“ANOTHER DEATH!” SNAPPED SIR Charles. “What’s going on there? Who is it this time?”
It was the last thing I wanted to do but I had to make it the first. I had two champagne cocktails, then called Sir Charles, and he was not patient. Our conversation began with him telling me of Pertois’s call. Sir Charles said he knew that the Association des Vins had an investigative branch and that he told them little other than that I was investigating on his behalf. “I didn’t even want to do that,” he grumbled.
Mention of a dowser threw him into further perplexity and I foolishly let slip a word about treasure, which stretched the conversation still longer. We concluded with him agreeing that I should continue for a few days more after I had recklessly promised results in that time.
The dining room was only partly full and Madame was excited over her purchase of a small quantity of bar, a sought-after but uncommon Mediterranean fish that is usually called striped bass in English. I promptly ordered it. For the first course, I had grilled eggplant with strips of red pepper flavored with basil, garlic, pine nuts, and lemon juice. The bar was “Duglere” style—covered with tomatoes, onions, thyme, garlic, and bay, then poached in white wine. It was excellent, served with green beans only. I was debating between dessert or just coffee when Madame said there was a lady on the phone for me, so I took it in my room.
It was Veronique. Her voice was shaky. “Edouard just phoned me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he wanted me to come to his office, then he hung up.”
“Are you sure it was your husband?”
She hesitated. “It—it sounded like his voice but I’m not absolutely sure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going—now. That is—” she hesitated again, “if you’ll come with me.”
Before I could ask myself if this was a good idea, I was already saying, “All right. I’ll come.”
“The office is at 24 rue de Brabant. It’s just near the Opera House. Do you know where that is?” I told her that I did. “There’s a little café called Marie’s—let’s meet there. In about an hour.”
“Veronique—” I said quickly before she could hang up.
“Yes?”
“Remember that revolver you pointed at me? Bring it.”
There was a pause then she said, “I will.”
Even with Nice’s parking problems, it was still a few minutes short of an hour when I left the car and walked to the café. She was inside, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. I noticed that there were several butts in the ashtray. She had already put a banknote under her saucer. She stubbed out the cigarette, gave me a half smile, and we went out.
“It’s very near,” she said. “Edouard used to come in here quite often.” She sounded quiet but firm. I didn’t ask her if she had the gun.
We turned down the first narrow street, which was one block from the Opera House. At one end, the Mediterranean shimmered, a vertical slit of blue with sea and sky merging. We went the other way. The street had cars parked illegally on both sides, half on the sidewalk. Somewhere a horn was blaring, leaned on by a trapped driver. Veronique led me down a tiny alley which garbage cans made an obstacle course and hadn’t been cleaned since the Nazis left.
Veronique stopped at a rusting steel door, opened it with a key, and turned a big handle. She led the way up steep narrow stairs and I followed, my eyes on a level with her slim ankles. At the first floor, we stopped, although the stairs went on up. A door had a wood panel saying Edouard Morel, Investigations. Veronique knocked and the sound was loud and hollow, but it brought no response. She turned the knob but the door was locked. She brought out the same keyring and used the smaller key on it.
It was a small compact office with the usual furniture of a tight-budget operation—that is to say, no gadgetry beyond a telephone. She picked up a handful of letters from the floor and looked through them. She put them on the desk and shook her head. “Nothing of importance.”
I pointed to the corner of the office. “What about that?”
At first she was bewildered, then she saw the wastebasket.
“It’s full! Yes, that is different.” She lifted it and upended it on the desk. We went through the items together. An invitation to a luncheon at the Hôtel Mercure, an offer of a credit card with unbelievably low interest rates from the Banque Commerciale de Nice, a reminder to renew a subscription to a news magazine, an electricity bill, a request from the Socialist Party for a donation, a lot of advertising leaflets and a restaurant receipt were all it contained.
Veronique was looking at the restaurant receipt.
“Where is it from?”
“La Toque Imperiale in Ajaccio, Corsica, dated four days ago.”
I recalled that the unfortunate Andre Chantier, the worker at the Willesford vineyard, had been found drowned in Marseille—his lungs full of the water of Ajaccio.
She said suddenly, “Look!” Morel had a large spike on his desk with several notes speared on it. We should have noticed it sooner as the note on top had “Veronique” in large printed letters on it. She carefully detached it and smoothed it out. We both read it.
URGENT. SORRY—COULDN’T WAIT. COME AT ONCE TO FORUM IN HERCULANUM. KEY IN TOP DRAWER.
“He must have been here. Do you recognize his writing?”
“This printing—I’m not sure. It has to be Edouard though, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” I wasn’t convinced—everything connected with Edouard Morel was shadowy and uncertain, but I wanted to reassure her.
She opened the top drawer of the desk. A large bronze key was there with a cardboard tag tied to its ring. The tag was labeled only with the letter H. With it was a printed brochure describing the site.
“Herculanum? That’s the old Roman town, isn’t it? The one that’s still being excavated?”
“Yes. But what can it have to do with Edouard?”
“I don’t know. Are you going out there?” I asked Veronique.
She gave me a stern look. “Of course. Aren’t you coming?”
If it was going to be a reunion with her husband, I didn’t particularly want to be present, but I doubted it was that straightforward. “You did bring that gun, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“Right,” I said. “Let’s go.”