Today, though, the romance of Paris was tainted. The pedestrians scuttling across the road in front of the taxi and the weaving cyclists were impediments, not Parisian flavor.
The taxi pulled to the curb with a squeak of its brakes and Hugo climbed out, paying the driver and turning up the collar of his overcoat against the cold. A heavy, gray sky sat low overhead, and two large drops of rain hit his cheek as he started to walk south along Rue Monge. He had no specific plan other than to see whether Pendrith’s place was occupied or had been recently. He felt like he was at a dead end, and this was his last chance to find the politician.
He checked the numbers written high on the buildings and saw he was close, realized that he had no real plan of action. Ringing the doorbell no longer seemed like much of one, and he was sure there was a better way, if he could just come up with it. He was relieved to see a café on his side of the street, almost directly opposite the entrance to Pendrith’s building. A place to think.
It was busy but warm inside, and he took a seat at the only free table by the window, giving him a view across the street to the apartments. He ordered a café crème and a sandwich, less worried about time now that he had an eye on the place, happier to be able to think for a few moments and, maybe just a little, soak up some of Paris.
Even so, he remained watchful, scanning the sidewalk across the busy road for the familiar shape of Pendrith, knowing he was grasping at straws.
And then he saw him.
He’d missed the portly figure because he was on the same side of the street as the café, not his apartment, and he was now feet away from the window. Hugo lifted his cup to cover his face, and swiveled in his seat to put his back to the sidewalk. Seconds later he heard the door behind him open.
Of course, this is his neighborhood café.
Hugo didn’t know whether to leap up and confront him or sit tight, see whether Pendrith was here alone. That decision was made when the houndstooth coat of the Englishman brushed against Hugo’s table. He’d not seen the American, wasn’t expecting to, intent only on finding somewhere to sit.
“Pendrith.”
The Englishman whirled around, his mouth falling open at the sight of Hugo looking up at him, and when he spoke, his voice was a croak. “Marston. What … what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Sit down.” Hugo waved a hand at the empty seat opposite him.
Pendrith looked around the café, as if checking for other surprises. “How did you find me?”
“A little luck and a little ingenuity.”
Pendrith nodded. “You probably want to know what’s going on.”
“Good guess.”
Pendrith had regained his composure and sat watching Hugo, his lips pursed as he thought. “Here’s the deal, old boy. Graham Stopford-Pendrith got in over his head. Has some people looking for him and needs to disappear.”
“Who? And why?”
“Can’t tell you either of those things.” Pendrith looked up as the waiter appeared at his shoulder. “Rien, merci. Je pars.”
“Leaving already? I don’t think so, Pendrith; you have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I’m sure you think so. I’m not one of the bad guys, Hugo, I’ll tell you that much. I’m really not. I hope you realize that.”
“Explain it to me.”
“I don’t have time. I have some bags to pack and a plane to catch.”
“And you expect me to just let you disappear?”
“I do.” Pendrith cleared his throat, then leaned forward. “I assume you didn’t bring your weapon? You’re a bit of a cowboy but basically a rule follower, and I suspect you’d lose your job if some Frog caught you with a gun over here, am I right?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I have the advantage. And it’s pointing at your groin.”
Hugo hadn’t noticed Pendrith slipping his hands into his pockets, but they were there now. He may be bluffing, Hugo knew, but when it came to guns, he didn’t take chances. As long as he stayed in a public place and did as he was asked, Pendrith wouldn’t do anything. “So you’re pointing a gun at me and you’re one of the good guys?”
“In self-preservation mode. As your Thomas Jefferson said, ‘We have the wolf by the ears, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other.’”
“That’s a riddle, Pendrith, not an explanation.”
“Think about it.” He sat back. “I assume you know where my apartment is?”
“Correct.”
“And I assume once I’m no longer pointing this gun at you, you’ll head over there?”
“I want to know who killed Ginny Ferro and Brian Drinker. And, I assume, Dayton Harper.” Pendrith’s eyes gave nothing away, so Hugo played another card. “I also want to know who killed Harry Walton.”
A shadow passed across Pendrith’s eyes, but only for a second. “Walton?”
“Yeah, they found his car burned out, a body in it. Fits his description.”
Pendrith smiled. “But they didn’t make a proper ID yet?”
“Not yet, but they will.”
“Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”
“Yes, Alexander Pope, very clever. You don’t think Walton’s dead?”
“Do you?”
“No, I don’t. I think he’s the one trying to find you.”
“That so? What’s your theory?”
“Unfinished. But I’m pretty sure you two know each other. Maybe from Braxton Hall, maybe not. But you both put yourselves squarely into an investigation that didn’t concern you. Walton even risked losing a story when he could have had a front-page, national headline. Journalists don’t do that.”
“So what makes you think we know each other?”
“Two things; one big, one small. The obvious one is that you had no way to leave the Rising Moon. You didn’t seem to like each other, so when you both left about the same time I didn’t even think you might have gone together. But you did, didn’t you? You had no other way to leave the village.”
Pendrith didn’t respond at first, then asked, “And the small thing?”
“Something I should have noticed, or paid attention to, also at the pub when Walton brought us beer.”
“What about it?”
“If he’d asked the publican what we were drinking, the man wouldn’t have remembered. He told us he’d forgotten who had which drink when he delivered the food. And if Walton had paid attention to what we drank, he would have brought me a pale ale. I think he knows your strong feelings about beer and defaulted to that, brought two pints of what he knows you like.”
“Bit of a stretch, old boy.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Pendrith studied Hugo for a moment, as if deciding. “It’s a long story. Long and sordid and, God willing, it’s a story that will never be told. Certainly not by me.”
“That’s why you’re disappearing. So you don’t have to face him or tell this sordid story?” When Pendrith didn’t respond, Hugo asked, “So where are you going now?”
“To pick up a few belongings and then tallyho.”
“You’re leaving your whole life behind, just like that?”
“The alternative, according to my analysis, is a life behind bars. One I can manage, the other I cannot. So yes, I’ll take my chances on the run.”