French Fried (7 page)

Having been awake for two full days, excluding uncomfortable airplane naps, I was tempted to stay in bed an extra hour and skip my morning run, or perhaps wake Carolyn and devote the time to her. She looked so pretty, curled up in the bed next to mine with her blond hair tangled on the pillow. Still, once one starts skipping daily exercise, middle-aged spread sets in. As long as my knees held out, I hoped to keep running. There’s nothing like a cool dawn and a brisk workout to start the day.

Accordingly, I slipped out of bed and searched my suitcase for running clothes. In short order I was on Charlemagne Cour. As I ran, I thought about Robert. What could have happened to him in our room?

I had turned to my left outside the hotel to run along the sidewalk until I had used up half the allotted period. Then I crossed the street and ran back toward the hotel, enjoying the sound of trees rustling in the light breeze and the friendly greetings of shopkeepers, who were sweeping off sidewalks in front of their stores and arranging merchandise on racks. A very friendly city—Lyon. I don’t remember being greeted on the streets of Paris.

During the return trip I picked up a companion, who came out of a side street and joined me with tail wagging enthusiastically. I’m not sure what kind of dog he was, but his coat, blotched in brown and white, reminded me of the huge cows we’d seen grazing in the pastures of Normandy. He looked well cared for, no doubt someone’s pet, and gave me a friendly bark from time to time as he tipped his head up to inspect me.

We both had picked up the pace, so I decided to run as far as Perrache, then back to the hotel. As we started down the last block, a car, motor revving loudly, suddenly pulled out of the road that circled the station and accelerated toward me. Without thinking, I dove into a recessed doorway. That proved to be exactly the right thing to do, for the car jumped the curb. I slammed up hard against a door and crumpled to the cement. The dog, too, tried to evade the racing car and landed on top of me, but the poor beast had been clipped, and whimpered against my shoulder, its hind leg bleeding on my trousers. While the car swerved to avoid the building and accelerated away, I managed to sit up and lean against the wall, my heart beating violently.

Had the person driving that car meant to hit me? Or had he lost control and hit the gas rather than the brake? Since he hadn’t had the decency to stop, I’d never know. I staggered up and discovered that I wasn’t badly hurt. Then, with the injured dog in my arms, I limped cautiously across the street and entered the hotel, where a cheerful lady with dark brown hair and a tipped nose met me at the desk.

“Jason Blue,” I said. “Room four-twelve. I was almost run down by a car, and the dog
was
hit, so I brought him in. Perhaps you could suggest what can be done for him.”

“He’s not yours? Oh, poor dear,” said Simone, as her nametag read. She rounded the glowing counter and took the dog from me. “He’s bleeding. Where shall I put him? Not on a sofa. The manager would object.” The dog laid his head on her breast and whimpered. “Monsieur, you must go to the dining room and take a tablecloth from one of the tables. We can fold it on a chair and put this poor creature there.”

I followed her directions to the dining room, talked a doubtful busboy into giving me a tablecloth, and returned to help care for the dog.

“He has a tag,” said Simone. “His name is Henri. I shall call his owner. And the police—because of the car. Did you see it? Or the driver? It is not allowed for cars to run into pedestrians and dogs.”

Simone called Henri’s owner. I called Carolyn to explain the situation, and she insisted that Simone contact Inspector Theodore Roux, who should know that another attempt had been made on us. At that point, with my bones aching, I didn’t feel like objecting. As ridiculous as it seemed, perhaps there was someone out there who meant to cause us harm.

The first day
someone tried to poison us. The next someone, probably the same person, tried to run Jason down, yet we were in a strange city, where one of the three people who knew us was now dead. That left the Guillots, reported to be visiting Albertine’s mother at a Paris hospital. I tried to imagine Albertine sneaking back here, putting poison in the pâté and speeding down Charlemagne Cour to run over Jason, whom she had no reason to dislike. She might resent
me
because of her dog’s behavior in Sorrento, but not Jason.

These thoughts got me as far as the miniature elevator, into which I pushed my way, although there were two people inside—Germans, who said, I think, unpleasant things about me in German, a peculiar language. As if someone made it up as a joke.

