CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Hugo stepped outside of Château Lambourd barely a minute after Camille Lerens did, his boots crunching on the same gravel that her tires had kicked up as she sped from the property. The sun had drifted downward in the western sky, and was now floating behind the trees that separated the château’s manicured lawns and the public lands of Parc Monceau, casting long shadows over the grass and the driveway in front of Hugo.

He started walking toward the exit that would lead through a private gate, down a small alley, and then onto the Boulevard Malesherbes, which was busy at this time of night with people looking for somewhere to grab a late bite to eat, or a nightcap if they’d already dined. The smell of grilled lamb drifted over to him, quickly overtaken by a closer and familiar odor of freshly baked pizza.

He decided to eat alone, not wanting to wait for however long it might take Claudia or Tom to get to him and, in any case, he’d been around people all day and welcomed the idea of a few minutes to indulge himself, by himself. He might even eschew the house wine for something more sumptuous. Not anything the Lambourds would drink, no doubt, but something that would linger on the tongue rather than just wash the day from the back of his throat.

He walked with one eye on the sidewalk cafés and restaurants, not caring about the type of food or name on the awning, looking instead for just the right seat—one looking out onto the sidewalk, with his back to the wall (not window), and preferably away from any heavy smokers. A quarter mile from the Parc, he spotted the perfect dining spot and slid quickly through several rows of happy eaters and squeezed himself behind the small round pedestal that bistros and cafés used as tables.

To his left, six old men had pulled tables close to sit together and were ordering, some in broken French but some fluently, which intrigued Hugo. He listened. It was a new mystery to solve, how these men of different nationalities knew each other, were eating together.

It turned out to be not much of a mystery. They were comrades from the Second World War, a mix of French and English survivors whose paths had crossed seven decades previously in the worst possible way. Here they were, together again, to share as many bottles of wine as they wanted instead of sipping stale water from mud-spattered canteens. To enjoy plates of escargots and duck confit instead of chewing on stale bread and scooping franks and beans from a can. The waitress brought him a basket of bread, and Hugo pointed to a mid-range-priced bottle on the menu for himself, more interested in the conversation to his left than whether he’d ordered a Bordeaux or a Burgundy. From what he could tell, two of the men knew each other well, one Frenchman with a fine, white mustache and the American who sat beside him. The American seemed to know the other four, but he’d introduced them to the Frenchman as if they were strangers, swapping not just names but also regiment details from their war service.

Hugo was distracted for a moment when a waiter slid between the close tables in front of him with a large pizza dripping over the edge of a plate, the scent of blue cheese and caramelized onions reminding him to order, and order fast. But his ears tuned back into the old boys’ chatter, mostly because they were telling literal war stories, and Hugo had long been fascinated with both world wars. He was almost annoyed when his phone rang, but when he saw it was Claudia he gladly answered.

“It’s a sad day when I get news about my lover, the great American cowboy, from the internet before I get it from him,” she chided.

“What now? Did I mastermind the heist of the Mona Lisa or something?”

“Quite the opposite. That Marchand character was saying nice things about you, how the Tuileries shootings case is closed, and you’re a hero after all.”

“Closed? I never said it was closed, not at all.”

“Hugo, it’s his case, not yours. He gets to decide that.”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you outside? You’re not on a date, are you?” Hugo smiled. “Would you mind if I was?”

“I’d dash over there and murder the bitch,” Claudia said, with a giggle.

“I’m having a bite at a bistro before heading home.”

“With Tom?”

“No.”

“Camille?” Claudia guessed.

“With Hugo, and only Hugo.”

“Are you serious?” She sounded genuinely outraged this time. “Hugo, you should’ve called me. I have nothing to do tonight and haven’t seen you for months. Or it feels like months.”

“Days, technically. But I know what you mean.” Beside him, one of the old Americans had launched into a tale about being stuck in a burning church in the middle of nowhere with a sniper just waiting for them to come out. He tried listening to both the old man and Claudia, but he missed her question. “I’m sorry, what did you ask? A little noisy here.”

“About how the case is going. But call me when you get home, if you’re not too tired. You can tell me from the comfort of your couch.”

“I could do that,” Hugo said. “Or, if you want to meet me there in an hour, I can tell you in person from the comfort of my bed.”

“I like the sound of that. Want me to bring anything?”

“If you have a decent bottle lying around, you can bring that,” Hugo said. “And maybe that French maid costume.”

“We just call them maids here, Hugo.” She laughed again. “And you must be thinking of one of your other girlfriends. I have no such thing.”

“I’ll take you how you are, my dear, costume or not.”

“Same. But maybe greet me at the door in a double-breasted suit and that fedora I like.”

“We’ll see. Make it ninety minutes. I haven’t ordered yet and need to get back home somehow.”

