Maritain or Mauriac?” “Who the hell is Marcel? I never heard of him.” "Joyeux Noel!"
“Merry Christmas,” I hollered, and flew out the door, unencumbered by books this time.
John was waiting patiently in the snow, wearing dark glasses, a red nose, and a white mustache. It had become frosted. He looked like a cross between Rudolf and Frosty the Snowman. He was beating his arms over his chest to keep from freezing solid. “How'd it go?” he asked.
“So-so. Why didn't you come inside and wait?” I asked.
“The crowd was just starting to come out. I couldn't stand the crackling. Aren't there any guys taking that course?"
“It's too tough for them,” I joked. We started walking through the crunchy snow toward the car.
“Sounds like a sexist slur to me. I should complain you're not surrounded by jocks! Want a coffee?"
“I'm torn between the desire for a hot drink and getting straight to the museum. Actually there's a coffee shop at the museum. We could have coffee there."
“We're not in that big a hurry. Gino suggested...” I looked around warily. “He's not with me. He's doing his Christmas shopping."
“That won't take long. A box of chocolates."
“That's just for the eighteen kids. He's getting his mom a dishwasher."
“Oh, that's nice. I didn't think he'd be so considerate."
“I told you he's okay,” John said earnestly.
“Sure, he didn't call you a hooker."
“Gino has the highest regard for hookers—as far as looks go, I mean. He recognized you right away, last night. That was just his idea of a compliment. He says women are usually flattered to be mistaken for hookers. The high-class ones aren't exactly dogs, you know."
“It's okay to think it. He shouldn't have blurted it out.” We reached the car. “What did Gino suggest?"
“Meeting at the museum coffee shop. We'll grab a few minutes in private first, since we won't have any time alone once Gino meets us. What's nearby?"
“I don't know offhand, but if you cruise west on Sherbrooke, I'll keep a lookout."
Montreal is exceptionally well-treed and well-greened for a big city. Sherbrooke Street is one of the greenest areas. It's lovely in spring and summer, with the mature trees giving welcome shade. Even in winter it was pretty. Snow was piled three or four inches thick on branches, falling off in chunks to pelt unwary pedestrians. Some of the older buildings have gargoyles that looked as if they were wearing white fur hats. Driving took all John's attention. Scanning the business towers for a coffee shop occupied me, so that we didn't talk much. John parked in a public lot near the museum, and we went to a little restaurant in an office building.
“I'm glad we're not eating here,” John said. “It smells like burned fish. These places have a captive audience. The coffee's bitter as hell too."
“At least it's hot. Did you find out anything else about Bergma?” I asked, after we were settled in.
He gave a weary sigh. “I've been waiting till we settled down to give you the bad news."
“You don't have to leave!"
His mustache lifted in pleasure, and his eyes glowed. “I said bad, not terrible. It's about the case. Bergma has an alibi."
“It's probably phony. He has to be the one who killed Latour. Who else had such a sterling motive? He got Latour to do the forgeries, and as soon as they were finished, he murdered him, so he could keep all the money himself."
“That's the way I read it too, but his alibi is genuine. The museum had its office party last night, in a hotel dining room. He was there, in full view of everyone."
“The party wouldn't start as early as six-thirty,” I pointed out. “He could have killed Latour first."
“Nope, he was one of the two organizers. He was at the Sheraton Hotel at six o'clock, apparently making his presence felt with various clerks and waiters and sommeliers. Besides, Menard went to the museum this morning and checked him out. He didn't recognize him."
“He wouldn't. He
“Merry Christmas,” I hollered, and flew out the door, unencumbered by books this time.
John was waiting patiently in the snow, wearing dark glasses, a red nose, and a white mustache. It had become frosted. He looked like a cross between Rudolf and Frosty the Snowman. He was beating his arms over his chest to keep from freezing solid. “How'd it go?” he asked.
“So-so. Why didn't you come inside and wait?” I asked.
“The crowd was just starting to come out. I couldn't stand the crackling. Aren't there any guys taking that course?"
“It's too tough for them,” I joked. We started walking through the crunchy snow toward the car.
“Sounds like a sexist slur to me. I should complain you're not surrounded by jocks! Want a coffee?"
“I'm torn between the desire for a hot drink and getting straight to the museum. Actually there's a coffee shop at the museum. We could have coffee there."
“We're not in that big a hurry. Gino suggested...” I looked around warily. “He's not with me. He's doing his Christmas shopping."
“That won't take long. A box of chocolates."
“That's just for the eighteen kids. He's getting his mom a dishwasher."
“Oh, that's nice. I didn't think he'd be so considerate."
“I told you he's okay,” John said earnestly.
“Sure, he didn't call you a hooker."
“Gino has the highest regard for hookers—as far as looks go, I mean. He recognized you right away, last night. That was just his idea of a compliment. He says women are usually flattered to be mistaken for hookers. The high-class ones aren't exactly dogs, you know."
“It's okay to think it. He shouldn't have blurted it out.” We reached the car. “What did Gino suggest?"
“Meeting at the museum coffee shop. We'll grab a few minutes in private first, since we won't have any time alone once Gino meets us. What's nearby?"
“I don't know offhand, but if you cruise west on Sherbrooke, I'll keep a lookout."
Montreal is exceptionally well-treed and well-greened for a big city. Sherbrooke Street is one of the greenest areas. It's lovely in spring and summer, with the mature trees giving welcome shade. Even in winter it was pretty. Snow was piled three or four inches thick on branches, falling off in chunks to pelt unwary pedestrians. Some of the older buildings have gargoyles that looked as if they were wearing white fur hats. Driving took all John's attention. Scanning the business towers for a coffee shop occupied me, so that we didn't talk much. John parked in a public lot near the museum, and we went to a little restaurant in an office building.
“I'm glad we're not eating here,” John said. “It smells like burned fish. These places have a captive audience. The coffee's bitter as hell too."
“At least it's hot. Did you find out anything else about Bergma?” I asked, after we were settled in.
He gave a weary sigh. “I've been waiting till we settled down to give you the bad news."
“You don't have to leave!"
His mustache lifted in pleasure, and his eyes glowed. “I said bad, not terrible. It's about the case. Bergma has an alibi."
“It's probably phony. He has to be the one who killed Latour. Who else had such a sterling motive? He got Latour to do the forgeries, and as soon as they were finished, he murdered him, so he could keep all the money himself."
“That's the way I read it too, but his alibi is genuine. The museum had its office party last night, in a hotel dining room. He was there, in full view of everyone."
“The party wouldn't start as early as six-thirty,” I pointed out. “He could have killed Latour first."
“Nope, he was one of the two organizers. He was at the Sheraton Hotel at six o'clock, apparently making his presence felt with various clerks and waiters and sommeliers. Besides, Menard went to the museum this morning and checked him out. He didn't recognize him."
“He wouldn't. He
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