“That’s great news,” said Lucy, wondering if he knew who had attacked him, and whether it would upset him if she asked. “Do you remember the attack?” she asked in a gentle voice. “I was the one who found you. I called the medics.”

“I don’t remember it at all,” he said. They tell me it’s normal after a traumatic event. You repress the memory.”

Lucy was disappointed. If only he were able to remember his attacker, he could clear her and her friends from suspicion. She also wondered if he was telling the truth, but didn’t want to press him. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she finally asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Can you make a phone call for me?”

“Sure, but why can’t you do it?” asked Lucy.

He shook his head. “Not allowed. The cops took the phone.”

It was true. There was no phone on the nightstand, and she’d found no sign of a cell phone in her brief search.

“Okay,” said Lucy, reaching under her smock for her bag and producing a scrap of paper and a pen.

He gave her a phone number and told her to ask for Serge. “Tell him I need to see him,” he added quickly. They could both hear approaching footsteps and turned toward the door, which was beginning to open.

Lucy realized she was trapped and got busy with the rag, cleaning the sink in the corner of the room.

It wasn’t the cop, thank goodness. It was a nurse, and she spoke sharply to her in French. Whoever said French was a beautiful language hadn’t been chewed out by an officious nurse, that was for sure, thought Lucy, ducking her head and scurrying out of the room. The cop was coming back down the hall, and she smiled at him, hoping desperately the nurse would check on the welfare of her patient rather than chase her down the hall. The elevator doors were opening, and she hopped inside and was carried down to the lobby. There she went straight to the ladies’ room, ditched the smock and cleaning supplies. Congratulating herself on her foresight in keeping her coat and bag with her, she left the hospital through the lobby.

Once outside, she started to retrace her steps, heading home. As she walked, she studied the phone number Larry had given her. Why was it so familiar? She didn’t know any phone numbers in Paris, but for some reason this number was setting off chimes in her head. Maybe it was similar to a number back home?

Stunned, she stopped in her tracks. Of course! It was the phone number for the Cavendish Hotel. Chef Larry wanted to contact somebody named Serge at the Cavendish Hotel. Who was Serge? And why was he the one person Chef Larry wanted to contact? Only one way to find out, decided Lucy, reversing direction and heading toward the boulevard Haussmann.