Wiggins drove him to Heathrow, where he got the three o’clock flight to Paris.

“It’s 4:00 p.m. there; the shop’s open until 7:00, so you’ll have plenty of time to get there. And this Gabrielle will be there; I checked on that.”

“And does Gabrielle have a last name?”

“Belrose.”

It was a little shop in a little street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. A bell made a tinny sort of music when he opened the door.

A woman—looking more like a girl—stood behind one of the three long glass display cases, choosing chocolates to place in small, dark paper cups lining a black-and-gold box with which Jury was now quite familiar.

“Pardon me,” said Jury, “but are you Gabrielle Belrose?”

She looked up over the case. “Oui.”

“May I speak with you for a few moments, mademoiselle?” When she hesitated, he said, “I’m a policeman—”

“The Sûreté? Again?”

Jury tried to work up a comforting smile. “The British version. New Scotland Yard. Not again. It’s about Manon Vinet, the owner. You were a good friend?”

Her eyes rimmed with tears. “Oui.”

“I don’t want to upset you. I’m sure you’ve had enough dealings with police, but—”

She looked away. “Enough.”

Jury said, “Look, if you’d rather not talk to me, that’s all right. I’ll just go away.”

Her smile at that was slight, her lips pale, as if her face were refusing comfort and color, and her face was very pretty indeed. “I did not know police went away.”

“This one does.” Jury fished the hotel card from his pocket, wrote his name and mobile phone number on the back and shoved it across the counter. “If you feel like talking to me, I’m at this hotel. Thanks, Gabrielle.” Jury turned to leave.

Then she exclaimed, “Attendez!”

That, he thought, meant “Wait!” and he turned back.

“I do not mind talking to you. I’m closing the shop up now. Could we perhaps go for a drink?”

“We certainly could. But let’s go one better. Let’s go for dinner. I passed a nice-looking restaurant, just down the Rue des Beaux-Arts.”

“Le Vin d’Or? But that’s … trés, trés cher!”

“Good. It’s time Scotland Yard paid for something trés cher.”

She looked down at her skirt. “I don’t know if I’m dressed—”

“I may not be, but believe me, you’re dressed for anything. Close up and let’s go.”

Whether they were dressed for it could not be discerned from the smile of the maître d’ at Le Vin d’Or, who seemed happy to lead them to a table despite their not having a reservation. And the table was well placed against a wall made warm-looking by a smoked-glass sconce directly above it, complemented by a tea candle beneath it that the maître d’ lighted.