those steel-rimmed round spectacles, and he wore a black trench coat.”
“And she’d never seen him before?”
“Never. Do you think it’s important?”
“It’s certainly unusual, especially considering the coincidence that Sara and I were visiting.”
“True,” Roper said. “And the third unusual fact, Watson, as Sherlock would have said, concerns the Alfa Romeo that almost went into the Thames.”
“So it could be we were followed with evil intent by an unknown Frenchman seeking an opportunity to do us harm. No hint of Islam there?”
“Dora said he spoke English like Maurice Chevalier and looked like Jean Gabin in one of those old gangster movies—you know, the ones wherehe’s just out of jail to do one last job, looks permanently tired, and you know it’s all going to end badly.”
“Well, that’s something,” Holley said. “A starting point. We’ve known for some time now that the French Secret Service operates undercover in London. Get on to your friends at DGSE headquarters in Paris and see if they can help.”
“They’ll deny being here.”
“Then phone one of the guys who isn’t supposed to be here, such as Claude Duval, and see what he has to say. I’ll go to bed now. I’m bushed.”
I t was quiet in the computer room at Holland Park, the multiplicity of screens from around the world somehow enclosing Roper as he sat there thinking about the conversation he’d just had.
Sergeant Doyle came in with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. “There you go, Major. I’ll be having a lie-down in the duty room. I won’t say take it easy, because you never do.”
“I love you, too, Tony.”
He lit a cigarette and made a phone call. A voice echoed round the room in French. “Duval here. Who in the hell is that? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
Roper answered in English. “Roper. Just turn your back on whichever delectable lady is sharing your bed, Claude, and listen to me.”
“So what is it now, Giles?” Duval said in English.
“I’m sure it’s no news to you that we’ve taken on new blood at Holland Park.”
“You mean, of course, the magnificent Captain Sara Gideon?” Duval was much more alert now. “Is there a problem?”
Roper recounted the episode at the Dark Man in detail. “What do you think?”
“That Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you, and I agree: The Pernod-drinking Frenchman is too much of a coincidence. The good Dora’s description is remarkable. She should have been a film critic. I used to love those black-and-white gangster movies with people like Jean Gabin. I’ll bear what she said in mind.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“Needless to say, he was not one of ours.”
“Perish the thought,” Roper told him, and switched off.
H olley didn’t raise his head until ten-thirty, the travel catching up with him. The telephone brought him back to life.
It was Sara. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log. What about you?”
“Drifted in and out. I do that a lot. I often leave my radio on.”
“What have you got planned?”
“That should be what has Rabbi Nathan Gideon got planned. He’s doing one of his big fund-raising tours, all for charity. Four days, maybe five. Leeds, Manchester, Edinburgh, they can’t get enough of him. He left half an hour ago. What are you up to?”
“I sometimes go for a run.”
“Which is beyond me these days.”
“Well, I may be an older guy, but I’m still up for a stroll in the park.”
“That sounds good to me. I’ll be waiting.”
He showered and dressed, and just before he left, two things happened. The concierge phoned to say the Alfa had just been delivered, and they’d exchanged it for the Mercedes. Next came Roper to inform him of his conversation with Claude Duval.
“So you see,” he said when he had finished, “He believes our Pernod-drinking Frenchman to
“And she’d never seen him before?”
“Never. Do you think it’s important?”
“It’s certainly unusual, especially considering the coincidence that Sara and I were visiting.”
“True,” Roper said. “And the third unusual fact, Watson, as Sherlock would have said, concerns the Alfa Romeo that almost went into the Thames.”
“So it could be we were followed with evil intent by an unknown Frenchman seeking an opportunity to do us harm. No hint of Islam there?”
“Dora said he spoke English like Maurice Chevalier and looked like Jean Gabin in one of those old gangster movies—you know, the ones wherehe’s just out of jail to do one last job, looks permanently tired, and you know it’s all going to end badly.”
“Well, that’s something,” Holley said. “A starting point. We’ve known for some time now that the French Secret Service operates undercover in London. Get on to your friends at DGSE headquarters in Paris and see if they can help.”
“They’ll deny being here.”
“Then phone one of the guys who isn’t supposed to be here, such as Claude Duval, and see what he has to say. I’ll go to bed now. I’m bushed.”
I t was quiet in the computer room at Holland Park, the multiplicity of screens from around the world somehow enclosing Roper as he sat there thinking about the conversation he’d just had.
Sergeant Doyle came in with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. “There you go, Major. I’ll be having a lie-down in the duty room. I won’t say take it easy, because you never do.”
“I love you, too, Tony.”
He lit a cigarette and made a phone call. A voice echoed round the room in French. “Duval here. Who in the hell is that? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
Roper answered in English. “Roper. Just turn your back on whichever delectable lady is sharing your bed, Claude, and listen to me.”
“So what is it now, Giles?” Duval said in English.
“I’m sure it’s no news to you that we’ve taken on new blood at Holland Park.”
“You mean, of course, the magnificent Captain Sara Gideon?” Duval was much more alert now. “Is there a problem?”
Roper recounted the episode at the Dark Man in detail. “What do you think?”
“That Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you, and I agree: The Pernod-drinking Frenchman is too much of a coincidence. The good Dora’s description is remarkable. She should have been a film critic. I used to love those black-and-white gangster movies with people like Jean Gabin. I’ll bear what she said in mind.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“Needless to say, he was not one of ours.”
“Perish the thought,” Roper told him, and switched off.
H olley didn’t raise his head until ten-thirty, the travel catching up with him. The telephone brought him back to life.
It was Sara. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log. What about you?”
“Drifted in and out. I do that a lot. I often leave my radio on.”
“What have you got planned?”
“That should be what has Rabbi Nathan Gideon got planned. He’s doing one of his big fund-raising tours, all for charity. Four days, maybe five. Leeds, Manchester, Edinburgh, they can’t get enough of him. He left half an hour ago. What are you up to?”
“I sometimes go for a run.”
“Which is beyond me these days.”
“Well, I may be an older guy, but I’m still up for a stroll in the park.”
“That sounds good to me. I’ll be waiting.”
He showered and dressed, and just before he left, two things happened. The concierge phoned to say the Alfa had just been delivered, and they’d exchanged it for the Mercedes. Next came Roper to inform him of his conversation with Claude Duval.
“So you see,” he said when he had finished, “He believes our Pernod-drinking Frenchman to
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