“Now, my turn to dig,” she said. “Where were you schooled?”
“Within a few blocks of my home in Greenwich Village, at P.S. Six, at New York University, then at their law school.”
“No further graduate work?”
“Yes, I got my Ph.D. as a patrolman and detective with the New York Police Department. I attended for fourteen years, but the degree is purely honorary.” He nodded toward Dino. “That gentleman over there, whose name you will remember is Dino, was my partner as a detective, and he now rules the NYPD as police commissioner. His wife, Vivian, or Viv, as we call her, was a decorated detective before she retired to enter the private sector.”
“My goodness, so many policemen. I feel quite at home, because my father, Michel Chance, is the prefect of police and the Cabinet, the most important of several prefects and roughly analogous to the position of Commissioner Bacchetti.”
Marcel spoke up. “May I say I feel extremely safe at this table?”
“And well you should,” Mirabelle said.
“And how did you avoid becoming a police officer?” Stone asked.
“That was left to my brother, who has risen through the ranks to the position of commandant, and is in charge of investigations in Paris.”
“Until Dino’s recent promotion,” Stone said, “he held that position in New York—chief of detectives.”
“Well,” Mirabelle said, “now we have everyone’s credentials.”
“Not quite,” Stone said. “Which university did you attend in Britain?”
“Cambridge,” she replied, forking a considerable chunk of foie gras between her lush lips.
“I congratulate you,” Stone said.
“Thank you, but your congratulations are late, since I earned my degree some fifteen years ago.”
“My apologies for my tardiness. For whom do you design dresses?”
“I am strictly couture,” she said. “I make dresses for clients, I do not manufacture them for the masses, or even for the elite classes.”
“If you were a Frenchwoman, Stone,” Marcel said, “you would know all this. Mirabelle is quite famous in her world.”
“I never doubted it,” Stone said. “Mirabelle, perhaps you could tell me why there are two men in black suits across the room there”—he nodded—“staring at you.”
“My father and my brother feel that, since I am of their family, I require police protection at all . . . well, at nearly all times.”
“I’m glad there are exceptions,” Stone said.
“And perhaps you could tell me, Stone, why the man and woman in gray over there”—she nodded—“are staring at you?”
“They are employed to see that I may do business in Paris without coming to harm.”
“Since you are dealing with Marcel, I assume this is l’Arrington business of which you speak?”
“It is.”
“Stone,” said Marcel, “is the originator of the Arrington brand, having opened the first one in Bel-Air, Los Angeles. He also sits on the board.”
“Along with Marcel,” Stone pointed out.
“Well,” said Mirabelle, “if I should ever need a place to sleep, I shall know whom to call.”