to a slow boil. How could Rouffillac stick to that theory . . . unless it was only for public consumption.
“Somehow you were involved with this . . . ?” Drieu hesitated.
“Sordid mess?” she said. “We’d just gotten engaged.”
Drieu’s brow knit with concern; then he took both her hands in his. “Forgive me, I had no idea.”
He seemed to be a company man thrust into an awkward position. There was no reason to attack him.
“Of course you wouldn’t know, but I disagree with the authorities. An Arab woman was seen at the crime scene. Did they mention that?”
“The details he gave me were about a thief. You’re sure?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “But what does that mean?”
She shrugged. “Yves had circled an article in Le Monde about the Metro attacks, that’s all I know.” And saying that, she realized how insignificant her words sounded.
“Let’s go outside.” He opened the glass door and ushered her into the hot evening air. Across from them stood the pillared Bourse, the former Brogninart mansion, now the stock exchange, dead and deserted in the fading light.
“Excuse me, but I’m late for a meeting with my boss,” he said. “You look pale. Are you all right?” Again, he took her hand.
She wanted to beat her head against the glass window, to make Drieu understand there was more to Yves’s murder. To question him about Yves.
“I’m fine, but I feel Yves’s work was key to his . . .” she took a deep breath, “. . . murder.”
”Let me look into this more thoroughly,” Drieu said. “I’ll get back to you. That’s the best I can do right now.”
“Merci, ” she said.
The lines on the brow of his tanned face crinkled. “My condolences; it’s hard to lose someone, I know,” he said, his voice thick with what seemed like pain. He checked his watch. And with a quick nod he left for a waiting taxi.
She didn’t want to leave. But without an introduction and with all the staff members who knew Yves gone, what more could she discover? A cigarette; she needed a cigarette. Too bad she’d left the pack in her desk drawer.
She stuck on a Nicorette patch. Another taxi pulled up. A young man with camera bags slung over his shoulder got out. An Agence France-Presse pass dangled from his neck.
She followed him, re-entering the reception area. The man flashed his photo ID press card, and she saw his name: Gerard Langois. Took a chance.
“01 32 55 78 23?” she asked him.
He paused and turned around. About her height, thick longish brown hair parted on the side, and deepset brown eyes in a long face. “You know my office number.”
At least she’d found the other Gerard.
“And you know Yves Robert,” she said.
He nodded, watching her. “Big eyes, long legs. You’re Aimée, the one he goes on about.”
Her stomach knotted. Yves had talked about her and Gerard didn’t know yet. His black camera case held stickers saying “Marriott Hotel–Sarajevo.”
“A joke,” he said, grinning and noticing her gaze. “Yves insists I—”
“Please, we need to talk,” she said. “Upstairs?”
Gerard Langois signed in. She furnished ID to the reception guard and signed her name under his. Once through the automatic door, he took a quick left up a switchback of concrete stairs and then through a swinging door to a large low-ceilinged area with ten or so vacant desks and terminals. In a large cubicle at the corner, several men and women worked at desks. Banks of monitors showing breaking newsfeed perched on the walls. Fluorescent light panels flickered in the ceiling.
“So you’ve let Yves come up for air, eh? I’m already late for the meeting,” he said, setting his bags on a desk, pulling out rolls of Agfa film. Amusement shone in his deepset eyes. “But since I’m a freelance clicker, just contracted to Agence France Press, I can afford to arrive stylishly late. Besides, the good stuff comes at the end.”
Fancied himself Robert Capa, did he?
“We’ll talk
“Somehow you were involved with this . . . ?” Drieu hesitated.
“Sordid mess?” she said. “We’d just gotten engaged.”
Drieu’s brow knit with concern; then he took both her hands in his. “Forgive me, I had no idea.”
He seemed to be a company man thrust into an awkward position. There was no reason to attack him.
“Of course you wouldn’t know, but I disagree with the authorities. An Arab woman was seen at the crime scene. Did they mention that?”
“The details he gave me were about a thief. You’re sure?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “But what does that mean?”
She shrugged. “Yves had circled an article in Le Monde about the Metro attacks, that’s all I know.” And saying that, she realized how insignificant her words sounded.
“Let’s go outside.” He opened the glass door and ushered her into the hot evening air. Across from them stood the pillared Bourse, the former Brogninart mansion, now the stock exchange, dead and deserted in the fading light.
“Excuse me, but I’m late for a meeting with my boss,” he said. “You look pale. Are you all right?” Again, he took her hand.
She wanted to beat her head against the glass window, to make Drieu understand there was more to Yves’s murder. To question him about Yves.
“I’m fine, but I feel Yves’s work was key to his . . .” she took a deep breath, “. . . murder.”
”Let me look into this more thoroughly,” Drieu said. “I’ll get back to you. That’s the best I can do right now.”
“Merci, ” she said.
The lines on the brow of his tanned face crinkled. “My condolences; it’s hard to lose someone, I know,” he said, his voice thick with what seemed like pain. He checked his watch. And with a quick nod he left for a waiting taxi.
She didn’t want to leave. But without an introduction and with all the staff members who knew Yves gone, what more could she discover? A cigarette; she needed a cigarette. Too bad she’d left the pack in her desk drawer.
She stuck on a Nicorette patch. Another taxi pulled up. A young man with camera bags slung over his shoulder got out. An Agence France-Presse pass dangled from his neck.
She followed him, re-entering the reception area. The man flashed his photo ID press card, and she saw his name: Gerard Langois. Took a chance.
“01 32 55 78 23?” she asked him.
He paused and turned around. About her height, thick longish brown hair parted on the side, and deepset brown eyes in a long face. “You know my office number.”
At least she’d found the other Gerard.
“And you know Yves Robert,” she said.
He nodded, watching her. “Big eyes, long legs. You’re Aimée, the one he goes on about.”
Her stomach knotted. Yves had talked about her and Gerard didn’t know yet. His black camera case held stickers saying “Marriott Hotel–Sarajevo.”
“A joke,” he said, grinning and noticing her gaze. “Yves insists I—”
“Please, we need to talk,” she said. “Upstairs?”
Gerard Langois signed in. She furnished ID to the reception guard and signed her name under his. Once through the automatic door, he took a quick left up a switchback of concrete stairs and then through a swinging door to a large low-ceilinged area with ten or so vacant desks and terminals. In a large cubicle at the corner, several men and women worked at desks. Banks of monitors showing breaking newsfeed perched on the walls. Fluorescent light panels flickered in the ceiling.
“So you’ve let Yves come up for air, eh? I’m already late for the meeting,” he said, setting his bags on a desk, pulling out rolls of Agfa film. Amusement shone in his deepset eyes. “But since I’m a freelance clicker, just contracted to Agence France Press, I can afford to arrive stylishly late. Besides, the good stuff comes at the end.”
Fancied himself Robert Capa, did he?
“We’ll talk
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