Gauge turned a limpid expression on the inspector. “They came in yesterday, sir. I placed them on your desk as you ordered.”
“Good God, I forgot to look at them!” Summer turned even paler.
Malgreave shut his eyes for a moment. It was no wonder so many old women had died. He was surrounded by incompetents; even his most trusted assistant was letting his ambition get in the way of the most rudimentary practices. “Get the other messages,” he said, his voice soft and very dangerous.
Summer scrambled from the room, returning moments later with a sheaf of neatly typed pages. “They’re on pages three and five …” he began, but Malgreave snatched them out of his hand.
“I don’t need you to point them out to me, Josef,” he said. “After all, you haven’t seen them before either, have you? Have you?”
“No, sir,” he mumbled.
At another day, another time, Malgreave would have taken pity on him. But not now. “Do you have any idea where these came from? Was the automatic tracer working?”
“Only on the first ones,” Gauge said calmly. “They were made from Paris. The number and address is listed. The one today was a trunk call, and they take longer. The man hung up before we could trace it.”
“So what we must do,” Malgreave said bitterly, “is wait, and hope that Bonnard or Guillère don’t catch up with these poor people. And the French police are left sitting on their hands. Damn you both for your incompetence!”
“Should we call the gendarmes?” Josef suggested timidly. “They have jurisdiction over rural matters …” He subsided in the face of Malgreave’s fierce glare.
“And tell them what? That we have some people on the run, somewhere in France? I don’t think they’ll appreciate the information, and I won’t appreciate being made a laughingstock by the army. We wait. We already have warrants out for Guillère and Bonnard. If we find them, the Americans are safe.”
“And if we don’t?”
Malgreave smiled sourly. “Then you can kiss any future advancement good-bye, Josef. And their blood will be on your hands.”
And Josef, thinking not of guilt but the anger of his ambitious Helga, groaned softly.
CHAPTER 22
They must have driven for hours. Claire lost track of time, staring into the rain, listening to the incomprehensible crackle and buzz of the car radio. Nicole, once she had finished eating every remaining crumb of junk food, leaned over the back seat and began an amiable conversation with Tom that soon lapsed into French. For once Claire didn’t care. It freed her from the necessity of keeping up a front. She could sit there in the front seat with the scent of Hélène’s Opium still lingering, mixing with the smell of chocolate and chips and exhaust, and think about the man she would have killed.
There were no headlights following them, spearing through the gradually diminishing rain. They were alone in the growing night, their Peugeot a tiny boat in the vast black sea of rural France, and for a while Claire played with the illusion of safety. It didn’t last. For all their sense of isolation, in the end she knew Marc would find them. When they thought they were safely hidden in some rural pension, waiting for the police to finally listen, Marc would appear. She could only hope they would see him first.
“Where are we?” she finally roused herself to ask. “Where are we going?”
She could feel the concern in Tom’s eyes as he glanced over at the tightly clenched fists resting in her lap. “I can’t say exactly. We’re somewhere beyond Jassy, heading into a more rural section. I’m afraid our accommodations aren’t going to be up to the old farmhouse. There’s an empty barn not too far from here that should do for tonight. Tomorrow we can head back to town and try to get through to those idiots in Paris once more.”
“All right.” She turned to look back at Nicole. She had chocolate on her face, her lank brown hair was a tangled mess, but she seemed surprisingly at ease amidst the clutter of the back seat. “Are you okay, Nicole?”
She grinned in response. “I like this,” she said calmly. “It’s an adventure.”
Thank God for children, Claire thought. “Yes, it is.”
“As long as Marc doesn’t catch us,” Nicole added soberly. “But he won’t. Tom has promised he’ll cut his heart out if he tries to touch me again.”
Claire controlled the tiny shiver. “Sounds messy.”
“It is what he deserves,” Nicole said in a complacent tone of voice. “Do you want any chocolate, Claire?”
This time Claire did shudder. “No, thanks. I’m not really hungry.”
“Well, I am. Tom promised that when we get to America he’ll take me to McDonalds and Burger King and Pizza House …”
“Pizza Hut,” Tom corrected, carefully keeping his face averted.
“When will this be?” Claire asked calmly.
“When we all go to New York to live. Tom says I may have to spend some time with my great-aunt Jacqueline, but apart from her, you’re my only living relative. So I’ll stay with you when you and Tom get married and I’ll become a real American girl.”