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Paris Match(94)

By:Stuart Woods


            Stone ushered them into the house and offered them chairs.

            “I’ve brought some documents for your signature, with regard to the purchase of . . . this house, I presume?”

            “You presume correctly, M’sieur Carrier.”

            “Please call me Yves,” he said. “Madame Roche has come along to attest to your identity and signature. Is your passport handy?”

            “I’ll get it.” Stone went upstairs and rummaged through his things until he found the passport. He also found the gun in his sock drawer and dropped it into his pocket, not that he thought Monsieur Carrier and Madame Roche represented a threat. He ran down the stairs and handed the passport to the woman, then took a seat.

            She looked at him, then at the passport, then did it again. “D’accord,” she said.

            Carrier began handing Stone documents; he signed them and handed them to Madame Roche, who stamped and signed them. Stone tried to read one, but it was in French.

            “I must say,” Carrier said, looking around, “that you have got yourself a very good buy here. Properties of this sort in this neighborhood are going at much higher prices than you are paying.”

            “I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone said, signing the last of the stack of documents and handing it to Madame Roche. “I love a bargain.”

            “And this is a very beautiful room,” Carrier said.

            “You should have seen it the day before yesterday,” Stone said.

            “Pardon?”

            “I’ve done a bit of redecorating.”

            “Ah.”

            “Is there anything else I need to do?” Stone asked.

            “No, we’ll e-mail these to Mr. Cabot right away for his signature. Assuming he signs, the house is yours. And there’s a car, too?”

            “Yes, in the garage, but I haven’t bothered to look at it yet.”

            “Let’s go and check it for a registration,” Carrier said. He followed Stone to the garage, and they approached the lump under a tarp in one of the two bays. Stone pulled the cover away to reveal a Mercedes four-door sedan of the late seventies or early eighties. Except for some dust, it looked almost new. A pair of wires ran from under the hood to a receptacle in the garage wall: a battery charger, apparently.

            He opened the driver’s door and inspected the creamy leather, which was in excellent condition. He sat down, found the key in the ignition, and turned it. The car started instantly. He switched it off quickly, not wishing to be found dead of asphyxiation.

            “Do you see a registration anywhere?”

            Stone rummaged in an envelope and handed Carrier some papers.

            Carrier inspected them, then went to the rear of the car and had a look at the license plate. He came back and handed Stone the documents. “It’s registered to a name at the American Embassy,” he said, “and it has diplomatic tags. Park anywhere you like.”

            “I like the sound of that,” Stone said, pocketing the keys and following Carrier back inside the house.

            “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy here,” Carrier said. Hands were shaken, and he and his notary left.

            Stone found himself again alone with himself. Curious, now, he went through the kitchen into the garage and, using his house key, let himself into the staff flat. It was a small but comfortably furnished suite with bedroom, bath, and kitchenette. He went back into the house and took the elevator to the top floor, where he inspected two en suite bedrooms with a common sitting room between them. One floor down, he found a large bedroom with a sofa and two chairs in front of the fireplace, much like the master. He walked downstairs, found his book again, and sat down beside the fire. He had been there for only a moment when he heard two loud pops from the direction of the boulevard. That brought him to attention, but after a moment he dismissed the noise as a vehicle backfiring and went back to his book.