Chapters (67)
- Cover
- “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- ( I )
- ( one )
- ( two )
- ( three )
- ( four )
- ( five )
- ( six )
- ( seven )
- ( eight )
- ( nine )
- ( ten )
- ( II )
- ( eleven )
- ( twelve )
- ( thirteen )
- ( fourteen )
- ( fifteen )
- ( III )
- ( sixteen )
- ( seventeen )
- ( eighteen )
- ( nineteen )
- ( IV )
- ( twenty )
- ( twenty-one )
- ( twenty-two )
- ( twenty-three )
- ( twenty-four )
- ( V )
- ( twenty-five )
- ( twenty-six )
- ( twenty-seven )
- ( twenty-eight )
- ( twenty-nine )
- VI
- ( thirty )
- ( thirty-one )
- ( thirty-two )
- ( thirty-three )
- ( thirty-four )
- ( VII )
- ( thirty-five )
- ( thirty-six )
- ( thirty-seven )
- ( thirty-eight )
- ( thirty-nine )
- ( forty )
- ( forty-one )
- ( forty-two )
- ( VIII )
- ( forty-three )
- ( forty-four )
- ( forty-five )
- ( forty-six )
- ( forty-seven )
- ( forty-eight )
- ( forty-nine )
- ( fifty )
- ( fifty-one )
- Acknowledgments
- Acknowledgments
- Questions for Discussion
( twenty-five )
MR. FELPERSTONE WAS SEATED in the darkest, most remote corner of the brasserie, beneath a squeaking ceiling fan. Robert had only been to this place once before, when he’d eaten something that had purported to be beef but which he suspected was horse. There was a much better brasserie (they served excellent roast poussin) just next door to his office building, on the other side of the Boulevard des Batignolles. But when Robert suggested that they went there instead, Felperstone had muttered about the need for discretion and subtlety and insisted they should go somewhere quieter. It was irritating, then, to find the detective sporting a large Panama hat and looking about himself in a decidedly shifty way.
When Robert had finally attracted a waiter (they appeared to be giving Felperstone a wide berth) and ordered a café espresse for himself, he simply asked, “Well, then? What’s this all about?”
With many a sideways glance, Felperstone removed the hat and set it down on the seat next to him. Then he drew a foolscap envelope from his briefcase and slid it across the table.
Robert scowled. “What’s this?”
Felperstone merely nodded, tapped the envelope with a long fingernail and raised his eyebrows.
“Now look—”
“Before you say anything,” said Felperstone, “I suggest you open it.”
Robert had a sudden sense of the sordid all about him. The envelope, Felperstone, the brasserie even—they were infected, diseased. He could almost smell it. If he touched that envelope, he might catch it too. And then it would spread to his wife, their life together—everything he held dear.
“Go on.” Felperstone pushed the envelope closer.
He didn’t have to open it. It was his decision entirely. He could pay this wretch off, get up and walk out of this place right now. Yes, that’s what he’d do.
“Café espresse, sir?” As the waiter set his cup down, Robert snatched up the envelope and ripped it open.
Inside were two photographs.
Genevieve standing by the river with a tall man in a white suit, drinking something. Her expression is bright and animated. Her party face.
Genevieve with the same man, dancing close, her eyes shut and a languid smile playing on her lips. They are surrounded by other dancing couples. In the background is an old boat, crowded with people.
The ceiling fan squeaked. Robert reached up to unbutton his collar.
“What is the meaning of this?” “Well, sir.” Felperstone drew out a notebook. “The man’s name is Guy Monteray. He’s an American. A poet, apparently.” He pronounced “poet” as though the very word was suspect. Dirty. “And a dandy. He’s not been in Paris long but his reputation runs before him. He’s been involved with eight wealthy married women in the past three years, all in the States. And profited nicely from it. Go-away money. Hush money. Divorce-settlement money. Mr. Shelby King, this scoundrel is dallying with your wife.”