“Did you observe them?” asked Bob. “You accompanied them, right? To make sure they didn’t steal anything?”

Madame Defarge looked down at the cobblestones, then raised her eyes to meet Bob’s. “I was running late,” she said in an apologetic voice. “If I don’t get to the market by ten, the quality is poor. The best food has all been sold. It’s gone. What is left is not so good.” She shrugged. “And,” she added, cocking her head toward the window where her fluffy little white dog was sitting, watching with a toothy smile, “I wanted to get some fillet for my petit Gounod.”

“Of course, quite understandable,” said Bob, heading upstairs to assess the damage.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

When Bob unlocked the door, it was all too clear that the apartment had been searched. Ransacked was more like it, thought Lucy. The suitcases that she and Bill had zipped and stacked neatly in a corner of the living room had been opened, and the contents tossed every which way. In the kitchen, bags of flour and sugar had been dumped into the sink, and Carte Noire coffee was all over the floor. Bob and Rachel’s bedroom had been treated in the same way, the doors of the armoire hanging open and the clothes thrown everywhere. The bed had also been tossed, the sheets and duvet yanked off and the mattress left askew. In the en suite bathroom Rachel’s jars of face cream and bath salts had been emptied into the sink, making a gooey mess.

Bob stood in the doorway to the room he shared with Rachel, shaking his head. “I can’t believe the cops did this,” he said. “This would never happen in America.”

Lucy wasn’t so sure, but she wasn’t about to argue. “What were they looking for?”

“Maybe it was a routine procedure,” suggested Rachel in a doubtful tone.

“I don’t think so, but what do I know?” said Bob in a defensive tone. “From what I can see, the flics can do whatever they want. Citizens don’t seem to have any rights at all.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” murmured Rachel, who was busy picking up clothes and replacing them on hangers in the armoire. “I could use a hand, Bob. Can you get that mattress back on the bed?”

Lucy left them to it and made a quick tour of the apartment, discovering that the rest of the bedrooms and baths were in the same condition. She returned to the living room, where she began gathering up clothing and refolding it. She heard a key turning in the lock and looked up to see the rest of the group arriving home.

“What the hell!” exclaimed Bill, taking in the sofas, with cushions askew, and the clothes scattered about.

“The police searched the apartment while we were out,” said Lucy. “Everything’s a mess, the kitchen, the bathrooms. . . .”