Stone Angel by Marvin H. Albert

Author:Marvin H. Albert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, detective, france, private eye, sleuth
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2016-02-18T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

The police car didn’t try to catch up with me. Not at first. It merely followed.

Keeping well below the city speed limit, I turned into the next cross street. It turned after me. I made another unnecessary turn. It was still there, half a block behind.

The next turn I took was in the direction of the Cafe du Palais. Slowing to a crawl when I reached it, I looked inside. There were a lot of people, but if Gabrielle was one of them I couldn’t spot her. I cruised on, looking for a parking place. For two more blocks there was no legal spot in sight, and with the cop car on my tail I wasn’t about to take any other kind.

Then I entered a big open square with a half-empty parking area on the other side of it. As I came to a halt there the police car rolled slowly past me.

It stopped in front of my car. Two uniformed members of the Municipal Police climbed out and strolled back to me as I got out of the Renault. One was carrying the stubby regulation submachine gun. The other said politely, “Turn and lean against your car, please.”

I gave him my best innocent citizen smile. “What’s the trouble, officer?”

“Routine check.” They always say that, and usually it’s the truth. All over the country they make hit-or-miss stops of nonlocal cars from time to time, hoping to come upon a wanted criminal or someone driving a stolen car. I was quite certain this wasn’t one of those times.

I put my hands against the roof of the Renault and got frisked. “All right, your identity papers, please.”

I gave him my passport, and my wallet opened to my international driver’s license.

He looked at the passport first. “American?”

“Yes.”

“But you are driving a car with Paris license plates. Rented?”

“No. It’s registered and insured in my name.” I gestured at the wallet. “You’ll also find my French residence and work permits in there.”

He didn’t bother to look. “The papers of your car, please.”

I reached in and got them out of the glove compartment. He gave them to the silent one with the submachine gun, who went back inside the police car with them. In routine checks they radio the information on your papers to their headquarters to make sure you and your car are clean. I still didn’t think this was a routine check.

While the other cop waited with me he asked, “And what are you doing in Reims?”

“Seeing some people about business.”

“What is your business?”

“It’s all there in my wallet. I’m a licensed private investigator. I’m here searching for a runaway daughter.”

“Ah? That’s interesting.”

It didn’t sound as if he was at all interested. He was only making conversation while we waited, and after that he ran out of things to say. The waiting dragged on for about another five minutes before the other one returned from the police car. “All right,” he told his partner.

My papers were returned to me. They both saluted me: polite gestures indicating I was cleared and dismissed.

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