files.”
“So he was a suspect?”
Richard nodded. “Everyone was. British, American, French. Right up to ambassadorial level.” Again he began to pace, carefully measuring his words. “So the dummy file went out to the embassies. And we waited to see if it would In Their Footsteps
105
turn up, like the others, in East German hands. It didn’t. It ended up here, in a briefcase. In this very room.” He stopped and looked at her. “With your parents.”
“And that closed the file on Delphi,” she said. Bitterly she added, “How neat and easy. You had your culprit.
Lucky for you he was dead and unable to defend himself.”
“I didn’t believe it.”
“Yet you dropped the matter.”
“We had no choice.”
“You didn’t care enough to learn the truth!”
“No, Beryl. We didn’t have the choice. We were instructed to call off the investigation.” She stared at him in astonishment. “By whom?”
“My orders came straight from Washington. Claude’s from the French prime minister. The matter was dropped.”
“And my parents went on record as traitors,” she said.
“What a convenient way to close the file.” In disgust she turned and left the room.
He followed her down the stairs. “Beryl! I never really believed Bernard was the one!”
“Yet you let him take the blame!”
“I told you, I was ordered to—”
“And of course you always follow orders.”
“I was sent back to Washington soon afterward. I couldn’t pursue it.”
They walked out of the building into the bedlam of Rue Myrha. A soccer ball flew past, pursued by a gaggle of tattered-looking children. Beryl paused on the sidewalk, her eyes temporarily dazzled by the sunshine. The street sounds, the shouts of the children, were disorienting. She turned and looked up at the building, at the attic window.
The view suddenly blurred through her tears.
106
Tess Gerritsen
“What a place to die,” she whispered. “God, what a horrible place to die….”
She climbed into Richard’s car and pulled the door closed. It was a blessed relief to shut out the noise and chaos of Rue Myrha.
Richard slid in behind the driver’s seat. For a moment, they sat in silence, staring ahead at the ragamuffins playing street soccer.
“I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said.
“I want to see Claude Daumier.”
“Why?”
“I want to hear his version of what happened. I want to confirm that you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am, Beryl.”
She turned to him. His gaze was steady, unflinching. An honest look if ever I’ve seen one, she thought. Which only proves how gullible I am. She wanted to believe him, and there was the danger. It was that blasted attraction between them—the feverish tug of hormones, the memory of his kisses—that clouded her judgment. What is it about this man? I take one look at his face, inhale a whiff of his scent, and I’m aching to tear off his clothes. And mine, as well.
She looked straight ahead, trying to ignore all those heated signals passing between them. “I want to talk to Daumier.”
After a pause, he said, “All right. If that’s what it’ll take for you to believe me.”
A phone call revealed that Daumier was not in his office; he’d just left to conduct another interview with Marie St. Pierre. So they drove to Cochin Hospital, where Marie was still a patient.
In Their Footsteps
107
Even from the far end of the hospital corridor, they could tell which room was Marie’s; half a dozen police-men were stationed outside her door. Daumier had not yet arrived. Madame St. Pierre, informed that Lord Lovat’s niece had arrived, at once had Beryl and Richard escorted into her room.
They discovered they weren’t the only visitors Marie was entertaining that afternoon. Seated in chairs near the patient’s bed were Nina Sutherland and Helena Vane. A little tea party was in progress, complete with trays of biscuits and finger sandwiches set on a rolling cart by the window. The
“So he was a suspect?”
Richard nodded. “Everyone was. British, American, French. Right up to ambassadorial level.” Again he began to pace, carefully measuring his words. “So the dummy file went out to the embassies. And we waited to see if it would In Their Footsteps
105
turn up, like the others, in East German hands. It didn’t. It ended up here, in a briefcase. In this very room.” He stopped and looked at her. “With your parents.”
“And that closed the file on Delphi,” she said. Bitterly she added, “How neat and easy. You had your culprit.
Lucky for you he was dead and unable to defend himself.”
“I didn’t believe it.”
“Yet you dropped the matter.”
“We had no choice.”
“You didn’t care enough to learn the truth!”
“No, Beryl. We didn’t have the choice. We were instructed to call off the investigation.” She stared at him in astonishment. “By whom?”
“My orders came straight from Washington. Claude’s from the French prime minister. The matter was dropped.”
“And my parents went on record as traitors,” she said.
“What a convenient way to close the file.” In disgust she turned and left the room.
He followed her down the stairs. “Beryl! I never really believed Bernard was the one!”
“Yet you let him take the blame!”
“I told you, I was ordered to—”
“And of course you always follow orders.”
“I was sent back to Washington soon afterward. I couldn’t pursue it.”
They walked out of the building into the bedlam of Rue Myrha. A soccer ball flew past, pursued by a gaggle of tattered-looking children. Beryl paused on the sidewalk, her eyes temporarily dazzled by the sunshine. The street sounds, the shouts of the children, were disorienting. She turned and looked up at the building, at the attic window.
The view suddenly blurred through her tears.
106
Tess Gerritsen
“What a place to die,” she whispered. “God, what a horrible place to die….”
She climbed into Richard’s car and pulled the door closed. It was a blessed relief to shut out the noise and chaos of Rue Myrha.
Richard slid in behind the driver’s seat. For a moment, they sat in silence, staring ahead at the ragamuffins playing street soccer.
“I’ll take you back to the hotel,” he said.
“I want to see Claude Daumier.”
“Why?”
“I want to hear his version of what happened. I want to confirm that you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am, Beryl.”
She turned to him. His gaze was steady, unflinching. An honest look if ever I’ve seen one, she thought. Which only proves how gullible I am. She wanted to believe him, and there was the danger. It was that blasted attraction between them—the feverish tug of hormones, the memory of his kisses—that clouded her judgment. What is it about this man? I take one look at his face, inhale a whiff of his scent, and I’m aching to tear off his clothes. And mine, as well.
She looked straight ahead, trying to ignore all those heated signals passing between them. “I want to talk to Daumier.”
After a pause, he said, “All right. If that’s what it’ll take for you to believe me.”
A phone call revealed that Daumier was not in his office; he’d just left to conduct another interview with Marie St. Pierre. So they drove to Cochin Hospital, where Marie was still a patient.
In Their Footsteps
107
Even from the far end of the hospital corridor, they could tell which room was Marie’s; half a dozen police-men were stationed outside her door. Daumier had not yet arrived. Madame St. Pierre, informed that Lord Lovat’s niece had arrived, at once had Beryl and Richard escorted into her room.
They discovered they weren’t the only visitors Marie was entertaining that afternoon. Seated in chairs near the patient’s bed were Nina Sutherland and Helena Vane. A little tea party was in progress, complete with trays of biscuits and finger sandwiches set on a rolling cart by the window. The
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