Mirabelle took her eyes off her captured prey and looked at Stone. “I have him,” she said.

Stone’s eyes flicked toward the man, and he saw him reach behind his back for something. “No!” Stone said to him, holding up a hand. Everything then switched to slow motion. The man’s hand emerged from behind him holding a semiautomatic pistol; Mirabelle turned toward him and pulled the shotgun trigger. The man’s hand and his gun parted company; the gun was thrown toward the fireplace by the centrifugal force of his swinging arm; his chest exploded and his body flew backward and landed, flat, on the wooden kitchen floor with a loud thump. Only then did Stone hear the blast of the shotgun.

“Merde!” Mirabelle spat, at no one in particular.

“Well, yes,” Stone said, recovering himself. He knew that much French. He was aware of the ridiculous appearance of two naked people, a shotgun, and what was rapidly becoming a corpse on the kitchen floor. Stone walked to her, took the shotgun from her hands, lowered the remaining cocked hammer, and set it on the kitchen table. He walked over to the man on the floor, pulled the mask from his head, and checked his pupils. Blown. He felt for a pulse at the carotid artery in the neck. None. “I think you’d better call the police,” he said. “Tell them to bring an ambulance and a medical examiner, as well as a crime-scene team.”

Mirabelle had begun to shake violently. Stone went to her and held her against him, and gradually she stopped trembling. She pulled away, then went and stood in front of the dying embers of the fire. “I can’t call the police,” she said.

Stone went and sat at the kitchen table. “You don’t really have a choice.”

“You don’t understand,” Mirabelle said. “If I call the police, my brother will be summoned as soon as they hear my name. He does not know about this cottage, and I don’t want him to.”

“The consequences of your brother’s knowing about this cottage are small compared to those of not summoning the police immediately,” Stone said. “Inevitably, your father will become involved, then someone at the police station or in his office will leak the story to someone in the press, and big headlines will be made. Very likely a criminal trial will result. Did you think we would just bury him in the Bois?”

She thought about it. “You are right,” she said finally.

“Go and look at him,” Stone said. “We have to know if you know him.”

She went and stood over the man, staring into his inert face. “No, I don’t know him.”

“Is there any reason why anyone might send an armed man to your house?”

She nodded. “For you.”

He nodded. “You have a point.” He walked out of the kitchen into the living room, checking everything. No ransacking. He found the front door open and scratches on the lock. Outside, on the doormat, was a canvas satchel. He returned to the kitchen. “Very likely he was a burglar—his tools are outside. But nothing has been disturbed. I had better make a phone call before you call the police.” He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. “Get dressed,” he said, then found his cell phone and called a number on his Favorites page.

One ring. “LaRose.”

“Rick, it’s Stone. I’m at the cottage of a woman named Mirabelle Chance.”

“The daughter of the prefect of police?”

“And the sister of his son, who is in charge of criminal investigations in Paris.”

“What’s happened?”

“She’s shot an apparent burglar, as he was preparing to shoot her. I’m a witness.”

“Where are you?”

“What is the address here?” he asked Mirabelle. She told him, and he told LaRose.

“Don’t call the police,” Rick said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Rick, we don’t want the corpse to get much colder, and it’s not a good idea to cover this up. We’ll call the police in fifteen minutes. You get here as fast as you can, and I’ll see what I can learn in the meantime.”

“I’m on my way.” He hung up.

“You stay here,” Stone said to Mirabelle, “while I go downstairs and do some things. In fifteen minutes call the police, not your brother. After the first call, then your brother. He’ll want everything to have been done by the book.”

She nodded, pulled a sweater over her head, then sat down on the bed.

“It might do you good to lie down until they get here, but don’t fall asleep. When they arrive, answer their questions truthfully.”

“All right.” She glanced at the bedside clock, then stretched out on the bed.

Stone pulled on some clothes and went downstairs. He turned on all the lights he could find in the room, including the one over the stove, then he looked under the kitchen sink and found some rubber dishwashing gloves and put them on. He walked over to the corpse and stood astride it, staring at the face. He hadn’t seen the man before. He appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties. No scars. He pulled up the black sweatshirt and checked the abdomen. Flat, no scars or tattoos. He pushed back the lips and looked at the teeth. All of them were white, even, very handsome. He bent over and felt the pockets of his trousers: empty. He reached under the corpse and felt the hip pockets: still nothing. He found an empty holster on the belt in the small of the back. He looked at the man’s hands: no rings or tattoos. A cheap wristwatch on the right wrist. Nothing hanging around the neck. No ID of any kind. The man was a pro; the question was: What kind of a pro? Burglar? Assassin?

Stone returned the gloves to the cabinet under the sink, then went back upstairs. Mirabelle seemed to be sleeping. He stroked her pale face, and she jerked awake. “Time to call the police,” he said.

15

Rick LaRose, amazingly, got there first, wearing jeans and a sweater, looking interested, but unflustered. He took off his shoes and walked around the corpse in his stocking feet. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he? What have you learned?” he asked Stone.

“Caucasian male, mid-thirties, six feet, a hundred and eighty, very fit, either extensive and expensive dental work or the most perfect natural teeth you’ve ever seen. No identifying marks, tattoos, or scars. No ID, no indication of nationality, had a manicure recently, no possessions, except a pistol, a holster, an extra magazine, the tool bag on the doormat, and a cheap wristwatch. Wears the wristwatch on the right wrist but is right-handed.”

“Why do you think he’s right-handed?”

“Because that’s the hand that went for the gun.”

Rick took another good look at the corpse. “Well observed,” he said. “Part of you is still a cop.”

“Always will be.”

A claxon could be heard approaching from a distance, getting louder. Then it got softer.

“He’s missed the drive,” Stone said.

The claxon got louder again, then found the driveway and a car and an ambulance pulled into the forecourt, lights flashing.

“What an entrance!” Rick said, laughing. “It might be Inspector Clouseau!”

The gendarmes were quiet, quick, and all business.

Before they could speak Rick showed them an ID and jerked a thumb toward Stone and said something in French.

“And where, may I ask, is Mademoiselle Chance?” the officer asked in perfect English.

“Upstairs,” Stone replied. “I’ll get her.”

“If you please.”

Stone went upstairs; Mirabelle was asleep again. He woke her gently. “The police are here.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Merde,” she said. That seemed to be her opinion of the whole business.

“Remember, tell them the truth.” He took her hand and led her down the stairs to the kitchen.

The officer switched to French, and Stone didn’t understand anything for twenty minutes. He hoped she was telling the truth.

Then the room got very quiet, and everyone turned toward the door. Stone followed their gaze. A man stood in the kitchen doorway: he was tall, had a gray crew cut, and was wearing a black leather trench coat. He lacked only an eye patch and a dueling scar to be good casting for a B-movie Gestapo agent. “Allo, Rick,” he said. “How does it go?” His voice was calm and uninflected.