre Cloucharde was fast asleep.
