“He is not my colonel, madame,” Victoria corrected her, “and nowhere do I read in the article that Colonel Albrecht is suspected of killing Beaumont Fournier.”

“Oh, you have to read between the lines,” the concierge said. “He is at least suspected. Otherwise, why mention his name?”

The question was enough to add to the disquiet that had gnawed at her since Saturday, when the colonel had saved her coat from hitting the floor at the premiere. Her heart had grabbed when he’d caught the coat by its lining where she’d concealed her cyanide capsule. He’d given her a smile to say that all was well, and for the rest of the evening she’d had no reason to think otherwise, but he was a man of subterfuge, a practitioner of deceit, his charm and congeniality a mask. Had his hand felt the pill? A man of his experience in the espionage business would know immediately what it was and why it was there.

Her unease increased when the week passed and she didn’t hear from him. She’d expected something—a note, chocolates, flowers, a bottle of wine—to be delivered to her door expressing appreciation for the pleasure of her company Saturday evening, but no such token arrived. Each day, Victoria had followed the stalled investigation into the mystery of the author’s death that subscribers of Le Temps were finding a titillating change from the Nazi propaganda that usually made the headlines. Much was being made of the murder by publishers, editors, readers, fans, and the author’s family and friends. It seemed that everyone who had even said hello to Beaumont Fournier was interviewed, including the actress Michele Morgan, but Derrick Albrecht’s name was not mentioned again.

*  *  *

The Sunday morning after the film premiere, Derrick dispatched a coded message to his undercover radio operator in Long Island, New York. Wishing to keep his inquiry private, he handled the matter personally, sending the young SS sergeant at his electronic communications post off for coffee so he could transmit his encrypted text himself. Upon the sergeant’s reappearance, Derrick gave him strict orders to leave the decryption of the return message to him. He did not expect to hear back from his Long Island agent until late Monday. The requested information would require his source to make a trip to Williamsburg, Virginia, and devise a careful strategy of approach to the documents clerk at William and Mary College.

On Monday, having slept only a few hours the night before and endured an aimless Sunday filling his time without the parameters of his fencing bout with Mademoiselle Colbert, he was back at his desk at Sicherheitsdienst headquarters earlier than usual to settle down to await his agent’s report. He already knew the truth it would contain, but he wished it confirmed. He was a man who made sure his ducks were lined up before taking aim.