“Help is on the way, madame,” said the voice. “Stabbed, you say? Is this a matter criminelle?”

“I don’t think he stabbed himself in the chest,” said Lucy.

“Do not leave,” advised the voice. “That would be a matter sérieuse.”

“I’m staying,” replied Lucy, hearing the varying woo-wah tones, which indicated an ambulance was on the way.

Hands shaking, she replaced the phone handset on its hook, noticing that Bill was in the doorway, wondering what was keeping her. “Don’t come in,” she warned as he was pushed aside by the arriving medics. Then the rest of the group of friends arrived, curious to see what all the fuss was about, and they were herded in a tight little bunch into one of the student cooking areas.

The medics seemed to take a long time doing whatever they were doing, and there seemed to be a good deal of discussion. Lucy felt her heart fluttering in her chest. It was time to get moving and get poor Chef Larry to the hospital.

“What’s taking so long?” she asked, but got no reply from the medics.

It was Sue who replied. “It’s the French way. They try to stabilize the patient before they transport him. Remember Princess Diana? They say she might have lived if they’d gotten her to the hospital sooner.”

“Socialized medicine,” snorted Sid, who was a member of the volunteer fire department in Tinker’s Cove and had answered many an emergency call. “Back home, we’d have him at the hospital by now.”

“And he’d get a huge bill,” snapped Rachel. “Probably end up bankrupt.”

“But he’d be alive,” said Sid.

“There’s really nothing for us to do here,” said Bill. “You’ve done your duty, Lucy. Let’s go. We’re just in the way.”

“The dispatcher said to stay,” said Lucy.

“Well, I need a drink,” said Sue, turning to leave and bumping into a short, dark man with the usual fashionable stubble of beard, wearing a scarf over his Burberry trench coat. “I think we should regroup at the café.”

“Un peu de patience,” advised the man, shepherding the group away from the door as the medics wheeled the wounded man away on a gurney. “I am Commissaire Lapointe, with the police, and I have a few questions.”

“We’re happy to cooperate,” said Bob, stepping forward. “I’m Bob Goodman. I’m a lawyer in the U.S., and I can assure you that none of us had anything to do with this unfortunate incident.”

“I see,” said the commissaire, blinking slowly. His eyes protruded a bit, and he reminded Lucy of a lizard, testing the atmosphere and waiting to pounce on whatever unwitting prey might come by. He almost seemed bored as he pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Can you give me your names and your addresses in Paris?”