Epitaph for a Dream by Terry Mort

Author:Terry Mort
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McBooks Press
Published: 2021-10-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

“Don’t ask,” said Hobey. “I don’t feel like talking about it. It’ll wait till morning. OK?”

“Sure.”

Klep and I helped Hobey to his room and left him to his self-loathing and regrets, if any.

“Where to now, boss?”

“You figure I want to go somewhere? It’s late, isn’t it?”

“Not in France.”

“All right, then. Let’s pay a visit to Madame Bertrand. She may still be up. Whether she’s alone or not is another question. Maybe we should call first.”

“I wouldn’t, boss. That would give her a chance to give you l’oiseau.”

“Meaning?”

“The bird. This way, you’ll be there and hard to turn away. No?”

“Yes.”

On the way I asked him, “So, Klep, is Inspector Montpelier the real Molière?”

“Oh, no, boss. The real Molière died many centuries ago!”

That was as much as I was going to get out of him, but there really was no mystery about any of it. Hobey and I were under the protection of the friends of our friends, and nothing more would be said about it. Nothing more needed to be said. What favors would be “asked” in return was a different question. But that was not going to be my problem. At least, I didn’t think it would be.

There was still a light on in Madame Bertrand’s second-floor apartment.

“Still awake, boss. Bon! I tell you what – I will wait here until you come back, if it is not too long. Say, thirty minutes? But if you do not come back by then or if I see the light go out of that window, I will come back in the morning. If you need to reach me you can call me at this number.” He handed me a card. “It is the apartment of a woman who will be glad to see me. Not far from here.”

“Are your woman friends always glad to see you?”

“Of course. Except when their husbands are home. But this one’s husband works at night. She gets lonely. Between you and me, I don’t think they are officially married anyway. You would think a police sergeant would be more respectful of the customs of the country. But, no.”

“I don’t suppose the sergeant in question is the same one we just left.”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“No wonder he thought your face was familiar.”

“Well, now and then we may have passed in the hallway. Like ships in the morning.”

I went past the concierge’s doorway, and she came scuttling out with a suspicious expression. But she mellowed when she saw me. Dogs, cats, babies and old ladies all seem to like me. Besides, she probably remembered me as an ambassador from the far-off land of make believe.

“I’m here to see Madame Bertrand,” I said.

“Oui. Bon soir. Et bonne chance.” And she went back inside her lair.

I went up to the second floor and knocked on the door.

“Oui?”

“It’s Bruno Feldspar.” After all this time I still cringed a little bit at the name. But there were reasons for using it, though I wasn’t sure they were very good ones.

“Ah!

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