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Authors: Mark Pryor
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this quickly and the politicians can get back to work.”
“And stop acting like babies.”
Hugo chuckled. “Well, they’ll still be politicians, so let’s not expect miracles. What do you think?”
Garcia sighed. “I don’t know, Hugo. I really am swamped here and I wasn’t kidding about my wife, things have been . . . difficult lately.”
“I’m sorry, Raul, I wouldn’t ask if I had another solution. And I would very much like to see you again, maybe Madam Garcia can come with you for some country air. Be good for you both to get away.”
“Nice idea, but we’re not . . . Alors , I can come down tomorrow, is that soon enough?”
“It’s perfect. I’ll ship the senator back to Paris, seal off the room, and when you can get here you can dust the place for prints and talk to a few people.”
Garcia sighed again. “It’ll be good to see you, too, Hugo. Friendly faces in this business can be few and far between sometimes.” His voice perked up. “And it’s been a year or two since I’ve taken prints at a crime scene, it’ll be a good refresher for me.”
“Excellent, thanks Raul. And so you know, the chef is wonderful here and they serve very good wine. Very good indeed.”
“Well then,” Garcia said, “I really do have something to look forward to. I’ll bring cigars.”
Senator Lake was happy to go back to Paris. He packed his bags while still bristling at the outrage of the night before, although he’d been somewhat mollified by the impending investigation and was grateful to Hugo for taking charge of it. Lake shook hands with Henri Tourville on the chateau’s steps, both a little cool, but they agreed that in a couple of days talks could resume, here or elsewhere, perhaps depending on what the Paris policeman discovered.
Ambassador Taylor was less thrilled at the prospect of entertaining his compatriot for forty-eight hours but impressed by Hugo’s solution.
“And it leaves me,” Hugo told the ambassador, “with a few days to enjoy the fresh air and find a book or two to read.”
“The place probably has a library, right?”
“I’m in it right now. Quite small but comfortable and well-stocked enough for me to have spent the morning in here. I read about hunting dogs favored by the rich and famous and a little bit about the demise of King Louis XVI and his lovely wife. Anyway, it looks like the sun’s coming out, so I’ll probably go for a walk in a little bit.”
“Don’t rub it in, Marston,” Taylor grumped. “And wrap things up as soon as you can, we do have an international crisis to resolve remember.”
“We? Oh no, not me Mr. Ambassador, I’m just the—”
“Yes, yes, I know what you are. But you might want to remember that I can easily promote you. Note taker, perhaps. Or sandwich bearer.”
Hugo rang off with a laugh, then looked at the phone in his hand. He pulled himself out of his armchair and wandered out of the library into the main hall, headed for the main doors. Outside, he followed the gravel pathway around to the back of the house and found a quiet spot at the rear of the garden, a wooden bench protected from the sun, and to some degree the rain, by a trellis laced with brown vines of some creeping plant he couldn’t recognize.
He sat quietly for a moment, his mind turning to Claudia, and he wondered if a phone call would bug her, interrupt her at work—he’d no idea what she might be doing—but he dialed anyway.
“What a nice surprise!” Her voice sounded bright, and he knew she was smiling.
“How’s my favorite newspaper reporter?”
“You charmer.” Claudia laughed, the gentlest of sounds. “But how many reporters do you know?”
“Millions,” he lied.
“I’m glad to hear it. And glad to hear from you. I’m fine, keeping busy. They have me covering that Archambault case.”
“I saw the headline, and your name, but didn’t read it.”
“Horrible business. A suicide and then some. Monsieur Archambault was a fairly
“And stop acting like babies.”
Hugo chuckled. “Well, they’ll still be politicians, so let’s not expect miracles. What do you think?”
Garcia sighed. “I don’t know, Hugo. I really am swamped here and I wasn’t kidding about my wife, things have been . . . difficult lately.”
“I’m sorry, Raul, I wouldn’t ask if I had another solution. And I would very much like to see you again, maybe Madam Garcia can come with you for some country air. Be good for you both to get away.”
“Nice idea, but we’re not . . . Alors , I can come down tomorrow, is that soon enough?”
“It’s perfect. I’ll ship the senator back to Paris, seal off the room, and when you can get here you can dust the place for prints and talk to a few people.”
Garcia sighed again. “It’ll be good to see you, too, Hugo. Friendly faces in this business can be few and far between sometimes.” His voice perked up. “And it’s been a year or two since I’ve taken prints at a crime scene, it’ll be a good refresher for me.”
“Excellent, thanks Raul. And so you know, the chef is wonderful here and they serve very good wine. Very good indeed.”
“Well then,” Garcia said, “I really do have something to look forward to. I’ll bring cigars.”
Senator Lake was happy to go back to Paris. He packed his bags while still bristling at the outrage of the night before, although he’d been somewhat mollified by the impending investigation and was grateful to Hugo for taking charge of it. Lake shook hands with Henri Tourville on the chateau’s steps, both a little cool, but they agreed that in a couple of days talks could resume, here or elsewhere, perhaps depending on what the Paris policeman discovered.
Ambassador Taylor was less thrilled at the prospect of entertaining his compatriot for forty-eight hours but impressed by Hugo’s solution.
“And it leaves me,” Hugo told the ambassador, “with a few days to enjoy the fresh air and find a book or two to read.”
“The place probably has a library, right?”
“I’m in it right now. Quite small but comfortable and well-stocked enough for me to have spent the morning in here. I read about hunting dogs favored by the rich and famous and a little bit about the demise of King Louis XVI and his lovely wife. Anyway, it looks like the sun’s coming out, so I’ll probably go for a walk in a little bit.”
“Don’t rub it in, Marston,” Taylor grumped. “And wrap things up as soon as you can, we do have an international crisis to resolve remember.”
“We? Oh no, not me Mr. Ambassador, I’m just the—”
“Yes, yes, I know what you are. But you might want to remember that I can easily promote you. Note taker, perhaps. Or sandwich bearer.”
Hugo rang off with a laugh, then looked at the phone in his hand. He pulled himself out of his armchair and wandered out of the library into the main hall, headed for the main doors. Outside, he followed the gravel pathway around to the back of the house and found a quiet spot at the rear of the garden, a wooden bench protected from the sun, and to some degree the rain, by a trellis laced with brown vines of some creeping plant he couldn’t recognize.
He sat quietly for a moment, his mind turning to Claudia, and he wondered if a phone call would bug her, interrupt her at work—he’d no idea what she might be doing—but he dialed anyway.
“What a nice surprise!” Her voice sounded bright, and he knew she was smiling.
“How’s my favorite newspaper reporter?”
“You charmer.” Claudia laughed, the gentlest of sounds. “But how many reporters do you know?”
“Millions,” he lied.
“I’m glad to hear it. And glad to hear from you. I’m fine, keeping busy. They have me covering that Archambault case.”
“I saw the headline, and your name, but didn’t read it.”
“Horrible business. A suicide and then some. Monsieur Archambault was a fairly
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