A Place of Hiding

Guy Brouard, Kiefer explained to Simon, had hired him to set in motion a rather unusual series of tasks. He wished Kiefer to locate someone perfectly trustworthy who would be willing to courier a set of important architectural plans from Orange County to Guernsey. At first, Kiefer told Simon, the assignment seemed idiotic to him, although he hadn’t mentioned that particular word to Mr. Brouard during their brief meeting. Why not use one of the conventional courier services that were set up to do exactly what Brouard wanted and at minimal cost?

FedEx? DHL? Even UPS? But Mr. Brouard, as things turned out, was an intriguing combination of authority, eccentricity, and paranoia. He had the money to do things his way, he told Kiefer, and his way was to ensure he got what he wanted when he wanted it. He’d carry the plans himself, but he was in Orange County only to make arrangements for them to be drawn up. He couldn’t stay as long as necessary to have them ready. He wanted someone responsible to do the couriering, he said. He was willing to pay whatever it took to get just that sort of person. He didn’t trust a man alone to do the job—apparently, Kiefer explained, he had a loser son who made him think no youngish man was worth anyone’s faith—and he didn’t want a woman traveling alone to Europe because he didn’t like the idea of women on their own and he didn’t want to feel responsible should something happen to her. He was old-fashioned that way. So they settled on a man and woman together. They would look for a married couple of any age to fill the bill.

Brouard, Kiefer said, was eccentric enough to offer five thousand dollars for the job. He was tight enough to offer only tourist-level travel. Because the couple in question had to be able to leave whenever the plans were ready, it seemed the best source of potential couriers might be the local University of California. So Kiefer posted the job there and waited to see what would happen.

In the meantime, Brouard paid him his fee and added the five thousand dollars which would be promised to the courier. Neither cheque bounced, and while Kiefer thought the scenario was bizarre, he made certain it wasn’t illegal by checking out the architect to make sure he was an architect and not some arms manufacturer, a plutonium source, a drug dealer, or a supplier of substances for biological warfare. Because obviously, Kiefer said, none of those types were about to send anything by a legitimate courier service.

But the architect turned out to be a man called Jim Ward, who’d even attended high school with Kiefer. He confirmed every part of the story: He was assembling a set of architectural plans and elevation drawings for Mr. Guy Brouard, Le Reposoir, St. Martin, Island of Guernsey. Brouard wanted those plans and those drawings ASAP.

So Kiefer set about making everything happen on his end of things. A slew of applicants lined up to do the job, and from them he chose a man called Cherokee River. He was older than the others, Kiefer explained, and he was married.

“Essentially,” Simon concluded, “William Kiefer confirmed the Rivers’ story down to the last comma, question mark, and full stop. It was a strange way of doing things, but I’m getting the impression that Brouard liked doing things strangely. Keeping people off balance kept him in control. That’s important to rich men. It’s generally how they got rich to begin with.”

“Do the police know all this?”

He shook his head. “Le Gallez’s got all the paperwork, though. I expect he’s one step from finding out.”

“Will he release her, then?”

“Because the basic story she told checks out?” Simon reached for the case that was the source of the electrodes. He switched the unit off and began detaching himself from the wires. “I don’t think so, Deborah. Not unless he comes up with something that points definitively to someone else.”

He grabbed his crutches from the floor and swung himself off the bed.

“And is there something else? Pointing to someone else?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he took his time with his leg brace, which lay next to the armchair beneath the window. To Deborah, there seemed to be countless adjustments he made to it this morning and an endless procedure to be gone through before he was dressed, standing on his feet, and willing to continue their conversation.

Then he said, “You sound worried.”

“China wondered why you...Well, you haven’t seemed to want to meet her. It looks to her as if you’ve got a reason to keep your distance. Do you?”

“Superficially, she’s the logical person for someone to frame for this crime: She and Brouard evidently spent some time together alone, her cloak appears to have been fairly easy for someone to get their hands on, and anyone with access to her bedroom would also have access to her hair and her shoes. But premeditation in murder demands a motive. And any way you look at it, motive is something she didn’t have.”

“Still, the police may think—”

“No. They know they’ve got no motive. That clears the way for us.”

“To find one for someone else?”

“Yes. Why do people premeditate murder? Revenge, jealousy, blackmail, or material gain. That’s where we need to direct our energies now, I dare say.”

“But that ring...Si mon, i f i t’s definitely China’s?”

“We’d better be damn quick about our work.”





Chapter 17