The report explained her distress when she’d walked into the fencing hall later that same Sunday. She had insisted that nothing was wrong, but her play had been so distracted that he’d called a halt minutes into the bout. She’d been grateful and confessed, “I am not well today.” He had expressed his concern—genuine, as it happened—and offered to drive her home, but she’d refused. He had not insisted, but he’d had her followed to make sure she arrived at her hotel safely. The next day, he’d sent her flowers that probably ended up in a wastebasket. He could have Madame Dupree brought in for questioning, but he did not want Victoria Grayson alerted to his inquiries nor did he want to risk alienating her until he learned all about her. But he would keep the name of the proprietress of the boardinghouse in his files. He had become…taken with Mademoiselle Veronique Colbert. Thinking of her beauty shone a light in the darkest corners of his life, and she was among the most challenging bout partners he’d ever met on the piste.

“Herr Colonel?” Karl, his aide-de-camp and man-of-all-purposes, interrupted his thoughts from the doorway of his office. “There is a Monsieur Beaumont Fournier to see you.”

“The author?”

“Yes. He says it’s urgent.”

“It must be for him to appear at Sicherheitsdienst headquarters on a Saturday morning. I would think he’d be sleeping off last night’s coitus activities with his latest paramour.”

His aide smirked. “I don’t like his writing.”

“Neither do I, almost as much as I don’t like him. Send him in, Karl.”

To avert a French greeting, the colonel stood when his guest entered, but did not move from behind his desk. The author took the hint and, ever his unctuous, effusive self, approached Derrick with a large smile and outstretched hand. “Your Grace,” he said with a dip of his head. Inwardly, Derrick winced. “Your Grace” applied to ducal lords of England. “So good to see you.”

“Yes, well, this is where I am most usually seen,” the colonel said, shaking his visitor’s hand.

“Ah, yes, most, but not always, no? Your manservant told me I’d find you here this Saturday morning.” He shivered in his overcoat. “Let us hope this last day of October is not a precursor of the winter to come. May I?” He gestured toward a chair before the desk.

Warily, Derrick nodded. “By all means. What can I do for you?”

“Oh no, no—not what you can do for me, Duke, but what I can do for you. Is that a Montecristo I smell?” The author’s glance skewed toward the humidor.

“It is,” Derrick said, ignoring his visitor’s hint to be offered one of the treasures in the box. “How may you be of help to me?”