She found it surreal sitting with a senior officer in the black uniform of the SS, dragged into discussing the latest movies and novels released in the United States, the likelihood of the Washington Redskins playing the Chicago Bears in the National Football League championship game, and, of all things, the pros and cons of hot dogs versus hamburgers. The colonel asked questions about her family and region of the country, which she answered sparingly, and he freely told her about his. He spoke with worshipful respect of his parents, both still living but unwell, a worry to him, and dotingly of a younger sister—“a gifted cellist”—and Victoria disclosed her anxiety over her mother’s dicey heart. It was like sitting in a coffee shop at William and Mary swapping family stories and current news with a foreign exchange student.

The name of Beaumont Fournier came up when the colonel asked her about her work as a French translator. Did she enjoy it?

Only when she did not have to translate works by French authors that she did not like, she’d said.

“Such as?” he’d asked.

“Beaumont Fournier, the writer of Cathédrale de Silence. I hope he’s not a friend of yours,” she’d said.

“An acquaintance only,” he’d said and shifted to another subject.

Looking back on that brief moment of exchange this Monday morning, Victoria felt certain that she’d seen a slight change in the colonel’s expression when she’d mentioned the author’s name, then chided herself. Derrick Albrecht was guilty of enough crimes without suspecting him of having something to do with the author’s drowning. The afternoon had waned to evening and table candles lit the café’s deepening shadows when Victoria, her stomach filled, drowsy from the wine, decided to dance with the cobra.

“Les Visiteurs du Soir is premiering at the Madeleine Cinema Saturday night,” he’d said. “It’s been greatly anticipated as one of the best films of the year. Would you care to go?”