There were no more questions and no more speeches. The invited guests began to talk among themselves as they waited for the chairs to be rearranged and food brought to their tables. Hart watched as Jean Valette stood at his place next to the podium exchanging brief greetings with the men and women who came up to express their appreciation for his remarks, or to ask a question they had not wanted to ask in front of an audience. Valette had just finished talking to someone and was about to turn to another when, suddenly, he looked the length of the room straight at Hart. He nodded, and then broke into a smile, as if he were greeting an old friend, or someone who might become a new one.
Hart had come to Mont Saint-Michel believing Jean Valette to be the head, the Grand Master, of a world-wide organization for which murder and political assassination were just other ways of doing business, only to discover that, if he was telling the truth in the speech he had just given, the main, the only, ambition he had was to be the master of a school that would teach a handful of students to see the future through the eyes of a very distant past. Hart felt helpless and confused, without any idea what he should do next, whether he should confront Jean Valette or just get away. Nothing made sense, and the more he tried to understand, the less he understood.
Still, he was there, and given what would happen if he did not find some answers, there was nothing to lose. He started toward the front of the Refectory and Jean Valette. Someone took him by the arm and held him back. The heavy-set, plainclothes security guard who had tried to stop him from getting in was insisting that he leave. Hart tried to free his arm, but the guard’s grip only grew tighter.
“Jean Valette wishes to see you,” said the guard as he turned Hart around and marched him toward the door. “He’s not someone you want to keep waiting.”
As soon as they were out into the hall, he reached inside Hart’s jacket and removed the gun that Hart had forgotten he had. A smile full of cruelty and knowledge curled over his large, misshapen mouth, and then, as if at some private joke, he began to laugh, and he kept laughing as he dragged Hart down the hall and out the back to an open courtyard and a waiting car, a black limousine with dark tinted windows. He let go of Hart’s arm, and to Hart’s astonishment, gave him back the gun.
“No one goes armed to a cathedral, Mr. Hart. Even an American should know that.”
The back door of the limousine swung open and in the shadows on the other side sat Jean Valette.
“Please get in, Mr. Hart. Bring the gun, if you think you need it, but I can promise that, while you might kill yourself with it accidentally, no harm will come to you from me. I have been waiting too long to talk to you to let anyone hurt you.”
Chapter Twenty
Hart was not sure whether to take Jean Valette at his word or err on the side of caution. Valette caught the look of indecision.
“Perhaps it would be better if you kept it. After everything that has happened, I can understand why you might feel reluctant to trust me.” He turned to the plainclothes guard, waiting with his hand on the door as Hart got in. “Come with us, Marcel. We’ll give you a lift to your car. It’s too far to walk, and besides, there are a few things we need to discuss.”
The limousine started down a winding, narrow street, around the back of the cathedral to the village in front and, beyond it, to the causeway across the river. There were tourists everywhere, crowding onto the steps up to the famous place where kings and queens had come to worship, pushing into the shops that sold souvenirs to remind them later of where they had been. For a few brief moments, Jean Valette viewed the scene with grim amusement, as if, like someone come to honor a long dead relative, he had discovered the cemetery taken over by a visiting troupe of puppeteers, come to give a children’s show. With a distant smile, he turned to his guest.
“If I had known for certain you were going to be here, Mr. Hart, I would have tried to speak with more intelligence. As it was, with this audience…” The thought finished itself. Then he tried to explain. “And I only do it, you understand, because of this strange obligation I feel to try to keep certain things alive. But enough of that! I’m very glad you came and we finally have the chance to- But you must be exhausted, and-how thoughtless of me-terrified, after what happened last night. No, that is the wrong word, the wrong emotion. You don’t strike me, Mr. Hart, as someone who would ever be terrified of anything. Still, after what you’ve been through… Poor Austin Pearce! He was remarkable, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you; one of the most-one of the few really intelligent men I’ve met. I can’t believe he’s gone, and murdered like that! Incredible!”
Valette shook his head in disgust. He leaned back in the corner of the seat and lit a cigarette and for a short while watched the thin trail of smoke spiral into the air. And then, cracking open the window to let the smoke out, shook his head again, but this time with an air of resolution.
“What do we know so far, Marcel?” With a sudden, helpless shrug, he looked at Hart. “Where are my manners? This is Marcel Dumont, Mr. Hart: Inspector Dumont, chief detective of the Surete Generale.” He had anticipated Hart’s surprise. “You thought he was there to provide security, a private guard? You could probably do that, couldn’t you, Marcel?” He turned back to Hart. “Marcel was on our Olympic boxing team.”
Marcel Dumont grinned modestly.
“Nearly thirty years ago, and I did not make it past the quarterfinals.”
“He lost to the one who went on to win the gold medal.”
“As I say,” insisted the inspector, “thirty years, and about fifty pounds, ago. But about last night,” he went on, becoming serious. “You’re lucky you’re still alive, Mr. Hart.”
Valette lifted his chin and tapped his fingers together. His mouth was shut tight and his eyes half-closed in the way of someone used to calculating probabilities.
“I doubt Mr. Hart feels very lucky, do you, Mr. Hart? The whole world thinks you’re a murderer. No, I don’t imagine Mr. Hart right now thinks he’s been very lucky at all. But go on, Marcel-what do we know about this? Austin Pearce and the head of the embassy’s political section-he was a kind of spy, wasn’t he?-were murdered. One of the gunmen was killed, and the other one wounded, but got away. You did that, didn’t you, Mr. Hart? Go ahead, Marceclass="underline" What else do we know? That woman-the landlady-she told the police that Mr. Hart here was downstairs with her when the shooting began. It’s a good thing she was there; otherwise, everyone would think you killed both of them. Although I’m not sure that would have made things any worse for you than what’s happened instead. I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. Go ahead, Marcel.”
The driver turned into an alleyway on the other side of the river and pulled up next to where the chief of detectives had left his car.
“Mr. Valette is correct. The landlady gave us a very precise account of what happened. You came there looking for Mr. Wolfe-Aaron Wolfe. You told her you were expected. Is that true, Mr. Hart-did Mr. Wolfe expect you?” he asked, exchanging a glance with Valette.
Hart noticed the glance. They knew something he did not. He began to worry that he had stepped into a trap.