Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,25

will take zee orders from zese people, zen I return.”

She disappeared, then came back with a bottle of wine for the lone man and a bottle of champagne for the noisy party of four. Then she wheeled a trolley up to Evan and Bronwen’s table.

“I make for you my special crêpes suzette,” she said. There was a small spirit stove on the trolley. “I bring zee cointreau,” she said, and crossed the room to the bar. The man at the far table beckoned her. She bent to him, had a brief conversation, then came back to Evan’s table, stopped, stared into space and then said, with an embarrassed laugh, “Ah, zee cointreau. I forget my head next!” and crossed the room again.

Evan watched her as she came back and fumbled with the bottle top.

“Here, let me,” Evan said.

“Sank you. I don’t know why I can’t . . .” Her voice was shaking.

Evan glanced back at the man in the alcove, but he was calmly sipping a glass of red wine.

She folded a crêpe and placed it in the pan. She tipped up the bottle and liqueur came splashing out onto the tablecloth and floor. “I am sorry,” she said. “So clumsy of me.”

“Is something wrong?” Bronwen asked.

“No. No, nozzink at all.” She shook her head. “Now we make zee flame . . .” She lit a match. Flames shot high from the pan, licking out so that Evan could feel the heat. Bronwen stared at him in alarm. Madame Yvette stepped back with a muttered “ooh-la-la!” Evan reached for his water glass but almost immediately the flame died down again.

“Voilà!” Madame Yvette tipped the first crêpe onto a plate and put it in front of Bronwen. She completed the rest of the crêpes with no more conflagrations.

“What was that about?” Bronwen whispered as Madame Yvette made a hurried retreat with the trolley. “She was upset about something, wasn’t she?”

Evan nodded. “Maybe someone complained about her cooking. They’re supposed to be temperamental, these famous chefs.”

They lingered over coffee, so wrapped up in their conversation that Evan was quite surprised when Bronwen whispered, “I suppose we should go. She might be waiting to close up.”

Evan looked around and saw that they were the only patrons left. They paid the bill, exchanged pleasantries, and went.

“Brilliant meal,” Bronwen said. “I can see now why she was nominated for the award.”

“She certainly can cook,” Evan agreed.

He felt relieved and content as he finally let himself in to Mrs. Williams’s house just before midnight. The evening had gone smoothly. Bronwen had forgiven him, Madame Yvette seemed to have accepted the fact that he had a girl-friend, and the food had been outstanding—even if his pay-check wouldn’t stretch to that kind of meal again for a while.

He was halfway up the stairs, tiptoeing with his shoes in his hand so that he didn’t disturb Mrs. Williams, when the phone rang. Evan ran down again and caught it on the second ring.

“Constable Evans? This is the dispatcher at HQ. We’ve just had a 999 call about another fire. The chief thought you should be there, since it’s not too far from the other arson fires we’re investigating. He’s calling in Sergeant Watkins, too, and Sergeant Potter.”

“Right,” Evan said, slipping his foot back into a shoe as he spoke. “Where is it?”

“Just down the hill from you, I gather. The old chapel that’s now a restaurant.”

A few minutes later Evan was back outside Chez Yvette. Flames were shooting up at the rear of the building, silhouetting the arched roof and illuminating the tall arched windows. The fire brigade had obviously arrived just ahead of him and men were rushing to hook up hoses.

Evan pushed his way to the nearest fireman through the small crowd that had gathered. “Where’s Madame Yvette?” Evan shouted above the roar and crackle of the inferno. “Do we know if the building was empty?”

The fireman glanced up, recognized him and went on dragging out lengths of hose. “She got out all right. She had to—apparently she called from a neighbor’s house to give the alarm.”

“Where is she now?”

“Haven’t seen her.” The young man sounded tense.

“And there was no one else inside?”

Captain Jones overheard as he ran past. Rivulets of sweat were running down his soot-smudged face. “Oh, Constable Evans—you got here pretty quick. There was no one in the restaurant. The front door was locked. I had to break it down and the place was empty. I couldn’t get into the kitchen, though. That was