CHAPTER 20

Loretta’s—Rue Delambre

At exactly 9:12 P.M. I stood on the corner across the street from Loretta’s bistro. Through the window the place glimmered with life, the candlelit tables setting up a flickering pattern of light. Her bistro was crowded with the fashionable eaters now. The gourmets always munch slowly in dives like Loretta’s. They dawdle over their demitasse and tickle themselves with the fancy liqueurs. They sip Benedictine. They linger to laugh and talk.

I closed the gap for a close-up of her window.

At the bar, Vince Tomaselli sat with his pale shadow, Eric. They favored the same stools that held them last night. And Vince still glared at his face in the long mirror, lost in his creative fog. The nance’s lips moved fast, close to Tomaselli’s ear. The nance tried for laughter, enjoying his own joke. Vince didn’t respond. Eric was talking to himself.

Loretta came over and put an arm around Tomaselli. He turned to smile at her, but there was nothing in the grin. He lingered in the deep woods of a personal sadness. He was out of this world.

She led him to a table in the rear. She sat with him, snapping her fingers for a waiter. Tomaselli nibbled his hors d’oeuvres, a quiet eater. Loretta’s pretty face moved animatedly. She was working to please him. Any other man would have made quick passes at her. She leaned in close to him, as affectionate as a new bride.

But Vince said nothing, did nothing but chew his celery and stare into space.

I went back to the other side of the street, into a store marked TABAC. I phoned Loretta. There was a short pause while the waiter got her. I could see the tableau, through the window. Loretta leaned down and patted Vince affectionately.

In the next minute, her voice asked: “Yes?”

“Steve Conacher, remember?”

“But of course. I have been expecting your call.”

“You still want me for that dinner?”

“Mais, oui. It is all prepared.”

“Keep the stove hot,” I said. “I called to tell you that I’ll be held up for a while.”

“Oh, that is too bad,” she said with great sincerity. “Will you be long? I am open late, very late, you know.”

“It’s hard to say, Loretta. I’m finishing tonight.”

“Finishing? What does that mean?”

“I’ve found the missing girl.”

“No.” There was a breath of silence, an interval when the restaurant noises came through to me. “But, how wonderful,” she said at last. “When did this happen?”

“It’s about to happen. Right now.”

“You mean you are there? With the girl?”

“I’m on my way.”

“But you will come here afterwards?”

“Still want me?”

“I will be waiting,” she said pleasantly.

I beat it back across the street, at the private door to Loretta’s apartment stairway. Here I could see the scene up close, complete with sound effects. The noises of the restaurant came through the window, dull and muffled. I was flat against the pane, no more than three yards from Tomaselli, but out of his world, so far as he could see.

But he wouldn’t have looked my way for anything. Because he was jabbering with Loretta now. His face no longer held the vague and distant look of the dreamer. His lips moved fast, too fast for English. Loretta leaned in over the table, her hands gripping him. They were scared, both of them. Vince got to his feet, wiping his lips nervously. They pantomimed a frantic confusion of gestures and poses. The whole act built to a sudden climax. He was grabbing her hand and starting for the door. Eric Yale stopped them at the bar, but Tomaselli swept him away with a violent, desperate push.

Loretta and Vince ran across the street, back toward the broad avenue. They paused at the corner deliberating about a taxi. But Tomaselli would not wait for transportation. He continued along the avenue for two blocks, running at a trot, Loretta at his side.

They ducked to the right, down a quiet street. It would be tough running after them here. No traffic slid through this alley. No people moved. It was an area of darkened residences, most of the people inside already asleep. At the end of the block, Tomaselli shouted something at his companion. Her answer was soft and gentle, but I could catch no part of it.

Now we were circling a quiet park, approaching the entrance gate. He pulled her inside with him and they ran down a narrow lane beneath the trees, their figures lit only occasionally by the random lampposts along the walk. He would be cutting through to the opposite exit, but there was no way to take a short cut. I had a vague memory of this place from a studious session with a map of the city. This was the Luxembourg Gardens, a big park but a simple one. They turned to the left at a giant building. The street ahead was the Rue de Vaugirard.

One block to the left they veered into the Rue Garancière. I was behind them when they found their destination, a big house with a dignified front. The masonry reflected refinement and upper-class pride. The stones were neat and clean. In the long, narrow windows subdued lights glowed, giving the place an air of cozy quiet, a family air, a well-disciplined house.

Inside the narrow vestibule, I stood in a box of silence. There was one more door ahead of me, a heavy affair with a small glass panel above eye-level. They had rushed in without locking this door. The corridor beyond was done in typical French family style, wallpaper of a vivid design and furniture belonging to another generation. I stood there, listening to my pulse. From upstairs, a vague mumbling, muted and meaningless. There would be big rooms upstairs, big rooms with ancient, thick walls.

I started upstairs, taking the steps in pairs. On the landing, a broad square hall. To the right, the entrance to the living room. They were in there now. I recognized Tomaselli’s voice. Then Loretta added a few words. They were speaking English.

And still another voice was answering them.

“But it’s impossible.” It was a young voice, feminine and soft. “Nobody’s been here.”

“All day?” Tomaselli asked.

“I’m positive, darling.”

“He had me worried.”

“A faker,” laughed Loretta.

I walked in on the line.

“You’re wrong, Loretta,” I said. “I wasn’t faking. You see, I came on schedule.”

“Nom de dieu,” breathed Loretta.

They faced me in a little knot, three people in a foolish quandary. Tomaselli was caught with his guard down. He only stared and scowled. Loretta had an arm around the girl, was trying to comfort her. The girl was young and beautiful, but with a pale and sickly pallor that made her big black eyes seem much too large for her head. But there was an indefinable appeal to this doll, a quality close to the spiritual. It came through immediately. I felt it in the quick, tense pause before my next line.

“Judy Martin,” I said, and held out my hand. “I’m glad the chase is over now.”