Rick shrugged. “It goes.”

He walked over and looked at the corpse. “And what guest do we have here?”

His officer responded with a stream of French. The man stuck to English, an apparent courtesy to Rick. “Do you believe this to be self-defense?” he asked his officer. “Or do we have murder?” The man shrugged, as if the decision were not his to make. The man walked over to the table and looked at the shotgun. “My grandfather’s,” he said. He walked over to Mirabelle, took her by the arms, and kissed her on the forehead. “Are you all right, ma petite?” She nodded. “Is what my officer said the true thing?” She nodded again.

He walked over to where Stone sat.

“Jacques,” Rick said, “this is Stone Barrington, an American visiting Paris and a prominent New York attorney. Stone, this is Prefect Jacques Chance.”

Chance did not offer his hand. “What are you doing in this house?” he asked.

“I was a guest for dinner . . . and I fell asleep.”

Chance managed a tiny smile. “And do you concur in what my sister has told the police?”

“I do,” Stone said.

“Then you understand French.”

“I was watching. Language was unnecessary.”

The little smile again. “Of course. Mr. Barrington, did you shoot this man?”

“No!” Mirabelle said quickly.

“I was not aware that there was a shotgun in the house,” Stone said. “I saw the man produce a gun. After that he was shot.”

“What were you doing, Mr. Barrington, when the man was shot?”

“I was standing in the doorway, there.” Stone pointed.

Chance turned to LaRose. “And were you watching, too, Rick?”

“No, Jacques, I arrived after the fact.”

“And what brought you here?”

“Stone is a friend.”

“So he called his friend, before he called the police.”

“I called the police,” Mirabelle said.

Chance sighed deeply. “So . . . everyone has the story straight. How very convenient.”

Stone spoke up. “It’s easy when it’s the truth.”

The prefect’s cell phone rang; he answered it and spoke for half a minute, then hung up. “A stolen Fiat 500 was found on a road behind the house. It was an Abarth, so he liked his cars sporty. He walked through the Bois to get here, apparently. Perhaps we will know more when his fingerprints and DNA are run. Anything else from anyone?” He looked around the room, but no one spoke. “Then I bid you all bonne nuit.” He turned and walked toward the door. “I want the shotgun back in this house after it has been properly examined,” he said to his officer as he passed, then he was gone.

The police loaded the corpse on a gurney and took it away. The officer gave them a little salute then followed it.

Stone noticed that there was very little blood left at the scene.

“Stone,” Rick said, “your van awaits in the forecourt. I found it at the end of the drive. My men were asleep.”

“I had dismissed them,” Stone said.

“Then I won’t have them shot.”

“That’s magnanimous of you, Rick.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Rick looked pleased with himself. “All right, everybody, let’s all get some sleep.” He gave them a little salute and left the house.

Stone took Mirabelle in his arms. “I’m glad that’s over,” he said.

“It’s not over,” she replied.

16

Mirabelle would not go upstairs until she had scrubbed the few flecks of blood from the floor and kitchen cabinets. “We will not shock Marie,” she explained.

She fell asleep immediately, but Stone did not. Over and over he tried to explain the night’s events to himself but could not. There were too many possibilities. As they were having a breakfast of eggs scrambled by Mirabelle, Rick LaRose called.

“Something Jacques and his boys didn’t bother to tell us last night: the bag on the doorstep contained a few tools, but it also contained a length of rope, a black hood with no eyeholes, and a roll of duct tape. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered duct tape in Paris. It’s an American thing.”

“So what are you thinking?” Stone asked. He didn’t say it himself, because he didn’t want Mirabelle to hear.

“He may have come to kidnap somebody,” Rick replied. “I suppose he was strong enough to throw you over his shoulder.”

“No,” Stone said.

“Okay, he would have made you walk to his car, blindfolded.”

“Perhaps.”

“Easier to deal with her, huh?”

“Perhaps.”

“I think I’d better do some looking into Mademoiselle Chance,” Rick said.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get back to you when I know more.”

“Do that.” He hung up.

“Was that your Rick?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“He called to say he didn’t know anything.”

“Come now.”

“Everybody’s just guessing, even your brother. Who’s next, your father?”

“I don’t think Jacques will discuss it with my father.”

“He seemed more concerned about the shotgun than anything else, except me.”

“You answered him well. You told him we were none of his business. Jacques would have appreciated your subtlety. I would have been blunt.”

“We could still make the papers, but I think the policemen were too afraid of your brother to blab, so maybe not.”

“Quiet intimidation is Jacques’s, how do you say . . . ?”

“Stock-in-trade?”

“Yes, stock-in-trade.”

“Mirabelle, do you have any enemies?”

“An old lover or two, perhaps,” she said, “or one of their girlfriends. I don’t think anyone is angry enough with me to send an assassin. What would be their complaint, an ill-fitting dress? I think it is more likely your Russians.”

“You could be right.”

“I am worried about you, not me.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Try not to worry at all. What did you mean last night when you said this wasn’t over?”

“Nothing in particular. It is just a pattern in my life that when some event occurs, it always seems to be followed by other, related events. I’ve come to expect it.”

“It’s a pessimistic outlook.”

“Then perhaps I am a pessimist.” She looked at her watch. “I must go to work. Will you drop me there?”

“Of course. My chariot awaits.”

—

STONE HAD NO TROUBLE falling asleep again in his own bed at l’Arrington. He awoke in time to make his board meeting, which included a tour of the hotel to inspect the premises. He thought Marcel’s people had done a fine job of finishing their work on time. The hotel was beginning to look like what it was supposed to be.

—

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Rick called. “Your alleged kidnapper’s corpse did not yield much,” he said. “The man has never been arrested in Europe, his prints didn’t ring any country’s bell, and his DNA showed him to be of Western European origins, which could apply to half the population of the United States, as well as Europe, but that may indicate that he’s not Russian. Oh, and his beautiful teeth were his own. All in all, the man’s a cipher.”

“Swell.”

“By the way, the ambassador says she forgot to tell you that dinner tonight is black tie.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“See ya.” Rick hung up.

Nobody tried to kill or kidnap him that day, for which Stone was grateful.

17

Stone’s van driver knew where the American ambassador’s residence was without being told, and Stone presented himself to a butler and a pair of armed guards in the entrance hall, while some Marines looked on. He was scanned and passed through the metal detector on his second attempt, after his pen and his money clip had been deposited in a tray.

Having proved himself harmless, he followed the butler into a larger hall and blushed a little when the man loudly announced, “Mr. Stone Barrington, of New York City.” Only a few people of the two dozen present bothered to glance his way.