In the City of Light, while most Parisians took a little heart at the unfolding developments spread by word of mouth and garnered from underground newspapers and hidden radios tuned to the BBC, the team of Dragonfly went about their week with an eye constantly cast over their shoulders, senses alert, nerves taut, the phrase “jumping at shadows” never more clearly understood and felt. Victoria’s glance at a headline in Le Temps as she hurried through the hotel lobby to work Monday had caused her to miss her step and almost lose her footing. The accompanying news item stated that Beaumont Fournier’s death had been ruled a homicide by potassium poisoning. The police had tracked the author’s movements during the week to the day he was last seen, Saturday, October 3l. According to his butler, he had left his residence to pay a morning visit to the office of Colonel Derrick Albrecht, the counterintelligence chief of the Sicherheitsdienst, headquartered at 84 Avenue Foch, and then to the Ritz Hotel, where he was to meet the actress Michele Morgan for lunch. According to both parties, Beaumont Fournier did not show up. Their statements had been corroborated by Colonel Albrecht’s aide and the maître d’ of the hotel restaurant. When questioned about the nature of the writer’s visit, Colonel Albrecht had professed no idea or even knew to expect him, since no appointment was on the books. The police were continuing the investigation.

Victoria felt goose bumps rising amid the same unease that had disturbed her when she had first heard the news of his death. She shook the suspicion from her head that Derrick Albrecht was somehow involved in Beaumont Fournier’s death. Again she told herself that the colonel was responsible for enough crimes without adding the murder of the writer to the list. What reason would he have? He barely knew the man.

The concierge had emerged from her private rooms behind the registration counter with a special smile for the hotel’s beautiful young benefactor. Victoria always had to keep in mind that the woman was neither friend nor foe, but a survivor. She would go in whatever direction the stream flowed to stay alive and preserve her hotel. “I thought I’d find you here,” the concierge said. Victoria was always the first in the lobby this time of morning and the first to glance at the newspaper before the residents passed it around among themselves over their morning coffee in the salon.

The concierge’s eye fell on the headlines. “I see you’ve read of the murder of France’s most prominent author and the involvement of your colonel,” she said. “I wonder if nowadays someone in his position would be held accountable for a crime against a Frenchman?” The woman looked clearly worried. Her question was really meant to inquire of Victoria if the residents’ windfall of foodstuffs and heating would be suspended should the colonel be arrested.