I allowed the mayor to pull me in a little tighter. Enough so that our clasped hands were hidden by my body. With my thumb I traced the web of skin on the mayor’s hand where thumb and forefinger meet. This is a pressure point, usually used to relieve pain. A couple of millimeters away is a point where a thick blood vessel runs over bone. Marbot’s hands were encased in a thick layer of fat, so I had to work hard. I fastened down on that blood vessel with my thumb, using brute force to work through the fat and crush it quickly into the bone. The pain is sharp. I locked my thumb down and kept it there, constricting blood flow. Marbot instinctively pulled his hand away, but because he had already pulled me in, he had no leverage, no place to go. I stepped into his personal space and further reduced his ability to move, trapping the mayor between the antique cabinet and my body. Nowhere to go, only pain.

I released him and said, “Nice to meet you, mister mayor.”

Rigalle was standing at the mayor’s shoulder, transfixed by what had just occurred, most of it hidden by our bodies, hands tucked in between us. The police chief had noticed, as had Bonnet. The cop turned back to the billiard table. The mayor smiled weakly and rubbed his hand. He glanced at me like a reprimanded cat. He said, “I hope you enjoy yourself, monsieur, our town is one of the most beautiful in France,” and turned away towards the elegant men and women of Alencourt.

A red-faced man in an impeccable suit raised a cognac glass. “Here’s to poor old Houdin!” I figured he was referring to Benoit Houdin, town treasurer and axe-murder victim.

Simone said, “And Julie, and the kids.”

The red-faced man had tears running down his cheeks. He made no attempt to wipe them. The mayor bowed his head and assumed a sorrowful look. Rigalle echoed his boss. Marbot’s eyes searched for a glass and the police director followed his look and found one for the great man. The mayor announced, “To Benoit, Julie. The Houdin family. To a true friend.”

There was a moment of silence. Everyone wet their lips with cognac or champagne. Then Madame Vaugeois and the mayor launched into a conversation about quality of life certifications for towns and villages in France. Rigalle pulled me away by the elbow. “Come, let’s have a drink. I’d like to hear about your military service. I myself served in the French army. Nothing interesting, you know that conscription was compulsory until only recently.”