than a hypnotic pull on him and the weather was brightening, he thought he might get a taxi into the Old Town and walk the famous ramparts.
John Lau came up sipping one cup of coffee and holding out a second. "Here. It’s good."
"Ah, thanks, John." He sipped gratefully. "Sorry if I spoiled your nap."
John laughed, the sudden, baby-like burble of pleasure that always made Gideon smile in return. "Sorry, Doc. I didn’t think you noticed."
"Only when you snored."
"Ah, hey, come on. Anyway, it wasn’t your lecture. It was that second beer with lunch."
"It was that
third
beer."
The big FBI agent considered solemnly. "That too," he said.
"How are you going to make it through an hour and a half of ionization analysis?" Gideon asked unsympathetically. John was an attendee; he wasn’t supposed to spend his afternoons walking around St. Malo.
John blew out his breath. "Oh, Christ. I—" He turned and moved a step to the side, with what Gideon had come to recognize as a policeman’s instinctive discomfort at sensing someone behind him.
"Pardon me," the man said in a cultivated, nasal voice with only a slight French accent. "I didn’t mean to interrupt."
"That’s all right." Gideon recognized him; a tall, bald, self-contained man, rather stiff, who could have doubled for Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, except for his gleaming, steel-rimmed spectacles. He had been soberly attentive through Gideon’s lectures so far, and had asked several polite, intelligent questions, but always with a discreetly veiled, unobtrusively superior skepticism; a man not inclined to accept anybody’s judgment but his own. He was exactly the sort of man whose posture, or way of speaking, or perhaps whose mere presence, brought out Gideon’s not-too-deeply-buried insecurities. All he had to do was gaze down his long nose and raise an eyebrow preparatory to making a remark, and Gideon felt like a ten-year-old in grownup’s clothes caught out playing pretend-scientist.
"I am Inspector Joly of the OPJ—the Office of Judicial Police," he said, gazing down his long nose.
John held out his hand. "John Lau, FBI, Seattle."
Joly made a formal, straight-backed ghost of a bow to each of them and ceremoniously shook hands.
"Something has come up that may be of interest to you, Dr. Oliver…"
"ANY particular reason for assuming it’s human?" Gideon asked as Joly pulled the blue Renault out of the parking lot of the new St. Malo Conference and Exposition Center and turned south on the Boulevard des Talards. They skirted the industrial docks of the Bouvet Basin, where huge cranes glided like colossal spiders among the stacked container loads of coal, fertilizer, and wood pulp.
"Yes, the attestation of a butcher," Joly said drily. "Aside from that, there are apparently some hand bones. I assume there wouldn’t be any other animals with anything like human hands—aside from the apes, of course."
"As a matter of fact, there are. The skeleton of a bear’s paw isn’t hard to confuse with a human hand or foot. Even the flipper of a small whale."
"Ah," said Joly.
John, who had been quick to accept the inspector’s invitation to see the French criminal justice system in action, spoke up from the back seat. "Hey, great, we’re really narrowing things down. It’s either a person, a bear, or a whale. The case is practically solved."
"Not quite," Gideon said, "there’s always the possibility of a polydactylous pig; that is, one in which the primary metapodials have shortened and doubled. It’s not that unusual, really…"
There was a certain indescribable expression with which John greeted terms like "polydactylous pig," and he made it now, sinking back into the seat cushions with a rumbling mutter. Joly was less demonstrative, but Gideon noticed an almost imperceptible tightening of his lips that suggested the inspector did not approve of lightness in police matters. Gideon sighed and let the subject of polydactylous pigs drop. Narrow interests,
John Lau came up sipping one cup of coffee and holding out a second. "Here. It’s good."
"Ah, thanks, John." He sipped gratefully. "Sorry if I spoiled your nap."
John laughed, the sudden, baby-like burble of pleasure that always made Gideon smile in return. "Sorry, Doc. I didn’t think you noticed."
"Only when you snored."
"Ah, hey, come on. Anyway, it wasn’t your lecture. It was that second beer with lunch."
"It was that
third
beer."
The big FBI agent considered solemnly. "That too," he said.
"How are you going to make it through an hour and a half of ionization analysis?" Gideon asked unsympathetically. John was an attendee; he wasn’t supposed to spend his afternoons walking around St. Malo.
John blew out his breath. "Oh, Christ. I—" He turned and moved a step to the side, with what Gideon had come to recognize as a policeman’s instinctive discomfort at sensing someone behind him.
"Pardon me," the man said in a cultivated, nasal voice with only a slight French accent. "I didn’t mean to interrupt."
"That’s all right." Gideon recognized him; a tall, bald, self-contained man, rather stiff, who could have doubled for Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, except for his gleaming, steel-rimmed spectacles. He had been soberly attentive through Gideon’s lectures so far, and had asked several polite, intelligent questions, but always with a discreetly veiled, unobtrusively superior skepticism; a man not inclined to accept anybody’s judgment but his own. He was exactly the sort of man whose posture, or way of speaking, or perhaps whose mere presence, brought out Gideon’s not-too-deeply-buried insecurities. All he had to do was gaze down his long nose and raise an eyebrow preparatory to making a remark, and Gideon felt like a ten-year-old in grownup’s clothes caught out playing pretend-scientist.
"I am Inspector Joly of the OPJ—the Office of Judicial Police," he said, gazing down his long nose.
John held out his hand. "John Lau, FBI, Seattle."
Joly made a formal, straight-backed ghost of a bow to each of them and ceremoniously shook hands.
"Something has come up that may be of interest to you, Dr. Oliver…"
"ANY particular reason for assuming it’s human?" Gideon asked as Joly pulled the blue Renault out of the parking lot of the new St. Malo Conference and Exposition Center and turned south on the Boulevard des Talards. They skirted the industrial docks of the Bouvet Basin, where huge cranes glided like colossal spiders among the stacked container loads of coal, fertilizer, and wood pulp.
"Yes, the attestation of a butcher," Joly said drily. "Aside from that, there are apparently some hand bones. I assume there wouldn’t be any other animals with anything like human hands—aside from the apes, of course."
"As a matter of fact, there are. The skeleton of a bear’s paw isn’t hard to confuse with a human hand or foot. Even the flipper of a small whale."
"Ah," said Joly.
John, who had been quick to accept the inspector’s invitation to see the French criminal justice system in action, spoke up from the back seat. "Hey, great, we’re really narrowing things down. It’s either a person, a bear, or a whale. The case is practically solved."
"Not quite," Gideon said, "there’s always the possibility of a polydactylous pig; that is, one in which the primary metapodials have shortened and doubled. It’s not that unusual, really…"
There was a certain indescribable expression with which John greeted terms like "polydactylous pig," and he made it now, sinking back into the seat cushions with a rumbling mutter. Joly was less demonstrative, but Gideon noticed an almost imperceptible tightening of his lips that suggested the inspector did not approve of lightness in police matters. Gideon sighed and let the subject of polydactylous pigs drop. Narrow interests,
Similar Books
