‘Comment?’
‘She means you take advantage,’ Paul explained. ‘Is Simon back yet?’
‘No, he is still with the Whitakers, I think.’ Again the grin. ‘It has been quiet here, today.’
Paul turned from the front desk and looked a question at me. ‘You sick of my company, yet?’
‘Of course not. Why?’
‘Feel like having a drink or something? I know I could use one.’ Paul glanced back at Thierry. ‘The bar is open, isn’t it?’
‘Of course. You have had a nice time, sightseeing?’
‘Very nice.’ Paul smiled. ‘But don’t forget, now, it’s a—’
‘—secret,’ Thierry finished. ‘Do not worry, I am good at keeping secrets. If I had a franc for every secret in this hotel,’ he said, grinning, ‘I would not be needing to work.’
But he condescended to serve us anyway, before vanishing once more into the back rooms. Paul sipped his beer and leaned an elbow on the stack of freshly laundered clothes, which he’d set carefully beside him on his customary window seat. Behind his shoulder I could see the concrete planter outside, with its single pink geranium. It made a pitiful splash of colour against the shadowed backdrop of the busy fountain square.
Paul reached for his cigarettes and offered me the packet. ‘Want one?’
‘What? Oh, no thanks.’ Smiling, I shook my head. ‘No, I gave up smoking, years ago. Last night was just a momentary lapse.’
‘A momentary lapse that saved my butt,’ he pointed out. He lit one for himself and settled back. ‘So, what’s our next move?’
I gave a faint, defeatist shrug. ‘I don’t know. I’m rather tired of thinking about Harry, actually.’
‘So take a break,’ was his advice, ‘and drink your drink.’
It was, I decided, sound advice from one so young. I leaned back in my chair and sighed. But I couldn’t let it drop entirely. ‘What did Martine Muret’s ex-husband do for a living, do you know?’
Paul smiled at my obstinacy. ‘He was unemployed, I think. Simon actually met the guy once, he might know. Simon didn’t like Muret – thought he was a real jerk. He was drunk, you know, when he fell over that railing. That’s how he died. And I guess he gave Martine a hell of a rough time when they were married. He didn’t hit her or anything, I don’t think, but he was … well, he was pretty rude. Embarrassing. The kind of guy who likes to play the big shot, you know?’
Like Jim and Garland in reverse, I thought. No wonder Martine hadn’t been upset by her ex-husband’s death. To her, it must have been almost a deliverance.
Close by, a car door slammed and Paul craned his neck to peer out of the window, beyond my line of vision, towards the hotel’s front entrance. ‘So much for our quiet drink,’ he said, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette.
‘Why? Are they back already?’
‘Do you know,’ he mused, his dark eyes twinkling, ‘I think I’ll just slip round to Christian’s and give him back that key.’
‘Coward,’ I teased him. But he just laughed, and winked, and ducked like lightning through the back door as the returning tour party from Fontevraud descended upon the Hotel de France in a blur of sound and motion.
* * *
The transatlantic line hummed thick with static, and it seemed an age before my father picked the phone up at his end. It was suppertime in Uruguay, and I’d obviously caught him in mid-meal. His voice at first was hard to understand.
‘Mmwamph,’ he said, when I apologised for calling at this hour, and ‘Barrrumph-ba’ was his comment after that. He cleared his throat, and coughed. ‘You’re still in France, then, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still on your own?’
‘Yes. Actually, that’s why I called …’ I twined the phone cord round my fingers, then in a rush of explanation told him what I’d found.
‘The King John coin? You’re sure of that?’
I nodded, not caring that he couldn’t see the gesture. ‘I’ve got it right here, in my room. And I don’t think he’d have left it anywhere unless he meant to leave it, only that doesn’t make much sense, does it?’ I sighed, plucking at the coverlet of my bed. ‘Honestly, Daddy, I don’t know what else I can do.’
‘Well, it sounds as though you’ve handled things quite sensibly.’
‘I thought I might just ring Aunt Jane—’
‘Good Heavens, no!’ My father’s voice came booming down the line, emphatic. ‘No point getting her upset for nothing – and it may well be for nothing, knowing Harry. No, I think you’d better leave it all with me. I’ve still got friends you know, in Paris. I’ll ask some questions, stir around, see whether they can track him down. All right?’
Which meant, I thought, he’d likely make some notes, then forget all about it before tomorrow morning. I smiled. ‘All right.’
‘Just leave it all with me,’ he said again, in charge now, reassuring. ‘And Emily?’
‘Yes, Daddy?’
‘Don’t let it worry you too much, either, will you? Comes sailing clean through any crisis, does Harry. No point in losing sleep over him.’
That, at least, seemed sound advice. I repeated it to myself that night as I lay restless underneath the covers of my bed, my dry eyes fixed upon the mottled shadows dancing on my ceiling. No point in losing sleep, I thought firmly, but it didn’t help.