According to a student she questioned, the philosophy department was in an old building on a narrow street. She had no trouble finding it, or the sign just inside the door that listed the members of the faculty and the room numbers of their offices. A passing student confirmed the sign: Professor Heger’s office was on the top floor.
The elevator had obviously been installed just a few years ago, probably much to the relief of the gray- headed professors who had spent their adult years climbing the building’s narrow stairs. New or not, it creaked and groaned as it descended to the floor where she stood. She could hear it coming, protesting all the way. When the door opened she discovered that it was of modest dimensions — big enough for perhaps four average-sized Europeans or three porky Americans.
As she rode upward she went over her planned approach to Heger one more time. She needed confirmation of Qasim’s name, and she needed it now.
Undoubtedly someone had asked him not to talk, and that was the promise he was honoring. Since he made that promise the world had turned, she would explain. Times had changed. For Qasim’s sake she needed to know: All those years ago, had Qasim been a friend of Henri Rodet?
The elevator stopped with a bump, and the door protested as it opened. Somehow the French had accomplished the impossible— installed a brand-new old elevator in an old building.
She went along the hallway examining the numbers on the door. There it was. She knocked on the door.
No answer.
Well, he might not be here. He might be in class.
She rapped again. Heard a thump. Or was it her imagination? A noise from inside the room?
Callie tried the doorknob, and it opened.
“Professor Heger?”
She looked inside. The room was small, lined with books on shelves, two little windows, a desk, a computer … and behind the desk on the wooden floor, just visible, a shoe.
She stepped into the room. “Professor?”
He was lying behind the desk. “Professor Heger?”
She turned him over and saw the bullet wound in his head. It had bled some, and the blood had congealed on the floor and the side of his face. He also had a deep bruise where his face had hit the floor when he had fallen.
He was still alive, breathing erratically. His eyes were unfocused.
Callie reached into his mouth and cleared his airway. The man was obviously in a bad way, perhaps even dying. There was no time to lose.
“Professor Heger, I’m Callie Grafton. Yesterday you denied knowing Abu Qasim. It was twenty-five years ago, Professor.”
The old man obviously heard her. He made a noise, swallowed, tried to focus his eyes.
“I know you promised not to tell who he was,” Callie continued, “but the world has turned. Times have changed. It’s a matter of life and death. I need to know. Did you have a student named Abu Qasim?”
He was trying to talk. Callie bent down. She heard the whisper.
It was incoherent noise.
Then Professor Heger lost consciousness. Callie talked to Heger in the hope that he might hear, but within a minute he breathed his last.
At half past twelve the limo came slowly along the street and glided to a stop in front of Henri Rodet’s building.
I stowed the paperback in my pocket and walked toward the long Mercedes as the driver got out and opened the right-side rear door.
A very shapely leg appeared, then another, and out stepped Marisa Petrou. She was wearing some kind of frock that ended just above her knees, a pair of high heels that consisted of a sole, a heel, and straps to hold it all together, and a little designer jacket. She reached back into the car for her purse, which was a large one.
Then she saw me. She didn’t recognize me for a few seconds, then it hit her. She looked again at me and her mouth dropped open.
“Hello, Marisa.” I walked over, closing the gap. “Travis Crockett.”
“The man with the boots,” she said. “You’re a long way from Texas, cowboy.”
The chauffeur was standing there respectfully, still holding the door. Being an American working man, I grinned at him and winked as she said, “Out for a stroll this morning?”
“Yep. Imagine my surprise at seeing you. I guess it’s truly a small world, after all.”
She moved away from the car and the chauffeur closed the door. She nodded at him; he got back behind the wheel and drove away.
As he did so, I looked around at the building we were standing in front of and said, “You live here? Cool neighborhood.”
She was looking me over, apparently trying to figure out what I wanted.
“It’s nice seeing you again,” I said. “May I call you sometime? Perhaps take you out for a drink?”
“No.” She bit her lip and glanced toward the park. “What are you doing in Paris, Tommy Carmellini?”
“My name is—“
“You left fingerprints. You’re Tommy Carmellini, an officer in the CIA. What are you doing in Paris?”
“Standing on a Paris sidewalk in front of God and everybody chatting up a beautiful woman. And you?”
She grabbed my arm. “Come inside for a moment.”
I went willingly.
“What should I do?” Callie Grafton asked her husband. She was standing in Heger’s office talking to Jake on her cell phone. She had told him everything, including the fact that Heger died without saying a word.
“Does he have a telephone on his desk?” Yes.
“Call the police. Wait for them. You’ve left fingerprints, so we don’t want to send them off on a wild goose chase or get you in trouble. Don’t tell them about Qasim. Tell them you met the professor yesterday and wanted to talk with him again.”
“Okay.”
“Are you all right?” Jake asked, although he knew the answer.
“Yes,” she said.
“Call me later. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Jake,” she replied, and closed the telephone.
She and her husband made a point of saying “I love you” at the end of every telephone conversation. Life is short, random chance happens to us all — she glanced again at Professor Heger’s body— and there is evil.
Evil exists. Filthy, obscene, virulent, evil is out there, ready to sear us all.
I love you,]ake, she whispered again, and picked up the telephone on Heger’s desk.
Marisa Petrou unlocked the street door of her apartment building on the Place des Vosges. The door opened into a stairwell. There was no elevator, so we had to hike up two flights. She used a key on the only door on the third floor.
“Wow,” I said when I was inside. The rooms were spacious, with ten-foot ceilings. The joint certainly didn’t look like this in the Renaissance when the maids were emptying chamber pots out the windows. Someone, I assumed Henri Rodet, had spent serious euros remodeling and improving. Huge, original oil paintings hung on the walls, the ornate baseboards and moldings were gilded, thick drapes framed each window and antique chairs that looked as if they had welcomed Napoleon’s bottom were scattered here and there. Modern sculptures sat in corners, illuminated by tiny spotlights. The place reminded me of a museum. It was something to see, if you like that sort of thing. I didn’t particularly care for it, but I made polite noises.
Marisa marched through the place, checking every room, as I trailed along behind. She found the maid in the kitchen and asked her to run an errand, a trip to the market. She gave the maid money and sent her off.
Then we were alone.
She zeroed in on me. “What are you doing in Paris?” she asked again.
“Huh-uh. You first.”
“I live here.”
“In this place?” I looked around. “Nice work if you can get it.”
Her mouth formed a straight line. Just then the telephone rang. She reached for it. I headed for the living