“And find that suit.”

Hugo chuckled. “Yes, and find that suit.”

The waitress appeared as Hugo hung up, and he ordered the same pizza that had wafted past his nose. It would be too big for just him, of course, but leftovers were always a good idea. That done, he sat back, took a large mouthful of wine, and tuned back into the war stories flowing over the table next to him. The Frenchman with the white mustache had a hand on his American friend’s shoulder, and they were taking turns with their story about the sniper.

“There was one way out,” the Frenchman was saying, and in impressively good English. “And George, he finds three twigs for the three of us. Breaks one in half and holds them so we can’t see the broken one.”

George guffawed, and spoke to the other four men. “Arnaud here looked at me like I was crazy. Like I’d lost it. He had no idea about drawing the short straw!”

All six men laughed, and the one furthest from Hugo, a tiny old man wearing a blue baseball cap, asked, “So, what happened? Who got the short straw?”

The two comrades looked at each other and then down at their drinks. Eventually, George spoke. “The man who’s not here. His name was JJ. Good man, could make you laugh on your worst day.”

“He went out first, huh?” the hat man said quietly.

“Mais, non,” Arnaud said, a look of surprise on his face. “You were never in that situation, my friend, that much is clear.”

“He drove tanks, remember?” George said, nudging his French comrade.

“Ahh, oui. Of course.” He took a slow sip of what looked like whisky. “First out, no, that’s not how it works.” He looked up at the man with the cap. “There was one way out. The building was on fire. That bastard knew we had to come out at some point, and soon. He was waiting, watching. And one thing he knew, we wouldn’t come out until we had to.” He waved an arm. “Maybe reinforcements would come, drive him away, and save us. Maybe it would rain and the fire would stop. No, he knew we’d only come out when we had to. And I could picture him looking down the barrel, the sights of his gun on the front door of that damned church, his finger on the trigger.” He took another sip. “George here went first. That bastard got a shot off but was well behind. This old man used to be fast!”

“A donkey is fast when it’s being shot at,” George said. “Bet your ass I was.”

“I went second. The shots were closer to me but I ran until I got to where George was. Safe.” He sighed and shook his head. “By then, the sniper had his eye trained, his reflexes. JJ was faster than us, but not fast enough. One shot, his brains in the dust.”

“We told him to wait,” George said quietly. “We said we’d find the sniper and kill him, but the fire was too fast, too hot, there wasn’t time. So we tried to distract the sniper. We knew JJ was making the most difficult run, was in the most danger. We didn’t have enough bullets to shoot so we started throwing things, that barrel, you remember?”

“Yes.” Arnaud nodded. “But it was obvious what we were doing. It was too loud, so clear to the bastard sniper it was just a distraction. And told him where we were, which made him feel safe. And so all we can do is occasionally meet on the anniversary of that day, apologize to JJ for failing him, and drink ourselves closer to joining him, wherever he is.” He raised his glass and the other five did the same. “To mon ami, JJ Hensley.”

“Wait a minute.” The man with the blue cap sat with his drink in the air, staring at George. “Your last name is Hensley.”

“Yep,” George said. “JJ was my little brother. He was my only brother, and I couldn’t save him.”

There were murmurs of sympathy around the table, but Hugo didn’t hear. Didn’t see the waitress arrive with his pizza, and a flirtatious smile. Didn’t see or hear anything except the interior of Château Lambourd, and the rushing sound in his ears. It happened like it always happened, the kaleidoscope of facts jumbled and spinning in his head, colorful and confusing, jigsaw pieces tumbling around each other to show visions of what happened but no coherent picture.

Until they did.

In these moments, Hugo found it hard to breathe, his whole body focusing as the pieces fell into place and the picture formed. Where gaps remained his mind reached for the things he understood the least and tried them, one by one, until the edges matched up and their meaning became clear. And as exciting as these seconds were, there was always a tinge of regret that it’d taken him so long. He looked down at his phone, which he’d pulled out without realizing, and dialed Camille Lerens.

“I know what happened,” Hugo said. “And I know why.”

“Seriously? How? I mean who, and what?”

“Ironically, some old men nearby. They were a distraction for me, and they were talking about a distraction that didn’t work. It was too obvious. The distractions, I knew there was something off. I knew it but I couldn’t figure out what it was until now.”

“The paintings, you mean?”

“No, they weren’t a distraction at all. They were the point.”

“Then what are you talking about?” Hugo didn’t respond, a new thought swelling inside his mind. “Hugo, answer me. And how sure are you? Do we need to get over there tonight?”

“Oh, my God.” Hugo rose slowly to his feet as he realized what was about to happen. “Not just tonight, Camille. We need to get over there right now. Hurry!”