Paris Love Match - By Nigel Blackwell Page 0,58

if he failed her.

A man in a cream suit walked across the floor toward him. He waved at some of the dancers as he crossed the open space, then seated himself directly opposite Piers. “I hear you’re waiting for Sidney.”

Piers’ eyes narrowed. “You know her?”

The man leaned across the small table. “I gave her those tickets.”

“You’re Bernard?”

“You’re English and, pardon me for saying this, an unlikely person to be in possession of those tickets. You don’t seem like Sidney’s type.”

“And what type do you think she goes for?”

Bernard shrugged. “Not, monsieur, a man who sips beer on his own in a corner.”

“I’m not having a good day.”

Bernard leaned forward. “Let me give you some advice about Sidney. She’s a true Parisienne. The type of person she would go for doesn’t sulk about not having a good day. He grabs it by the throat and changes the day.”

Piers raised his gaze and started at Bernard. “She’s not French. She’s Elbistonian.”

Bernard raised his head up. “Ahhhh, so you do know her. This is true.” He thumped his chest. “But inside.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.” Bernard stood up. “Don’t forget, monsieur, you have the clothes to impress, but if you want to win Sidney, you will change the day.”

Piers watched him walk away, talking to patrons, passing from group to group, waving at a couple on the dance floor. He was calm, confident, assured—everything Piers didn’t feel about himself.

He toyed with his beer. Should he search Auguste’s apartment again? Find April? Neither of those would be easy. Certainly not before midday tomorrow.

He stretched. What else could he do? Contact Little and Large? Where had they gone? They’d tipped him off about Morel bringing other men, but what could he get out of them?

The only thing left was Auguste’s car. He took a mouthful of beer. He didn’t relish the idea of returning to a murder scene, or the place where he’d last seen Sidney, but Bernard was right.

If he wanted to win Sidney, he had to change the day.

Chapter 24

Outside Bernard’s, the gendarme had moved on. Piers walked along the line of well-dressed patrons. They eyed him curiously, maybe unsure why someone would leave the club so early, or maybe wondering he if resembled the man on the motorbike.

Streetlights glowed through the misty drizzle and the night air felt good on his face. Neons lit up hotel signs, and light from shop windows spilled onto the road. He blew out a long breath. If the painting had been the answer to their problems, it would have been a wonderful night to be in Sidney’s company. Even when she’d made his blood boil, she’d lit up his world.

He arrived at the entrance to the dead end. The street looked dark, the city economizing on street lamps. He bought a large aluminum flashlight from a pharmacy on the corner and headed into the street’s gloom. He walked in the center of the road, keeping away from the doorways, and stretching his shoulders and flexing his fingers. He kept the flashlight off, gripping it with his right hand and slapping it satisfyingly into his left. It had a good heft and he found the idea of fighting a mugger strangely appealing.

But he didn’t need to work out his aggression; he needed get Sidney back, and to get Sidney back he needed to find the money. He slapped the flashlight into his palm. Yes, he had to get her back. The dictator had men and guns but he didn’t have the money. That was all he wanted, and that was the only thing that would save her.

Piers’ mouth went dry as he approached the giant dumpster. Brunwald had thrown Morel and his men in them, and they were undoubtedly dead, but he still had misgivings. He gave the yellow monster a wide berth.

Auguste’s car looked unloved. The seats had been wrenched free of their moorings and the carpets were stuffed into the driver’s seat. The dashboard had been pulled forward and the carpet in the rear hatchback was missing, exposing the spare tire and tire lever. Worst of all, dark patches on the roof testified to Morel’s violent end.

Piers flipped on the flashlight. Bullet holes glinted around the rear of the car. Auguste had been shot at while he was escaping from Gare de l’Est. The shots had been aimed low, and none of the glass in the car was broken. It seemed absurd, but perhaps the dictator’s men were trying to keep a low profile. Blowing the glass out in