Read Online The November Man by Bill Granger - Free Book Online Page B

hairless one reached across the bar to grab her arm.
    “You see, dear,” said the big one. “We are permitted just about anything we want. So when we ask you where the American is, the one with gray hair who reads all the papers, you should tell us where he lives.”
    “Definitely,” said the hairless one. He had small hands that held her arm like pliers.
    “See what I mean? Anything we want to do.”
    “Anything,” said the hairless one.
    “Please,” said Claudette. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know where the professor lives—”
    “Professor? Professor?”
    The hairless one smiled and twisted the skin beneath his grip.
    Claudette winced with pain. The bar was dark. She noticed they had closed the front door when they entered.
    “I like that,” said the big one. “You think he’s a professor of something because he spends all his time reading? Ha. He was a professor.”
    “A long time ago.”
    “But he hasn’t been in a classroom for a long time.”
    “And he needs a refresher course.”
    “He needs a review of old lessons.”
    “We were sent out to teach him a few things.”
    “It’s too bad you don’t know where he lives. It would make things simpler.”
    “Yes,” said the hairless one. Her skin had a burning sensation beneath his hand. He let her go and her arm was ugly and red.
    “Well, we’ll go now.”
    She stared at both of them.
    “One thing, dear. I don’t think you would want to tell him we were here looking for him. I mean, this is to be a surprise. Understand?”
    “Yes. We don’t want you to tell him a thing.”
    “Because if you tell him we were here, we’ll be coming back here.”
    “Definitely,” said the hairless one.
    Devereaux sat at the bar, watching Claudette move anxiously up and down the bar, serving beer and wine and schnapps while the owner pulled out plates full of steak
haché
smothered in onions and gravy, prepared in the minuscule kitchen at the rear.
    The owner had not noticed the missing bottle of Scotch. He would in the afternoon, she knew, and he would question not Claudette but Monique. Monique would be innocent but Claudette felt, at that moment, too afraid to intervene in the coming storm. She hurried; she was clumsy; she broke two glasses and the owner scowled at her.
    When she served the professor, she did not look at him. This was not usual.
    Monsieur le professeur.
    The dinner hour progressed and everyone could have seen that Claudette was upset; save that no one engaged in the hurried business of eating chopped steak and onions and potato salad in a little dark café had the time to observe Claudette’s distress.
    Devereaux ordered a second bottle of chilled Kronenbourg.
    She pulled the green bottle out of the cooler and opened it and took him a fresh glass chilled in ice, the way he preferred it.
    “Merci, Claudette,” he said. He had never spoken her name before. She blushed for a moment.
    Devereaux stared at her for a grave moment.
    “Is there something wrong, Claudette?” he said at last. The voice was low like morning fog. It was remarkable: In six months, he had not exchanged two dozen words with her. He had never called her by her name, though she had offered it from the beginning.
    She thought he was concerned. She was touched. Her fantasy of herself and her professor returned, burning to the surface. It pleased her that he was concerned and made her brave.
    Devereaux was not concerned. He was observing her as he observed all his surroundings, trying to spy what was unusual. He would walk down a street and refocus his gaze automatically every few seconds: First street, then walk, then buildings, then mailbox, then lamp post, then car, then street… It was the technique learned painfully over the years. It had to do with survival. In a way, it served to slow down the sense of life rushing past. With the senses focused intently on the surroundings, the mind worked on the unconscious and semiconscious problems that were