The skiff made steady progress toward the dock; oars splashing rhythmically, stirring a mild wake. Adele, dressed in a light blue frock with lace collar, her pretty head adorned with a flower and ribbon-trimmed straw bonnet, sat in the stern and handled the tiller. She smiled at Achille, who sat facing her as he pulled at the oars. Adele admired her husband’s powerful bare arms glistening with a thin film of sweat, the muscular power of his broad chest and shoulders, the athletic grace of his stroke. The “professor” seemed like a different man when he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got into a boat. He had been rowing since he was a boy, and was an expert in a skiff or a one-man scull.

Achille savored the moment, the rural calm, the peace of the river, the ineffable charms of nature and his young wife. But the sound of a train rushing over a bridge reminded him that his office was only a half-hour away and a message from Féraud summoning him to duty was an unwelcome possibility. The fact of a vicious murderer on the loose was never far from his thoughts. If he pushed the case down for an instant, it always resurfaced, like a gas-bloated corpse breaching the surface of a placid stream.

A persistent chugging, mechanical throbbing, and the piercing cry of a whistle broke the silence. A small steam launch glided by, churning up a white wake that rocked the skiff. Aboard the launch, a party of swells laughed, waved, and lifted their glasses in salute to the boaters, then returned to their champagne and foie gras.

Adele made a funny face and laughed. “What a bunch of loafers. They ought to strip down and get some exercise.”

Achille grinned and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’d love a steam launch, if we could afford it. We could take longer trips with the little one and your mother along for the excursion.”

The thought of her husband stuck in the close confines of a boat with her mother amused Adele. “Would you really like that, my dear? Perhaps when Féraud retires and your efforts are recognized with a promotion, then we might indulge in the extravagance of a launch. Mama would be so impressed. As for little Jeanne, I fear she might be out of short skirts by then.”

Achille regretted the turn in the conversation; on his day off he did not want to discuss his job, household finances, or speculate on his career prospects. Fortunately, they were nearing the wharf and turned their attention to mooring the skiff.

Once they had tied up at the dock, returned the boat, and settled with its proprietor, Achille escorted Adele up the wharf stairway to the restaurant terrace. The bright yellow inn stood amid a garden on a low rise overlooking the Seine. Several tables were set up under an awning surrounded by bushes, flowerbeds, and shade trees. A mild, refreshing breeze blew in from the river. A few lunchers were already enjoying wine and house specialties. The inn was a popular resort for boaters, and the pleasant ambience and picturesque environs attracted many painters, writers, and poets who regularly made the short trip from Paris.

The proprietress, a very attractive and friendly woman, greeted them by name—they were frequent guests—and led them to a favorite table with an excellent view. Achille ordered cheese, fruit, and rabbit pâté served with fresh bread and a house wine. After the proprietress left he commented on the excellence of the cuisine.

“Yes, dear, it’s almost as good as at home. But then, you’re rarely there. . . .”

Achille broke in with a laugh: “I know, I know, I’m rarely there to appreciate it.” He reached across the table and gently took her hands in his. “Darling, let’s make a pact for the remainder of the day; no more talk of work, home, or related mundane matters.”

“That rather limits our conversation, doesn’t it?”

“Not really; we could talk about your adorable bonnet, your sparkling emerald eyes, cute little nose, red lips, rosy cheeks. . . .”

Adele blushed. “Oh Achille, don’t be such a fool.”

He let go her hands and made a dramatic gesture with a sweep of his arm. “Are poets fools? Only a poet could do justice to your beauty, and some famous poets have been known to lunch here. Shall I compose a sonnet in your honor?”

She knitted her brow in mock severity. “You’re behaving more like a silly schoolboy than a senior inspector of the Sûreté.”

“Oh please, please, you wound me. For that, you shall pay the ultimate price—a recitation!” Achille began reciting Verlaine:

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant

D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime,

Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même

Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.

Adele giggled and slapped his hand playfully.” Stop it. People will think you’re drunk.”

Achille leaned over, and stroked her cheek. “Let them think what they want,” he whispered. “I’m drunk with your beauty.”

She smiled seductively. Then: “Will you look at that?” He turned his head and she jerked his hand. “No, no, I didn’t mean literally.” She was referring to a couple who had just entered the restaurant. “You keep looking straight at me and I’ll describe them for you. The woman is dressed to perfection, but much too perfect for this place. She’s wearing the latest Doucet dress, a magnificent hat with egret plumes, and her ears and throat are dripping with diamonds. How vulgar! She must be a wealthy American.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet her companion wears a shiny top hat, loud checked vest with eighteen carat watch chains dangling a rabbit’s foot and Masonic insignia, striped trousers and spats. There’s an immense diamond and gold nugget pin stuck in his necktie and he’s chewing a huge Havana cigar that he lights with dollar bills.”

“You’re not close to warm. He doesn’t look at all like an American. He’s elegantly dressed, but tastefully subtle. Savile Row tailoring, I believe. I’ll wager he’s an Englishman.”

Achille’s amused expression changed to a sober frown. He gave Adele a good portrait parlé of Sir Henry, right down to the monocle.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s uncanny, darling. You’ve described him perfectly.”

Achille glanced over his shoulder for confirmation. The man matched the description of Sir Henry provided by Péan’s clerk. Achille decided to take a closer look. He got up and mumbled, “Excuse me a moment.”

The couple were engaged in a lively conversation; they paid no attention to Achille as he casually approached their table while keeping his trained eye fixed on the gentleman. This scrutiny reinforced his first impression; he decided to make an inquiry to satisfy his curiosity. He turned, passed through a gate that separated the outdoor restaurant from the terrace garden, climbed a small brickwork stairway and strode rapidly up the gravel pathway toward the inn. He caught the proprietress’s attention near the entrance.

The woman was on her way to the kitchen. She stopped, smiled, and asked “May I help you, Inspector Lefebvre?”

“Yes, if you please Mademoiselle. A very well-dressed lady and gentleman were just seated in the terrace restaurant. Could you please give me their names?”

The woman’s friendly smile turned to a worried frown. “Is this an official matter, Inspector?”

Achille smiled to put her at ease. “No, not exactly. They’re such a distinguished couple. I thought I recognized them, but just couldn’t place their names.”

Having been relieved of her fear of a scandal, she replied, “I understand, Monsieur. The gentleman is Sir Henry Collingwood, a London physician, and the lady is Mlle Endicott, an American.”

Sir Henry and Betsy’s presence was fortuitous; Achille smiled and replied nonchalantly so as not to alarm the proprietress. “Ah yes, that’s what I thought. Thank you, Mademoiselle.” He came closer and lowered his voice to a near whisper: “Perhaps you could do me a little service, for which I’d gladly compensate you. I’d like to have the gentleman’s wine glass for my . . . uh . . . collection. But you must handle it carefully, with gloves or a towel. And whatever you do, don’t wipe it! Will you please oblige me?”