"What am I going to do now? I'm going to talk to Lefevre. Everything I know, he knows."
I opened the door and stepped out into the public vestibule. Several people were coming down from viewing the show. Christian, still smiling, waited for them to pass.
"Look, I see what you're trying to do. You're trying to get me to tell you what my father had cooked up, but I honest-to-God don't-"
"No, I'm telling you what I'm going to do."
"What the hell good will it do you? And what do you do if I deny everything? I don't believe you have any proof. What proof do you have?"
"So long, Christian." I went out and down the outside steps.
He followed me to the head of the staircase. The smile had disappeared. "Now wait," he shouted after me. "I thought… you led me to believe… Now look, Norgren, you can't… you can't.. ."
Chapter 18
I could, but I didn't. He was right about the proof. What was I supposed to tell Lefevre, that I recognized Christian's cologne? So what? How many other men in France wore the same scent? Besides, I believed his story, at least in its general outlines. He hadn't set out to murder me; it had been the book, the record, he was after, and I didn't think there was any connection between his hapless attempt to get it and his father's death. Even the business about somebody else making off with it rang true to me. As for Mann's portrait, that hadn't been a police matter to begin with, and it wasn't now.
I supposed I'd ultimately have to tell Lefevre all about it, but I knew he'd classify it under the heading of Unsolicited Assistance, and I wasn't up to his reaction yet. It could wait one more day. Right now, I was ready for a drink and something to eat.
When I got to the Hotel du Nord, Gerard, the clerk behind the counter, called out to someone as I entered the small lobby. "Here he is now."
There was a movement on my left, in the corner where a group of easy chairs were arranged around a table. I turned toward it.
"Hi, Chris," Anne said.
The waiter laid out our breakfast, cafe complet for two: a big pitcher of hot coffee, a jug of hot milk, two six-inch chunks of baguette, croissants, hard rolls, butter, and foil-packed jams.
Anne did the pouring into the big cups. We tore off pieces of our croissants, littering the white tablecloth with flakes. We buttered our croissants. We took our first bites, our first sips. We looked at each other.
"Well," Anne said.
"Well," I said.
There is a way of saying "well" that means the small talk is over, and very pleasant it may have been, but now let's get down to serious business, if you please.
In our case it had been more than small talk, and it had been extremely pleasant. Once I'd come down off the ceiling the previous evening, Anne explained that she'd decided that my idea of a weekend in France was too good to pass up, and that maybe she could pull just a few more strings. She'd lined up a military flight to Rhein-Main Air Base in Germany. From the nearby Frankfurt Airport she'd caught a commercial plane to Paris, and then another flight on to Dijon. She'd arrived only an hour earlier, and she was starving.
We'd gone out for a simple, wonderful dinner of moules mariniere, bread, and the house Chablis at a plain little restaurant on the Rue Dr. Maret, two blocks from the hotel. I hardly remember what we talked about, but it wasn't anything important. Mostly, I just basked in the knowledge that I was going to have three days to be with her after all. I think I didn't so much listen to her talk as watch her talk, happily taking in everything about her: those lovely, near-violet eyes, the wide, friendly mouth, the ghost of a tic that came and went in the soft skin below her eyes when she was nervous or excited, and which never failed to move me.
Somewhere toward the end of the meal I began edging toward the question of her commission, but the time hadn't been right for it, and we veered back to less threatening topics. She told me about her conference, I told her about what had been happening in Dijon and Paris. We laughed about the dachshunds painted on the Parisian sidewalks.
Afterward, when we went back to the hotel, we didn't talk about much of anything; there was a lot of lost time to make up for. Then this morning I'd awakened with my face against her smooth, honey-colored hair, and there hadn't been a lot of talk then either. We'd taken particular pains to stay well clear of the topic of her commission. Right up until that pair of wells.
I forced down a hunk of croissant.
"So," I said.
"So," she said.
This was serious stuff, all right. Bull-by-the-horns time. "What's it going to be, Anne?" I said. "Are you resigning or not?"
She tore off a tiny piece of croissant and rolled it in her fingers. "Which do you want first, the good news or the bad?" I'd been hoping it was all going to be good. "Bad," I said.
"All right. I'm staying in, Chris."
"I see."
"Don't look like that, Chris. Can't you be happy for me? I'll be heading up my own training unit." She smiled, proud and shy at the same time. "I got my line number for major. I'm right up at the top."
"Of course I'm happy for you." I leaned forward, put my hand on top of hers. "You deserve it. Congratulations, Anne, it's wonderful news."
It was the lousiest news I'd heard all year.
I couldn't have been too convincing, because she went into a long explanation of how the new assignment would tap her potential in ways that the old one hadn't, and what a wonderful career opportunity it was for her, and how the old notions of a sexual dichotomy of labor no longer applied in today's world.
I sat there doing my best to look liberated, but all I could think of was the dreary routine of seeing her only three or four times a year, and all the logistical coordination it took to make even that much work out. My face must have fallen enough for her to take pity on me, because she broke off her spiel and laughed.
"Are you about ready for the good news?"
"Good news?" I'd thought her promotion to major was the good news.
She nodded. "I haven't told you where I'm being assigned." I frowned. "Not Kaiserslautern?
She shook her head, her eyes sparkling. She looked like a kid with a secret she couldn't hang on to for another second. "I'll be at the Air Force Academy. I just got it all worked out yesterday, at the conference. I still can't believe it."
"You mean in Colorado?"
"Colorado Springs, yes. Chris, we'll practically be next-door neighbors."
"Next door? Anne, Colorado's a thousand miles from Seattle."
"That's a whole lot better than six thousand. Denver's only three hours from Seattle by air, and less than another hour to Colorado Springs. It's practically commuting distance. We could have lots of whole weekends together-with no jet lag. We'd only be one time zone apart, Chris!"
Oddly enough, it was the time zone that got through to me. There is something about living nine time zones away from your significant other that brings home the fact that you are rather a long way apart. A single time zone sounded like just around the corner.
"I could get on a plane on Friday after work," I said slowly, "and be there the same evening."
"Now you're getting the idea." She smiled tentatively. The faint tic appeared below her eyes. "It is good news, isn't it? It's going to work for us, isn't it? At least for now?"
"It's terrific," I said softly. I put my hand on her cheek, just under her eye, and felt the tender, trembling flesh quiet down. "It'll be great. Just think of those frequent-flyer bonuses we're going to earn."
She laughed and went happily back to eating. "Well, then, let's finish up. I want to see the famous Rembrandt I've been hearing so much about."