Category:

"I see the problem," said John. Both yours and mine. John knew his friend very well; he would focus on this man, and nothing else, until he got answers. The window to ask for his favor had closed. A shame, too. All he'd wanted was for Paul to get him into Fashion Week so he could see Francie. Those events were invitation-only, and Paul could quickly secure them with his connections. Not now. John needed a new approach.

The elevator doors opened in the lobby. They rushed out, heading to the front of the hotel. John sensed the frantic atmosphere as they dodged hotel workers, who were staying calm while moving at a visibly faster clip, stern looks replacing smiles.

He needed to see Francie, and this week might be his last chance. Something had happened, and he had to find out what. They had stayed in touch, writing and even speaking on the phone, then she went quiet. No letters, no calls. Until last week, when he'd received her letter stating their relationship was over. She was coming to Cannes for Fashion Week but didn't want to see him. Not even a quick hello, and she gave no reason. Whatever it was, John was sure he could work it out. But he had to see her. Right now, Paul was his only hope. Every other attempt to attend Fashion Week had failed, in no small part because of his reputation. He knew Paul was attending; he considered it his duty to participate in cultural events. And he was going to ask Paul to bring him along as his guest. That was John's favor. Now, if he asked, Paul would deny the request. But he had an idea. Maybe Paul would bring him not as a guest, but in another capacity.

They exited through the lobby doors and onto the sidewalk, turning toward the body.

A crowd was gathering.

He grabbed Paul's arm, then stopped. Up ahead, hovering over the man's body, was Lepic, commissaire divisionnaire, the highest- ranking policeman east of Marseille, and the last man John wanted to see.

Lepic straightened his tie as he marched toward the police officers, standing like bookends next to the body on the ground. Lepic wiped his mustache with his fingers, ensuring no vestiges of dinner clung to his face. "Crime occurs at the most inopportune times," he thought. He cleared his throat, then shouted, "Everyone back! This is a police investigation." The officers snapped into action, moving the crowd away from the body.

As he neared the scene, he scanned the crowd for local dignitaries, knowing he could change his style based on whoever might be watching. Then he stopped and looked hard at one man in particular. There he was, standing over by the hotel entrance— John Robie himself. Lepic's lips curled. John Robie was the source of his greatest triumph and most humiliating failure. He'd worked hard to forget the shame that man had caused him, and yet there he stood, talking with Paul le Comte Du Pre de la Tour. Lepic shook his head. Count Paul Du Pre, a descendant of French royalty. Tall, broad shouldered, handsome, and wealthy beyond comparison, Paul was a man of the highest integrity and the noblest bloodline. The exact opposite of John Robie. It amazed him that those two could be friends.

Lepic turned back to the body and noticed a shoe between himself and the dead man. Looking further, he saw it belonged to the deceased. He kicked it toward the body and seethed, "Clean this up now! I want this crowd gone, and I want this body removed. Am I being clear?"

He looked back at John and Paul. He hadn't seen John in a long time. Not since he'd coasted around like he was immune to the law, supposedly helping solve the string of robberies. He wasn't so sure, and neither were his colleagues at the regional office.

The headlines read that the jewels had been recovered, and a young gypsy was to blame, but Lepic knew better. The resolution was too coincidental, something upon which his fellow officers pounced. If it seems too good to be true, it is, they told him. But he had been dealt an impossible hand. His superiors had pressured him to close the case, then reprimanded him for the glaring holes.

He gritted his teeth. Incidents like that derailed careers. And the person responsible was standing over there, in shirtsleeves, sweating like a farmhand. Just a few feet away from a dead man.

Wait a minute. Lepic put his hands on his hips, then stared. Perhaps it wasn't a wasted night after all. From where he stood, John Robie's presence was more than questionable. He nodded, agreeing with himself. Lepic bit his lip to hold back his elation. John Robie was back in play!

"I'll wait here," said John. Paul tipped his head in agreement, then headed toward the cluster of police. John looked over at the group encircling the body, and staring right back at him was Lepic. He turned away, casually and slowly, and began drifting through the crowd. Last summer's explanation to the inspector had been a stretch.

John knew as much, so he'd spent four months in Italy. John smelled him before he saw him. That pungent, rotten stench of onions, garlic, and sour wine. From behind a wall of watchers stepped Coco, a man he knew from his days in prison and with the French Resistance. He stopped a good five feet away and eyed Coco's hands and pockets. The man was a master with a casse- tête, a rudimentary, compact skull cracker, which he had used to great effect during midnight assaults on German outposts. How the Germans hadn't smelled Coco, he never knew.

"Ahhh, my friend John Robie," said Coco, pronouncing it using the French "Jean" and dragging it out for effect. "Is funny, I find you over here"—he then nodded toward the police—"and a dead man over there. Are you in trouble? Has the legendary Boche- strangler come back, or is it Le Chat again? You wear many hats, as they say."

John eyed his former colleague. The man's voice hadn't changed. It still sounded like a rusty saw pulling across a limestone wall.

He put his hands out, palms up. He'd always liked Coco, and they'd worked well together in the Resistance. But there was something about him now. Something behind that grin. It came to him in a single word: Menace.