Part 82 (2/2)
The concierge in the lobby of the George V said it would be impossible to provide either a Cadillac or a Lincoln-much less a Porsche or a Buick Rendezvous-and he would therefore recommend a Mercedes.
”Unless M'sieu would like a Jaguar?”
”Tell me about a Jaguar,” Matt said.
He put the Jaguar rental on his American Express card, because every time he'd tried to pick up a bill, O'Hara had been adamant that the whole trip was on him. ”Put your G.o.dd.a.m.n money away,” he'd say.
Signing the receipt triggered the memory of what Detective Olivia La.s.siter had said to him in Alabama about his not even looking at the bill there before he signed it, and his first reaction was, ”Screw her!” ”Screw her!”
But she stayed in his mind all day, and about six-thirty, as he sat in the hotel bar in the vain hope that Mickey would leave the Louvre before they threw him out, he remembered that Mickey had left his worldwide telephone in the suite. And after one more drink, he went to the suite, dialed Zero Zero One, and after some difficulty was connected with the Northwest Detectives Division of the Philadelphia police department.
”Detective La.s.siter, please.”
”Who's calling?”
”Sergeant Payne.”
”h.e.l.lo, Matt. How are you?”
”I'm fine.”
”I heard-”
”I'm fine, Olivia. Thank you for asking. I was about to send you one of those 'having lovely time in Gay Paree wish you were here' postcards, but I figured what the h.e.l.l, I'd call you.”
”Matt, I'm working.”
”Can I call you later?”
”I don't think that would be a very good idea,” Olivia said. And hung up.
The next morning at ten, Matthew M. Payne and Michael J. O'Hara, both more than a little hungover, watched their luggage being loaded into a powder blue Jaguar XK8 Cabriolet. Then they got in and, with Matt at the wheel, drove across Avenue George V onto Rue Pierre Charron, then turned right onto the Champs Elysees and headed for French National Highway A20.
They stopped for lunch in Orleans, then drove on, this time with Mickey at the wheel. At seven-thirty, by which time it was already too dark to take pictures, they pulled into the cobble-stoned forecourt of Le Relais in the village of Cognac-Boeuf.
”It looks,” Matt said, ”as if it's been here for centuries.”
”It looks like a dump,” Mickey said. ”Is this the best we can do?”
”This is it, unless you want to go back to Bordeaux.”
Mickey wordlessly turned the engine off and got out of the car.
The only accommodation available was one room. It had two single beds and a washbasin. The bath and water closet were in separate rooms down a narrow corridor.
”And I'll bet you snore, too, don't you?” Mr. O'Hara inquired.
Their dinner-roast lamb -was very good, and so was the wine. At nine o'clock, they retired to their room.
”I want to get up early, find their house, and take a couple of shots,” Mickey announced, ”then hang around for a while to see if I can get a couple of shots of Festung, and then get the h.e.l.l out of here.”
They called their respective maternal parents, turned off the worldwide telephone because the battery was running low, and then got into bed.
”You know what else-besides forgetting to charge the phone in the car-you made me do when you decided to drink everything in Paris last night?” Mr. O'Hara inquired across the dark room.
”I can hardly wait to hear.”
”I didn't call that jacka.s.s in the emba.s.sy.”
”You can call the jacka.s.s in the emba.s.sy in the morning,” Matt said.
They were both asleep by half past nine.
[FOUR].
When it is half past nine in Cognac-Boeuf, France, it is half past three in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
At 3:33 P.M., Dianna Kerr-Gally, Executive a.s.sistant to the Honorable Alvin W. Martin, stepped to the mayor's door and coughed.
”What's up?” he inquired.
”I've got Eileen Solomon on the line,” Dianna said.
”Put her through,” he said.
”She wants to know if there is any reason you can't see her right now.”
”See me? As opposed to talk to me?”
Dianna nodded.
”Did she say what she wants?”
Dianna shook her head, ”no.”
He shrugged.
”You think I should talk to her?”
”I think you should tell me if there's some reason you can't see her right now.”
”Tell our distinguished district attorney that my door is always open to her,” the mayor ordered. ”And stall whatever's on the schedule until she shows up.”
The Honoable Eileen McNamara Solomon, trailed by Detective Al Unger, appeared ten minutes later in the mayor's outer office, and was immediately shown into the inner office by Dianna Kerr-Gally, who stood just inside the door.
”This is between the mayor and me,” Eileen Solomon said. ”Do you mind?”
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