“Jason, you’re hurt,” I cried, as I got out and spotted my husband. When, close to tears, I threw my arms around him, he told me to be careful of his knee, which had been bruised in his attempt to avoid the car.

“Carolyn, this is Simone, who’s been looking after Henri.”

Simone had come out from behind the counter to shake my hand. How glad I was that Yvette had the day off. Imagine my husband having to deal her when he arrived, hurt and in pain.

“We are so sorry for your husband’s injury,” said Simone. “Such a good-of-heart man. Even hurt himself, he brings in Henri, who is injured more. I have called this inspector and the owner of Henri. Both will soon come. And yesterday.
Mon Dieu.
In your time of bad fortune, you must deal with Yvette. Please excuse her. She likes not the English.”

“I’m American,” I corrected, unwilling to forgive Yvette.

“Speakers of English, I should say. Yvette is engaged to our assistant manager, and he runs away with an English woman guesting in our hotel. How humiliate is Yvette to be replaced by an English woman! Please know that I shall do everything to make you a happy stay.”

“Thank you, Simone. You’re very kind.”

“Henri!” A wizened man wearing a beret and waving a cane burst through the round glass doors. His voice set off a cascade of yipping from behind the counter. Then a brown-and-white dog came limping out, trailing a bloody tablecloth.

While dog and owner reunited with human murmurs of dismay and canine whimpers, while Simone beamed at them and comforted the owner in French, another person joined the group, a large, fat man wearing a shredded brown sweater. He took the dog, carried it to a sofa, and proceeded to examine it. “The manager, he will be furious if Henri bleeds on the sofa,” Simone whispered to us. “Monsieur Blue, you look pale. Please sit. I will bring the rest for your leg.” She bustled off to take care of Jason while I put my arm around his waist.

“I can walk,” he grumbled.

“Oh, that is very fine to hear.” It was Simone, carrying a footstool. “Breakfast is serving. If you can walk so far, you can have some while the inspector is coming.”

“I’ve already been there to get the tablecloth,” said Jason, and we headed for the breakfast room. Simone propped his leg on the footstool at a table while I went to the buffet and gathered croissants, raisin rolls, coffee, ham, cheese, and kiwis. Ah, those kiwis. They were the best I’ve ever had. So sweet, just the slightest bit tart. Of course, we had to peel off the hairy skins and put up with the black seeds, which lodge in the teeth, but still, kiwis go so well with cheese.

As upset as I was, I enjoyed the breakfast and congratulated Jason on his genius at choosing reasonably priced hotels. Then I asked if he was in pain and needed Advil, which I carry in my purse. I do like to be prepared for the exigencies of travel. Jason declined and even took his leg off the footstool. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but she got the footstool before I could say I didn’t need one.”

“Yes, she’s much nicer than Yvette, who sent the foie gras to our room and then your friend Robert. He’d still be alive if she hadn’t. On the other hand, we might be dead.” Jason frowned at me, but I just had to say, “I hope, after your terrible experience, that you don’t still attribute these things to happenstance.”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Jason, “but I could use another cup of coffee.”

“Don’t move, darling. I’ll get it for you.” I jumped up to do so, which is why I wasn’t at the table to make introductions when Inspector Roux arrived to take Jason’s statement. But before the statement, he helped himself to a roll and coffee at the buffet—reminding me of the police in Sorrento, who had always been more interested in the hotel buffet than in corpses found upstairs. I recommended the kiwis and cheese, so he took some of those, too, and we went back to join Jason.

“Professor,” said the inspector, putting slices of cheese and kiwi on his raisin roll and taking a bite, “what enemies do you have in Lyon?”

“None,” said Jason. “My only friend, except a couple who left town, died last night. I don’t know anyone else but academics I met yesterday.”

“Very puzzling. Madam, have you enemies?”

“I only know the two who left town,” I replied, “plus the people who took us to dinner last night.” I was unwilling to implicate Albertine until I’d done some investigating. First, I’d call Albertine’s Lyon number to see if she answered.

