Read Online Come, Barbarians by Todd Babiak - Free Book Online Page A

bistros and grocery stores, fish and wine and cheese. There was nothing to do in this wealthy dreamland of Paris but live well. Less than a block away, on Rue du Champ de Mars, Kruse stepped into a pleasant but cramped lobby that reminded him more of a hotel in rural England than the seventh arrondissement.
    The man behind the counter quietly exclaimed at the sight of Kruse, who was windswept and half-soaked. “I would not blame you for thinking otherwise, Monsieur, but the taxi drivers are not on strike at the moment.”
    “I like to walk.”
    “So long as you like to walk. Very good. Do you have a reservation?”
    The lobby was designed and decorated like a cozy living room. Bookshelves surrounded a couch and chairs and a coffee table. Art and photography books were stacked carefully on the coffee table and all ofit was bathed in warm lamplight. The noise of the traffic outside was softened by the thick front window. “I don’t, Monsieur.”
    Monsieur put on his reading glasses and said,
“Alors,”
a few times. There was one room on the top floor, but the elevator was not working so well today. Technicians were coming. Would he terribly mind five flights of stairs?
    As Monsieur spoke, Kruse scanned his workspace: it was cramped but orderly, with customized ledger books holding off the dread computer. The only piece of technical equipment was a central telephone router. The man was fifty, with a well-trimmed beard. Everything he said came off slightly ironic, as though he were playing the role of a hotelier to make a subtle point about hoteliers. His cards sat in an Eiffel Tower trolley: Guy and Dianne Balon. Monsieur Balon asked for Kruse’s passport.
    “I don’t have it. I am a resident here.”
    “Your identity card.”
    “It has not arrived yet.”
    “Typical.”
    “Do you get a lot of Canadians?”
    “A fair number, yes.”
    “How about a woman, on the first of November?”
    Monsieur Balon squinted at him.
    “Evelyn May Kruse.”
    “A popular woman, this Evelyn.”
    “In what way?”
    “You are the fourth person to ask after her. A journalist was here. Then the gendarmes. And just after lunch today, another gentleman. I’m afraid I can only tell you what I told the gendarmes: I can provide no information.”
    “You took her credit card number but she paid with cash. Yes?”
    The hotelier zipped his lips.
    “She is my wife: Evelyn May Kruse.” The consulate in Toronto had said, wrongly, that customs and the prefecture in Avignon woulddemand to see a copy of their marriage certificate. Kruse had folded it into his wallet. He opened it on the desk.
    Monsieur Balon scrawled tiny notes next to Kruse’s guest information—a sort of shorthand.
    “What did the journalist want?”
    “I run the hotel, Monsieur. That is all. The journalist, a woman, said she had a meeting with Madame at ten o’clock on the second of November. Our office opens at six but your wife had already departed by then. Madame Evelyn had left cash in our express checkout box.” Monsieur Balon pulled out a white business card from a drawer and slid it across the desk: Annette Laferrière,
Le Monde.
“You can take this with you.”
    “What did Madame Laferrière look like?”
    “Dark hair, thirty or forty.”
    “The man who asked about her after lunch …”
    Monsieur Balon took a deep breath. “Yes?”
    “Another journalist?”
    “No. Or I don’t think so.”
    “Who was he?”
    “Not a guest. He did not identify himself. I thought at first he was another policeman but the gendarmes were from the south, clearly. Their accents were unmistakable. There was something more thoughtful about this one. He had time. He was refined, and his interest in Madame Evelyn, Madame …”
    “Kruse.”
    “Madame Kruse. His interest in her had a kindly aspect.”
    “How do you mean ‘kindly’?”
    “He was seeking her to help in some way. And I remembered she had seemed sad, preoccupied. Downstairs, Monsieur Kruse, we have tables for