Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,13
term.”
Sidney grunted and lapsed into silence.
Piers hung his head down. “Those people at the station knew I was the person on the TV.”
Sidney nodded.
“So, I can’t show my face without people recognizing me.”
Sidney nodded. “Maybe. Well, probably. Look, we should split up and get out of Paris until this blows over.”
“Blows over? How do you think this is going to blow over?”
She shrugged and stood to leave.
Piers looked up. “Where are you going?”
“To stay with friends.”
“And what I am going to do?”
“It’d probably be best if you went back to England.”
“You think? Wow. Amazing how you come up with these ideas.” Piers’ head sank into his hands. “And how am I going to get through customs when they have my picture?”
Sidney hummed then smiled. “Go to Spain. Or Portugal. You can get a boat back to England from there. Probably. They’re not as strict with the passports, I don’t think.”
“And how am I going to get to Spain?”
She threw her hands up. “Am I supposed to think of everything?”
Auguste’s phone rang, shockingly loud in the small space. She flipped it open. “What?”
Piers could hear the high-pitched voice again. Only this time it sounded different. Closer, more lifelike. “You two staying in there much longer?”
Sidney rolled her eyes. “Oh, glee. You found us again. Whoever you are.”
“Never you mind who I am. When you’ve finished doing whatever you’re doing in that room, I want to talk to you.”
From outside the door Piers could hear a rumbling voice. “That should be we want to talk to you, not I. Because there’s both of us here. You and me, and we both want to talk to them.”
Piers let his head fall back into his hands. “Oh, shit.”
Sidney opened the door. Two men stood outside, one well over six feet tall, in a dark three-piece and sunglasses, the other considerably smaller, in an ill-fitting light green lounge suit. The small guy theatrically swiped his finger across his iPhone and placed it in his pocket. “So you’re done, eh?”
“Done?” said Sidney, her nose wrinkling up.
“With whatever you were doing in there.” The guy sniggered like a ten-year-old girl reading dirty words in the dictionary.
Sidney stared at him.
His smile faded in an instant. “Oh, never mind. Get out here.”
Sidney and Piers ducked out through the half height door. The big guy stood in the exit from the alcove and the small guy walked up to Sidney. He was a good four inches shorter than her.
She stared at him. “So, you’re the one who shot at us?”
“Me? No! No. I didn’t shoot at you. That was … well … that was someone else.”
“Who?”
“Do you think I’m going to tell you that?”
“Why not? Wait a minute, how did you find us?”
The small guy gave a smug smile and leaned on the statue. “It’s my business to know how to get hold of people.”
Sidney nodded toward his hand. “I can see that.”
The small guy looked at his hand. “Argh.” He jerked away from the statue’s exaggerated endowment. “Why do they have to do things like that? That’s sick, that is. Sick. Suppose they think that’s funny. Bloody artists.”
“Terpsichore,” said the large man.
“Terpsichore? Terpsichore what?”
“The person who carved it.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s a plaque here, see. Tells you all about . . .”
“All right, all right. I don’t care.” He turned back to Sidney. “What I want to know is, what are you doing to return what Auguste took?”
“We don’t even know what he took.”
Little’s eyebrows inched closer together. “Don’t play dumb with me, I’m an expert at that game.”
“We’ve gathered that impression,” Sidney said.
Piers stepped forward, took Sidney’s hand, and led her around the small guy. “Okay, it’s been nice talking, but we’ve really got to go now.”
The big guy shuffled into the middle of the gap out of the alcove. He practically filled the exit. He grimaced and punched his right fist into his left hand, slow and firm. It made a loud smack. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to return what Auguste took, or …”
“Or?” Piers said, slowly.
“Or, we’ll have to do this the hard way. And we don’t want that. Not really.” He winked. “Best to do it the easy way.”
The small guy straightened his jacket. “So. You’ve got twenty-four hours, not a minute more. Got it?”
“We don’t know anything about—”
The small guy walked away, his arm held high. “Talk to the hand.” The big guy followed and in a moment the pair were lost in the rows of books.
Sidney blew out a