Chapter 1
721 Words
Chapter 1The five-hour flight to Paris left Mark and me a little more rested than when we had boarded the plane. Our first-class seats had given us the opportunity for some well-deserved shut-eye. We refused to share in the nuked chicken or even the roast beef that had been listed on the Air France menu that afternoon. I had been right, the steak that we had in Montreal had been a lot tastier than anything we saw being offered on board.
Since we had no luggage to pick up from the carrousel at Charles de Gaulle – Mark and I had only taken a carry-on – we made our way to the exit and waited for the taxi to pull up in front of us at the bidding of the ‘commissionaire’ who was directing the passengers to the local transport.
“Okay, where to?” I asked Mark as we climbed in the backseat of the Citroen.
“Maison Marianne on rue Victor Hugo,” Mark said to both me and the driver who had turned his head to hear the answer to my question. He nodded and moved out of the line-up and onto the circular drive, which surrounds the airport.
“Isn’t that near Osnoir’s old apartment?” I asked, turning a surprised gaze to Mark.
“Yes, it is.” A smirk of cunning came across his lips.
Looking at him, I again recognized the cat in Mark – the cat I had admired for all he had done to remain steadfast and save my life on so many occasions during the past few months.
“Why have you chosen that hotel?”
“Oh well..., I just knew how much you liked to have dinner at the corner bistro...”
I giggled before saying, “Don’t give me the magazine version, just tell me...”
“Okay, okay, but that wasn’t ‘the magazine version’, as you said. There is actually a bistro down the block from Maison Marianne where Osnoir got his meals from regularly...”
“But I thought he never left the apartment...”
“You’re right, he didn’t, but all of his meals were ordered from there, and we believe that some of his men were regular patrons at the bistro when we were on our time off.”
“And you think they might have talked or being overheard by the ‘patronne’ when they were there?” I asked.
“Not only that, but we think that some of Osnoir’s visitors sat at the bar from time to time, waiting to go and meet Osnoir.”
“And you wonder if they were noticed by the bartender or even someone who was observing the va-et-vient?”
Mark nodded. “According to the French intel – and we’ve been staking out the place ourselves before Osnoir left – there were quite a few meetings held in that bistro.”
“I see...” I was apparently focusing on the Paris traffic, passing them at a frightful speed it seemed, while we were travelling on the ‘Ceinture’, which surrounds Paris like a belt of six to eight lanes of highways and bypasses.
“Ha. There you are,” James exclaimed, folding and depositing the newspaper he had been reading beside him on the sofa. “How was the flight?” He got up and shook Mark’s hand. “And how are you, Kiddo?”
James peered into my eyes as I said, “I’m okay, thanks. And we’ve had a good flight – and a nice bit of sleep,” but I knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. However, further comments would have to wait for now – and James knew it.
“Okay then, let’s get you to your rooms. I have taken the liberty to reserve a room for you as well, Mark, if that’s okay?”
Mark looked around him and then nodded. “That should be fine for now. I’ll switch hotels if I think it’s necessary in the next couple of days. But for now, this looks okay, thanks.”
“We are on the same floor and I tell you, Madame Yvonne has been a jewel,” James said, shooting a glance at the woman behind the counter.
Madame Yvonne said, “If Madame et Monsieur would like to sign the registration, I will get Henri to carry your cases upstairs,” beckoning to the older porter, and pointing to the two carry-on cases standing in the middle of the lounge room now.
“Of course, Madame,” Mark said, approaching the desk and pulling a pen out of his breast pocket. “Do you have a restaurant on the premises?” He continued writing on the registration card Madame Yvonne had pushed in front of him and me.
“Non-non, Monsieur, we only serve breakfast in your room, if you want, but we don’t have a restaurant, non.”
“That’ll be great,” I said, thinking about having a late breakfast in bed.
“And they have a good restaurant down the street,” James said from over my shoulder. “You won’t be going hungry, I’m sure.”
I turned to him, smiling.
- Writer
