And seemed quite unconcerned.
The drizzle was turning to rain. Slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and hunching his shoulders, he ran in a funny, stifF-legged lope up to the corner, just across from me. He paused; squinted both ways; then dashed across the road, into the park. From inside the cafe, I watched his back, but if anyone was following him, I didn't see them… though in the next ninety seconds or so, one car turned into, another out of, that street. Still, it seemed that he'd gotten away with it — Subotin probably hadn't arrived in Paris yet — and so I took after him. The rain began to come down hard, trickling under my collar. I could see the boy up ahead; he was hustling along, but that was clearly because of the rain: whatever he'd done in Hamilton's apartment hadn't worried him. And if he'd taken something out of it, it was small enough to fit into his pocket. So it was probably nothing exciting: money, a checkbook, credit cards — the sort of thing Hamilton might have forgotten in his rush to get out of the place after I'd phoned. Head down, I ran through the park, catching up to him as we arrived back at the Boulevard Jourdan. Sparing his fancy boots, California picked his way across, neatly avoiding puddles, but by the time I came up to the curb, the traffic was heavy and I had to wait. I could see him plainly, though. And this time he went into one of the buildings. He was long gone before I was across the street, so I went straight back to the parking lot.
I had a twelve-minute wait, but then he emerged and walked slowly across to the Dodge. Again, he displayed no signs of anxiety or suspicion. He got in, started the engine, and nosed past me, leaning forward over the wheel to rub a clear spot on the windshield. He turned onto the boulevard; then, returning to the peripherique, he led us back the way we'd come: through St.-Mande, then onto the A4. This was done, I might say, rather cautiously; he'd put his foot down if the traffic really opened up, but only for a few seconds, and I had the impression that he wasn't quite familiar with the car, and was even a little afraid of it. I didn't complain; I was having a hard enough time as it was. The rain was fairly heavy now, and in the little Renault I was constantly drowned in muddy spray from the big trucks. With relief, just before Villiers, I followed him off the autoroute onto a smaller highway running through the smaller towns and villages near the banks of the Marne. I hung back cautiously — on the autoroute I'd been one Renault among a thousand, but here I was much more exposed— though he showed no signs of being wary at all. Keeping a pleasant, sedate pace, we wiggled along behind the river — like a map illustrating the front line in September 1914—until he turned oif the highway and then, almost immediately, turned again, down a small side road. We were now about twenty-five or thirty miles from Paris, not far from Meaux. Here, all the land sloped down toward the river, whose course was marked by a gray, fuzzy line of trees in the distance. Slowly, bouncing over potholes, we made our way toward it, passing a few farms, huddled houses, and orchards and woodlots where the bare branches of the trees shook stiffly in the wind. After a couple of miles, a biggish, barnlike structure appeared on the right. The boy flashed his turn signal; I took my foot off the gas. The place was a roadside restaurant of the sort commercial travelers go for: big, fast service, decent, cheap food. Judging by the number of cars out front, they were doing good business. The boy headed in. Though there hadn't been the slightest sign that he suspected anyone was following him, I was cautious and drove past the entrance, then doubled back. As I parked, I was just in time to see him disappear inside.
I thought a moment. He hadn't seemed suspicious: but he had seen me in the cafe on the quai. Still, it was a little early for lunch, which made me curious, and there was a possibility — though I didn't see how — that he might be meeting Hamilton here. Deciding to chance it, I followed him in. And in fact there was no risk at alclass="underline" in front of the main dining room (very large) was a gloomy bar. I was able to sit there, pretty well hidden, and catch a glimpse of the boy every time someone opened the big swinging doors and went in to eat. He was alone and, I judged, had no expectations of meeting anyone.
I ordered a vermouth, then found I could get a sandwich and ate two ravenously. After that, I enjoyed an hour of French sociology. The bar was used by the locals, Meldois as they are called in this region; there was a fair traffic, but it kept moving, so the place was never crowded. Some of these people were farmers, taciturn but friendly, while others were men who'd retired to the country — comfortably off, but not rich, a sort of subgentry. They talked to each other about the weather and the roads and fishing, and made Paris seem a thousand miles away. After half an hour, I bought myself a second vermouth, and was just starting a third when the boy finally emerged. Once more, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He stood for a moment in the foyer, buttoning his jacket carefully and making people step around him, then pushed through the doorway. Still bearing in mind that he'd seen me in Paris, I stayed where
I was until I heard the Dodge's big engine start burbling. Then I got up, watching from the doorway as he drove across the parking lot. But now I got a surprise: instead of turning left, toward the highway, he headed right, down toward the river. But even as I sprinted back to the Renault, I understood. Indeed, it was obvious. I was within ten kilometers of the Marne, which flows into the Seine near Paris. The boy was meeting Hamilton — but Hamilton would be arriving by barge. So following the boy had been a terrific stroke of good luck… or so I thought until I turned the key in the Renault's ignition.
Nothing happened.
After three tries — and a slow count to fifty — I got out and propped up the hood. The engine was still warm after the morning's drive, and raindrops hissed on the block… but no matter how warm it was, or how well tuned, there was no way it was going to start when two of the ignition cables were missing.
I sat in the car.
The rain drummed on the roof and sheeted over the windshield, turning people leaving the restaurant into wavy, aqueous ghosts. Lighting a cigarette, I watched my warm breath turn to mist on the glass and told myself there were two possibilities, one frightening, the other merely annoying, but why be alarmist? I was certain that Subotin hadn't been in Hamilton's apartment; if he had been, he'd never have let the boy come out again. And I was almost sure that no one had followed us away from the place… But the lack of certainty made me shiver. There was no sense getting into a panic, however; more than likely, I'd just been too confident, too careless, and the boy hadn't been as innocent as he looked. He'd got on to me. And then he'd led me into this place— thereby getting me out of the car — and skillfully beached me: he'd been out of my sight just long enough to do it. Very neat, I thought; except it didn't make any difference. That is, it didn't make any difference if I was right about Hamilton coming by barge. I was too close to the river; I could walk there in an hour. I stubbed out my cigarette. I was fairly sure about all this — but not so sure that I wanted to waste any time. I ran back to the restaurant. The barman gave me plenty of sympathy, and offered to call a garage further down the N3, but I knew that would end up taking hours.