Part 18 (1/2)

”Her name is Yvette Bouchard,” Evan said, ”but we have no way of knowing if she was already married when she was here. Her maiden name was Hetreau.”

The girl frowned. ”It would be easier to look up if you knew the year,” she said. Then her face lit up. ”I know-we have cla.s.s pictures on the walls of students graduating from our diploma program. Please look at them and see if you can find her. I'm awfully busy and that would save us all time.”

Watkins nodded. ”Good idea. At least we know what she looks like. That's one thing we do know.”

They followed the girl to the front corridor. Solemn groups of young people in chef's hats stared at them from black frames, dating back to the turn of the century when the groups were mostly composed of males with droopy mustaches.

”How old would you say she is now?” Watkins asked. ”Late thirties? That means the earliest she could have done this course was about sixteen, seventeen years ago. Okay, let's start over here.”

They scanned photos from the early eighties, moving slowly down the hall. At last Evan pointed at a face. ”Look, that's her.”

”Finally!” Watkins nodded. ”All right. We've got the cla.s.s number. Let's see what we can find out.”

The young woman looked up and tried to manage a friendly smile as they came back. ”Have you found her? Brilliant. Okay, let's go and see what we can turn up in the records.”

She led them down stone stairs into a gloomy bas.e.m.e.nt. ”I'm afraid our filing system was still terribly primitive ten years ago. Now of course we've got it all on the computer.” She pulled open a drawer in a big filing cabinet and took out a folder.

”Yvette Hetreau, did you say? Yes, here she is.” She pulled out a single typed sheet with a pa.s.sport-size photo clipped to the top and handed it to them.

Evan looked over Sergeant Watkins's shoulder.

”Wait a second,” he said. ”That's not her.”

”Didn't I give you the right one?” the Dutch girl asked. ”You said Yvette Hetreau, didn't you?”

”Someone must have mixed up the photos,” Evan said. ”This isn't Madame Yvette.”

”Are you sure?” Watkins peered more closely at the photo. ”It was taken a long time ago, remember.”

”It's not unlike her,” Evan said, trying to bring a picture of Madame Yvette into his mind. ”Same kind of hairstyle, same Roman nose but . . .”

”People change and put on weight,” Watkins pointed out. ”And she was burned in a fire, remember.”

Evan shook his head. ”There's something about the shape of the face-this one is more heart shaped. Madame Yvette has a longer face. And look at the way she's smiling. You can't change your smile, Sarge.”

”This isn't the person you're looking for?” The Dutch girl looked confused.

”It's not the person whose photo we saw in the entrance hall,” Evan said. ”We recognized her there easily enough.”

”Is it possible the photos got mixed up?” Watkins asked.

”I suppose it's possible, although I can't see how or why,” the girl said. ”Student chefs have to submit a photo with their application and it stays attached to it. No one would have any reason to remove it.” She put the folder on top of the filing cabinet. ”Please, look through these applications and see if you can find the person whose photo you saw in the hallway.”

They went through the applications one by one. Then there she was-a younger, prettier version of Madame Yvette smiling at them. ”This is her,” Watkins and Evan said at the same time.

The name on the form was Janine Laroque.

”Yes, they do look a little alike,” the Dutch girl said. ”They both do their hair in the same way. So you say this is really Yvette Bouchard? I should put the pictures back where they belong.” She unclipped the photo, then stopped with the photo lying in the palm of her hand.

”I think you gentlemen are mixed up,” she said. ”Look at this.”

On the back of the photo a spidery French hand had written, ”Janine Laroque, Paris, 17 Feb. 1988.”

”I don't understand,” Watkins said.

”Unless . . .” Evan began.

”Unless what?”

”There's only one explanation,” Evan said. ”That the person up in Wales right now isn't really Yvette Bouchard.”

Chapter 19.

”Who the h.e.l.l is she?” Watkins demanded, as soon as they were back on the crowded Paris street ”And what has happened to the real Madame Yvette?”

Evan was wrestling with probabilities and he didn't like any of them. In his heart he had wanted to find that the woman he knew as Madame Yvette was an innocent victim. Part of his eagerness to come with Watkins and solve the mystery had been the desire to clear Yvette's name. He realized he had cast himself as the knight in s.h.i.+ning armor again, ready to rescue the damsel in distress, or what Bronwen would call his boy scout syndrome.

And now it appeared that he had been duped-taken in by a pretty, helpless woman. Sweet, gentle, abandoned Madame Yvette, appealing for his help, had been using him-hoping to keep the police from delving deeper into a shady past. She had identified him correctly as the softhearted village constable. Had she also added ”not too bright” to that description? Now Evan saw that she had probably planned the whole thing-the threatening notes, the phony seduction, too.

”No wonder she didn't recognize her husband when he came into the restaurant,” Watkins said, chuckling. He was beginning to enjoy himself, clearly looking forward to going home with the riddle solved and the criminal apprehended. ”Boy, what a shock that must have been for her.”

”He must have told her who he was,” Evan continued the scenario, ”which was why she was so upset when she came to our table and nearly set fire to us when she tried to cook the crepes suzette.”

”What are they? Pardon my ignorance but I don't go eating at posh places like you.”

”Crepes suzette, you mean? They're little pancakes. You flambe them in liqueur-you set them on fire.”

”I know flambe. I'm not that much of an ignoramus. I've flambeed in my time.”

Evan grinned. ”I remember. Hamburgers on that new barbecue last year, wasn't it?”

Watkins gave him a withering glare. ”Okay, so the husband showed up at the restaurant and found out she wasn't his wife . . . She panicked when she realized she'd been found out, lured him into her flat, stabbed him and then set fire to the place to cover up the crime.”

”It certainly looks that way.”

”What other explanation could there be?” Watkins asked.

Evan thought, then shook his head. ”I don't know. It all seems to tie in, doesn't it?”

”There are still a lot of things we don't know and we'll have to find out. Why did he decide to show up then, after having been missing all that time?”

”I thought he'd already decided that-he's been missing long enough to be declared legally dead. If they had taken out an insurance policy, his wife could now legally collect. They probably planned this whole thing between them, either for the money or because it was prudent for him to vanish.”

”But if the wife was no longer around-if she'd died in the meantime, after that fire maybe, and Janine Whatsher-name was her friend . . .” Watkins continued, looking to Evan to take this one step further.

”Janine knew about the insurance policy and decided to impersonate Yvette and collect the money. She opened a restaurant where n.o.body would remember the real Yvette-who spoke English as well as a native, remember-and worked on establis.h.i.+ng her credibility.”