Nolan walked back and nodded as he sat down.
“That’s OK. He’s contacting your guy himself. Unless we hear in the next half hour, it’s OK. D’you want to travel overnight or have a night in a hotel?”
“What flights are there?”
“There’s an Air France flight in two hours’ time.”
“Book me on that, then.”
Nolan came back. He’d booked a first-class seat so that there was a chance for MacKay to sleep. MacKay yawned at the thought before he spoke.
“What do you think Harper thinks of all this?”
Nolan shrugged. “I’d say interested but cool at the moment.”
“Maybe I’m wasting your time?”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“No. What about you?”
“The same as you. Instinct, training, experience tell me there’s something odd. Maybe it’s something that doesn’t matter. But we’d better find out.”
Nolan drove him to Dulles and waited with him until the flight was called.
The Air-France overnight flight landed at de Gaulle in the morning darkness and it was 8.30 before MacKay had cleared customs and immigration.
He booked in at a small hotel on the Boulevard des Capucines and bathed and shaved. As he waited for a taxi there was a gleam of sun piercing the November grey but by the time he arrived at the rue Soufflot there was a thin drizzle of rain. He looked at his watch. There was just about time for a coffee.
He wondered what her reaction would be. He had not kept in touch with her but unless she had changed that wouldn’t matter. When he had checked in the telephone directory he had felt that it was typical of her that she still lived in the same studio. She was beautiful and warm-hearted, and in the old days she would have these great passions that barely lasted a week. Nobody would see her in that week and then she would return to her circle, not sad or grief-stricken, but calm and serene. He knew that she relied on him in those days not to sink into the whirlpool with her. He had slept with her sometimes but he refused to join her in the torrent. And she was grateful, he knew, that he stayed on dry land and could reach out his hand to save her from the next emotional flood. He paid for the coffee and left.
It was almost eleven o’clock when he walked up the rue Mouffetard. They were putting fresh trays in the windows of the pâtisserie. Eclairs, mille-feuilles, meringues, and strawberry tarts with smooth, glazed surfaces.
As he crossed the road he glanced up at the house. It still looked much the same. Even the shutters were the same blue. He pressed the bell and stood waiting, with one foot on the bottom step, looking down the hill. It was a stinking, sleazy street but he hadn’t noticed that in the old days, and even now it had a raffish, attractive air in the pale winter light.
Then the door opened and the same brown eyes looked at him, one fragile hand pushing the dark hair from the side of her face. A moment’s perplexity, and then she recognized him.
“Jimmy. My God, what’s the matter?”
“Adèle. Nothing. Why should there be?” He smiled.
Her long slender fingers touched her cheek as she laughed.
“It’s so long ago. I must have been back in those times.” She stood aside. “Come in, chéri. Have you eaten?”
He closed the door behind him and followed her up the stairs. At the landing he could see the room beyond the open door. Still clinically white and antiseptic. Canvases leaning against the wall and the smell of turpentine and linseed. The massive mahogany easel still dominating the light from the big window. She was wearing an orange towelling bath-robe and she stood smiling in the centre of the room, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“I didn’t know until late last night and I’ve been flying through the night.”
“Coffee?”
“That’d be great.”
He walked with her into the small kitchen and pulled out one of the tall stools. She looked much the same. There were some wrinkles, but only at her eyes and mouth, where she smiled. When the coffee had percolated she poured out two cups and sat looking at him. “How long ago was it, Jimmy? Ten years?”
“About that. And how are things with you?”
“I heard that you were a policeman or some such thing now.”
“Not me, my love.”
She sipped her coffee, her brown eyes studying his face.
“You look more of a loner than you used to.”
“Older, maybe.”
“Yes. But surer …” She put down her cup and sat with her hands on her knees. “Tell me why you came, chéri.”
“I wanted to talk to you about two people we knew in the old days.”
“Who?”
“Andrew Dempsey is one.”
She laughed. “He was just like you, Jimmy. Handsome, charming, some talent, kind, and amused at us foreigners with our funny ways.”
“What else?”
“Rich daddy, money no problem, girl-struck. What else can there be for a young man?”
“Do you remember when he was arrested?”
“Oh, God, yes. I was standing quite near him. They’d smashed his nose, and his clothes were covered with blood. He was unconscious when they threw him in the van. You were there. You were with me. Have you seen him again?”
“No. How long was he inside?”
“He was in Fresnes. It was a long time for something so little. Two months maybe. They let them both out at the same time. Him and Halenka.”
“Who got them out?”
“An American. I don’t remember his name.”
“What happened to Halenka?”
“She went back to Moscow. She’s done terribly well, you know.”
“At what?”
“Painting. She had shows in Leningrad, Moscow, Prague, Warsaw. All over. She’s very good.”
“I can remember that she was very pretty. What was she like?”
“A sweetie. Very gentle and sensitive. I think she and Andy would have married if they hadn’t sent her back to Moscow.”
“Was Andy a Party member?”
She looked at him carefully and then averted her eyes.
“You are a
