On the other hand, thought Lucy, it was the ones who knew they were handsome that you had to watch out for, and Lucy was pretty sure Serge had a very good idea of his effect on others and wasn’t afraid to use his good looks to his advantage. No, she thought, turning onto the boulevard de Sébastopol, she had a feeling that Serge was hiding something, and she suspected it was something to do with Chef Larry. She remembered talking to that prep cook at Sylvie’s birthday party, who had said Chef Larry was stealing luxury foods and selling them on the black market, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised if Serge and probably other employees were in on the game. You didn’t get yourself stabbed for nothing. Chef Larry must have gotten somebody very angry, and she wouldn’t be at all surprised if that somebody turned out to be Serge.

It was quite a hike from the Cavendish to the apartment near the place des Vosges, and Lucy was dragging a bit when she turned onto the rue Rambuteau. It wouldn’t be so bad, she thought, if she could stop and rest in a café, but they all seemed to be closed, expressing solidarity with the farmers. Only in France, she thought, could the problems of a few potato growers cause the entire country to shut down in a general strike.

The rue Rambuteau eventually turned into the rue du Pas-de-la-Mule, which, she guessed, meant that sometime long ago it was a path for mules, perhaps used to transport cargo from the Canal Saint-Martin. Only a few blocks more and she’d be back at the apartment, where she intended to give her feet a good, long soak in Epsom salts. Finally reaching the place des Vosges, she walked under the arcade, ducking through the passage by the Hôtel Pavillon de la Reine and down the rue Roger Verlomme to the apartment. It was a tiny street that opened at the other end into a small treed plaza, where Chez Loulou set out tables. It was rather chilly these days for eating outside, and the tables were usually occupied only by a few hardy souls. Today the bistro was closed because of the general strike. So why was that man sitting at one of the tables, leaning his chair backward against the wall? And why did he look so familiar?

Of course. It came to her in a flash. He was the guy who had followed them to Versailles. The closer she got, the surer she was. It was definitely him lolling in the chair, smoking, looking like someone who had nothing better to do. He must be keeping an eye on them, but why? And for whom?