I eyed her skeptically. “You don’t think he was hoarding them so he could use them to kill people?”
“If he was hoardin’, it’s on account of that’s what the druggist give him.”
“But why would the French police arrest him if they weren’t sure of his guilt?”
“You ever seen them Peter Sellers movies where he played a bumblin’ police inspector by the name of Clouseau?”
“Years ago. But Peter Sellers didn’t portray a typical police inspector, Nana. His role was way over the top. An exaggeration.”
“Don’t matter. He was French. ’Nuf said.”
“Bonjour, ladies.” Ivandro greeted us with carafes of regular coffee in one hand and English breakfast tea in the other. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Tea,” Nana and I said in unison.
“Have you made your breakfast selections?”
“Buffet for me,” I said as he filled our cups, “and the waffle for my grandmother.”
“Very good.” He lingered by the table, smiling. “I hope breakfast this morning will be more peaceful than dinner last night. The gentleman is still in the hospital, yes?”
I nodded. “He may be there for a while.”
“And his wife also? The maid removed their belongings from their cabin this morning, so I assume they will not be returning?”
“Apparently not.” I glanced at Nana. “If they’re staying behind in Rouen, they obviously can’t have their stuff continuing on to Paris without them.”
He leaned in over the table. “You have heard the rumor about the gentleman?”
“Which one?” asked Nana.
“That he may not be who he says he is?”
I gasped. “Does the whole ship know? I can’t believe this! Who told you?”
“I do not know the names yet, madame.”
“Six-foot brunette? Huge designer bag? Sucks all the oxygen out of the room?”
“She was five-feet tall. Sandpaper voice. Wire-whisk hair.”
“Bernice,” I hissed.
“I’m sorry, madame. Please do not take offense. I was only making conversation. When I come to work here, Patrice says to me, ‘Ivandro, you may grow bored with this job, because nothing ever happens.’ But since I’m here, everything happens. A lady dies. A gentleman is rushed to hospital. I would welcome to be bored.”
“I assume you haven’t been working on the Renoir long?” I asked.
“I have been here as many days as you. The kitchen staff was short one waiter, so Patrice put in a good word for me, and here I am. He and I cycle together on the same team, so we are what you call, good buddies.”
“Are you and him trainin’ for that big race where them fellas wear yellow jerseys and take dope?” asked Nana.
He laughed. “The Tour de France? Non, madame. We may travel the same roads, but we are not in the same class.” He brandished his coffee carafe toward the ship’s bow. “I scold him last night because I am serving the gentleman who is rushed to hospital while he is serving drinks to the man who has decided to camp out next to the bar. I tell him I would like his work schedule so I can find time to be bored. Now I place your breakfast order, madame.” He tipped his head at Nana. “Please excuse.”