“Hmmm,” said the inspector, sipping his coffee and taking another bite of roll. “Then please tell me with much detail, Professor, what happened this morning. Did you recognize the car?”

Jason gave him a exhaustive description of his run, the itinerary, the people who greeted him, the point at which the dog joined him, and finally the car that sped around the circle, jumped the curb, forced him into the recessed doorway, and injured the dog before speeding off without stopping to offer aid.

How terrifying it must have been. I wondered if I could have jumped out of the way as Jason had. Probably not. But then I wouldn’t have been running up and down the street at dawn. “You’re going to have to give up exercise, Jason, until we’re home. Or at least until the inspector catches the culprit.”

“Can you describe the car or the driver? Did you see the license plate, Professor?” asked Inspector Roux.

“Lord, man, I was knocked down in the entry way with the dog on top of me. I couldn’t see the license plate. The car was black. The driver looked tall and was wearing a soft cap with a bill. A man. I had less than a minute to look and get out of the way.”

Inspector Roux sighed. “Not much information. Perhaps Doctor Petit will discover what killed your friend, and we can find the murderer in that way.”

“If there is one,” Jason replied.

“There is. Lyon pâté does not kill. Lyon drivers do not run down tourists. Perhaps the murderer is from Paris.”

I had to stifle a giggle. Everything bad came from Paris according to the inspector.

“Happily the dog will recover. It has a cut on the leg, so there may be blood on the car, but how will we find the car? Are you much hurt, Professor?”

“A bruised knee,” said Jason.

At that moment the owner came in carrying Henri, followed by the fat veterinarian. “Henri thanks you, monsieur, for bring him to safety.” He leaned down, and Henri, tail wagging behind his owner’s arm, licked Jason on the nose. Then the vet shook Jason’s hand and informed him, through translation, that he had a better opinion of Americans for having met Jason.

I went to the buffet for another kiwi. They were
so
good. If I stayed alive long enough, maybe I’d write a column on kiwis, New Zealand’s gift to fruit lovers. Actually, France grows its own, and the average Frenchman eats three pounds a year. That’s a lot of kiwis.

 

Jason dropped me
at the chairman’s office, where Professor Laurent was absent, but his secretary, Mademoiselle Zoe Thomas sat at her contemporary black and silver desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard and a telephone tucked under her chin, while she spoke rapid-fire French. I dropped into a black chair with a fan back and a hard seat, wondering if these contemporary designers ever tried sitting in their creations. The office looked very smart, but not very welcoming.

The secretary, on the other hand, was a pretty woman with curly brown hair, her face and figure softly curved, not as fashionable as the gaunt Victoire Laurent, or as chic as the décor of the office. Perhaps the chairman had chosen Mademoiselle Thomas for her gently feminine appearance as well as her typing skills.

She replaced the telephone and addressed me in French, to which I replied apologetically in English. “No necessity for apologies. The English is easier to understand than the French of Americans. You are Madam Blue, yes? Who has asked about pâté? It did not come from our department. No pâté ordered by me would sicken or kill. But if the pâté is innocent in the death of our Robert, then you and Professor Blue missed a treat.”

“Maybe someone else in the department sent it to us. Can you think of—”

“Perhaps the Guillots, but they were to meet you at the airport, so why send the gift? And they are gone. No, I think it was a mistake. You will find that Robert died of something else. America is such a violent country. But do not fret, madam. You are safe here.”

I was going to tell her about the attempt on my husband, but Sylvie, wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, breezed in and whisked me away to her little sports car, a gleaming, silver blue, missing only the top. I’d never have known the car was very old if she hadn’t told me.

Before we could climb in, I was introduced to Winston Churchill, a small pug dog who greeted me by racing around my ankles and jumping up on my legs. “You know Albertine Guillot and her dog Charles de Gaulle?” Sylvie asked as she picked up Winston Churchill. “Winnie met Charles de Gaulle when he was a puppy and Charles a horrid adolescent, to whom Winnie took an immediate dislike. Immediately I decided that I’d call my dog Winston Churchill. Not very nice of me. But Albertine and I are not compatible. She says unpleasant things about Winston Churchill, both the prime minister and my dog.