Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,44
just well-done; it was almost toasted. He cut off a chunk and chewed. To his surprise it tasted good, even though it gave his jaw a workout. He swallowed. “So, what do we know?”
Sidney stared at him. “Know?”
“About Auguste. About the painting. About what we’re going to do next.”
Sidney looked away. “You’re the one who thinks he knows everything.”
“When did I say that?”
“You told your mother, or have you forgotten already?”
He grunted.
Sidney stared at him. “Do you remember anything he said in the taxi?”
He shrugged. “Not exactly. There was a lot of shooting going on.”
“Come on, think. He must have said something.”
“He mentioned the company I work for.”
“Which is kind of suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
“Yeah.” She leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “You sure you didn’t know him?”
He glowered back. “Positive.”
She stood up.
“I haven’t finished,” Piers said.
“I’m only going to the restroom.”
She picked up her phone and walked off down a long corridor. Piers watched her go. He didn’t have a clue how much the dress had cost, but the view from behind alone made it worth every penny. He pushed another chunk of steak in his mouth and looked around the café, only to realize he wasn’t the only person who noticed her leave her seat. The other male patrons brought their gazes back to their tables and made themselves busy as he stared at them. He cut off another chunk of steak and stabbed it with his fork. Who did they think they were?
He chewed his steak and wondered the same question about himself. Without the taxi, the shooting, and the mob, he wouldn’t have dared talk to her, and he doubted she would have given him the time of day. He swallowed, and shoved his gloom to the back of his mind. He had to concentrate on the problem.
And that was the problem. They had no clues. One minute they were arguing over a taxi, the next the mob was after them for a painting the dead guy stole. Piers chewed another piece of steak. Auguste didn’t have the painting in the taxi, so he must have hidden it somewhere. An obvious conclusion, but of no practical help.
Piers took a satisfying crunch of fries and almost forgave the waiter his attitude.
Sidney walked back, smiled, and dropped her phone onto the table. Piers watched her all the way.
She waved a hand in front of his face. “You don’t have to keep staring at my figure.”
“I’m not.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re just a bundle of compliments.”
“I’m thinking about Auguste.”
She hummed. “Is he your sort?”
“This is important. He jumped in our taxi at Notre Dame, right? But the other shooting happened at Gare de l’Est.”
She nodded slowly.
“So how did he get between the two?”
She shrugged. “Taxi? Métro? He was out of breath and sweating. Maybe he ran?”
“Yeah. Only he was an organization freak. His house looked like it was out of a museum, compared to yours.”
“Thanks.”
“Then he has his will made out and stored in a bank. He’s Mr. Prepared yet he ends up chased across Paris like a madman with a painting he planned to steal.”
“And your point is?”
“Planned to steal. He was a perfectionist. If he intended to steal the painting, he would have had it all planned out. He would have had an escape route, he wouldn’t be jumping into a taxi.”
“So? He messed up. It happens to the best of people, you know.”
Piers shook his head. “No. He planned to get to the Montparnasse railway station in time to meet his girlfriend. He’d never have done it on foot. He had a plan, I’m sure of it.”
“Look, you’re very irritating sometimes. What? Why? How does this help?”
Piers took a last bite of his steak and put down his knife and fork. “Things didn’t go to plan. That’s why he ended up running across Paris and jumping into a taxi. “
Sidney leaned forward. “So what? How does that help?”
“Get a map.”
She straightened herself up. “What?”
“Get a map, a street map.”
“What do you think I am? A walking map vendor strolling Paris on the off chance of making a sale to a demented Brit?”
“Fine.” He grabbed a free tourist map from a tired looking display and spread it on the table. “Auguste starts off here, at Gare de l’Est.” He drew his finger across the map, “and ends here, at Notre Dame.”
“About two miles.”
“Right. And somewhere along this route he dumped the painting.”
“You’re really narrowing it down.”
“Let’s just keep thinking.”
“But he could have gone in thousands of different ways. There’s so many streets.”
“Do you