Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Waiters were hurrying around the terrace now like ants, collapsing striped umbrellas and ushering everyone inside. They waved their arms as people gathered their things and scattered.
‘We’d better go.’ Charlie grabbed her bag as a fat drop of water hit her cheek and slid down her neck. It was quickly followed by another.
Detective Allard took her arm and they ran through the raindrops until they reached the crowded hotel foyer. Allard held her hand and they squeezed their bodies through the damp, clammy crowd yelling for taxis, more champagne or to have clean towels sent to their room, until they reached the stairs leading to Charlie’s room. For a split second, Charlie was tempted to bring his hand to her waist and have him follow her upstairs. If only she and Violet were not sharing a room.
The humidity, wind and rain had cast a witchy spell on her. Allard had dropped his joking façade and revealed hisvulnerability, his loss and failings. She longed to reach out and console him, to trace the bare skin she could glimpse through his wet shirt.
Instead, she released his hand, touched his cheek ever so slightly, and said, ‘Bonne nuit, Detective Allard,’ kissing both his cheeks before she realised she was doing it and trying to ignore the scent of sandalwood and rain soaking through his shirt.
‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle James. Charlie.’ He smiled warmly and stepped back, bumping into a young man waving his hand to catch a waiter’s attention. He stepped forward, gathered himself and said, ‘I’ll keep in contact with you. For the case.’
‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Charlie in a voice that sounded far more professional than she felt in that moment. She turned and ran up the stairs before she acted on the impulse she knew she’d regret later. This was work, and she had a serious case to report on. A story she could help resolve—and this time she was not going to let anything get in her way.
Chapter 15
CAFÉ DE FLORE, PARIS
It was the morning after her return from Tours and Charlie James switched her weight from one leg to the other as she waited for her unofficial appointment to pull up to the kerb. When a black limousine parked in front of her, Charlie opened the passenger door to the immaculate green bun and beaming face of Lady Ashworth.
The designer shuffled to the far side and patted the seat. ‘Bonjour, Just Charlie. Hop in and close the door. Cardo, I call her Just Charlie as that’s how she introduced herself to me, instead of being called Charlotte. But trust me, Charlie is notJustanything.’ She turned back to Charlie. ‘Dear Monsieur Cardo has agreed to speak with you … anonymously of course.’
Charlie climbed into the vehicle, taking care not to knock her head, and swung the car door closed. It was heavier than it looked.
‘Merci, Monsieur Cardo, I’m grateful,’ she said, eyeing the silver star on his lapel. ‘I understand the poor victim in Tours was a colleague. I’m sorry for your loss.’
Cardo gave a solemn nod and crossed himself.
‘Would you mind telling me how long Pierre Jouet worked with your company?’
‘More than a decade,’ replied Cardo, who spoke in clipped English as he fidgeted in his seat.
‘Did Jouet ever give you the impression that he worked with anyone unsavoury? Was he tied up in something, gambling maybe?Jeux?I’m trying to think of anything his wife would not be aware of.’
Cardo shook his head. ‘Non. He was a good man.Très bon.’ The chauffeur patted his heart and looked sad.
‘Did you have much to do with Jouet outside work?’
‘Non. We tend to keep to ourselves. By the time we clean the cars and get home, our days are long.’
Lady Ashworth had the grace to pick at something on her glove and avoid her chauffeur’s eyes, but Charlie saw the edge of her mouth twitch.
‘When I spoke with Lady Ashworth, she mentioned that you might perchance have had an opportunity to look at the bookings list. Are you able to tell me who booked Jouet’s car?’
‘There was just one name for this booking. Ludwig. I’m uncertain if it was his last name or given name. I asked the secretarywho takes the bookings on the phone, and she said it was for a single passenger. He sounded German.’
This was circumstantial evidence—no real link between her two latest stories. There were many Germanic men in the world. Hell, she’d even been writing stories on the German Chancellor and the German economy this past week. But quietly, in her gut, Charlie made a link … even if the police and her editor would frown upon her jumping twenty steps ahead.
Her instincts had always served her well, so she would play the press game but dig deeper off the books. Charlie was going to lure the monster out of the cave. Violet would be proud!
‘Did the passenger, the German, happen to leave an address?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Non,’ replied Cardo, moustache twitching. Charlie’s time was almost up. She was losing him.
‘We’ll be on our way in a moment, Monsieur Cardo,’ soothed Lady Ashworth. ‘I mustn’t be late for my meeting at the Louvre.’
‘If I could trouble you with one last question. Where was the pick-up and drop-off booked for?’