“And where, may I ask, is Mademoiselle Chance?” the officer asked in perfect English.
“Upstairs,” Stone replied. “I’ll get her.”
“If you please.”
Stone went upstairs; Mirabelle was asleep again. He woke her gently. “The police are here.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Merde,” she said. That seemed to be her opinion of the whole business.
“Remember, tell them the truth.” He took her hand and led her down the stairs to the kitchen.
The officer switched to French, and Stone didn’t understand anything for twenty minutes. He hoped she was telling the truth.
Then the room got very quiet, and everyone turned toward the door. Stone followed their gaze. A man stood in the kitchen doorway: he was tall, had a gray crew cut, and was wearing a black leather trench coat. He lacked only an eye patch and a dueling scar to be good casting for a B-movie Gestapo agent. “Allo, Rick,” he said. “How does it go?” His voice was calm and uninflected.
Rick shrugged. “It goes.”
He walked over and looked at the corpse. “And what guest do we have here?”
His officer responded with a stream of French. The man stuck to English, an apparent courtesy to Rick. “Do you believe this to be self-defense?” he asked his officer. “Or do we have murder?” The man shrugged, as if the decision were not his to make. The man walked over to the table and looked at the shotgun. “My grandfather’s,” he said. He walked over to Mirabelle, took her by the arms, and kissed her on the forehead. “Are you all right, ma petite?” She nodded. “Is what my officer said the true thing?” She nodded again.
He walked over to where Stone sat.
“Jacques,” Rick said, “this is Stone Barrington, an American visiting Paris and a prominent New York attorney. Stone, this is Prefect Jacques Chance.”
Chance did not offer his hand. “What are you doing in this house?” he asked.
“I was a guest for dinner . . . and I fell asleep.”
Chance managed a tiny smile. “And do you concur in what my sister has told the police?”
“I do,” Stone said.
“Then you understand French.”
“I was watching. Language was unnecessary.”
The little smile again. “Of course. Mr. Barrington, did you shoot this man?”
“No!” Mirabelle said quickly.
“I was not aware that there was a shotgun in the house,” Stone said. “I saw the man produce a gun. After that he was shot.”
“What were you doing, Mr. Barrington, when the man was shot?”
“I was standing in the doorway, there.” Stone pointed.
Chance turned to LaRose. “And were you watching, too, Rick?”
“No, Jacques, I arrived after the fact.”
“And what brought you here?”
“Stone is a friend.”
“So he called his friend, before he called the police.”
“I called the police,” Mirabelle said.
Chance sighed deeply. “So . . . everyone has the story straight. How very convenient.”