curb. “In fact, she can keep an eye on the car while we’re inside.”
Beryl glanced at the large brick building across the street. Over the entrance archway were displayed the words Maison de Convalescence. “What is this place?”
“A nursing home.”
“This is where Inspector Broussard lives?”
“He’s been here for years,” said Richard, as he gazed up at the building with a look of pity. “Ever since his stroke.”
JUDGING BY THE PHOTOGRAPH tacked to the wall of his room, ex-Chief Inspector Broussard had once been an impressive man. The picture showed a beefy Frenchman with a handlebar mustache and a lion’s mane of hair, posing regally on the steps of a Paris police station.
It bore little resemblance to the shrunken creature now propped up, his body half-paralyzed, in bed.
Mme Broussard bustled about the room, all the time speaking with the precise grammar of a former teacher of English. She fluffed her husband’s pillow, combed his hair, wiped the drool from his chin. “He remembers everything,” she insisted. “Every case, every name. But he cannot speak, cannot hold a pen. And that is what frustrates him! It is why I do not let him have visitors. He wishes so much to talk, but he cannot form the words. Only a few, here and there. And how it upsets him! Sometimes, after a visit with friends, he will moan for days.” She moved to the head of the bed and stood there like a guardian angel. “You ask him only a few questions, do you understand? And if he becomes upset, you must leave immediately.”
“We understand,” said Richard. He pulled up a chair next to the bedside. As Beryl and Jordan watched, he opened the police file and slowly laid the crime-scene photos on the coverlet for Broussard to see. “I know you can’t speak,” he said, “but I want you to look at these. Nod if you remember the case.”
Mme Broussard translated for her husband. He stared down at the first photo—the gruesome death poses of Madeline and Bernard. They lay like lovers, entwined in a pool of blood. Clumsily Broussard touched the photo, his fingers lingering on Madeline’s face. His lips formed a whispered word.
“What did he say?” asked Richard.
“La belle. Beautiful woman,” said Mme Broussard. “You see? He does remember.”
The old man was gazing at the other photos now, his left hand beginning to quiver in agitation. His lips moved helplessly; the effort to speak came out in grunts. Mme Broussard leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying. She shook her head in bewilderment.
“We’ve read his report,” said Beryl. “The one he filed twenty years ago. He concluded that it was a murder and suicide. Did he truly believe that?”
Again, Mme Broussard translated.
Broussard looked up at Beryl, his gaze focusing for the first time on her black hair. A look of wonder came over his face, almost a look of recognition.
His wife repeated the question. Did he believe it was a murder and suicide?
Slowly Broussard shook his head.
Jordan asked, “Does he understand the question?”
“Of course he does!” snapped Mme Broussard. “I told you, he understands everything.”
The man was tapping at one of the photos now, as though trying to point something out. His wife asked a question in French. He only slapped harder at the photo.
“Is he trying to point at something?” asked Beryl.
“Just a corner of the picture,” said Richard. “A view of empty floor.”
Broussard’s whole body seemed to be quivering with the effort to speak. His wife leaned forward again, straining to make out his words. She shook her head. “It makes no sense.”
“What did he say?” asked Beryl.
“Serviette. It is a napkin or a towel. I do not understand.” She snatched up a hand towel from the sink and held it up to her husband. “Serviette de toilette?”
He shook his head and angrily batted away the towel.
“I do not know what he means,” Mme Broussard said with a sigh.
“Maybe I do,” said Richard. He bent close to Broussard. “Porte documents?” he asked.
Broussard gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against his pillows. Wearily he nodded.
“That’s what he was trying to say,” said Richard. “Serviette porte documents. A briefcase.”
“Briefcase?” echoed Beryl. “Do you think he means the one with the classified file?”
Richard frowned at Broussard. The man was exhausted, his face a sickly gray against the white linen.
Mme Broussard took one look at her husband and moved in to shield him from Richard. “No further questions, Mr. Wolf! Look at him! He is drained—he cannot tell you more. Please, you must leave.”
She hurried them out of the room and into the hallway. A nun glided past, carrying a tray of medicines. At the end of the hall, a woman in a wheelchair was singing lullabies to herself in French.
“Mme Broussard,” said Beryl, “we have more questions, but your husband can’t answer them. There was another detective’s name on that report—an Etienne Giguere. How can we get in touch with him?”
“Etienne?” Mme Broussard looked at her in surprise. “You mean you do not know?”
“Know what?”
“He was killed nineteen years ago. Hit by a car while crossing the street.” Sadly she shook her head. “They did not find the driver.”
Beryl caught Jordan’s startled look; she saw in his eyes the same dismay she felt.
“One last question,” said Jordan. “When did your husband have his stroke?”
“1974.”
“Also nineteen years ago?”
Mme Broussard nodded. “Such a tragedy for the department! First, my husband’s stroke. Then three months later, they lose Etienne.” Sighing, she turned back to her husband’s room. “But that is life, I suppose. And there is nothing we can do to change it…”
Back outside again, the three of them stood for a moment in the sunshine, trying to shake off the gloom of that depressing building.
“A hit and run?” said Jordan. “The driver never caught? I have a bad feeling about this.”
Beryl glanced up at the archway. “Maison de Convalescence,” she murmured sarcastically. “Hardly a place to recover. More like a place to die.” Shivering, she turned to the car. “Please, let’s just get out of here.”
They drove north, to the Seine. Once again, the blue Peugeot followed
