Nicholas went to the door and pressed the buzzer. Moments later, Madame Badour appeared, and they stepped from the room. She shuttled them through the first two gates before saying, “It sounds as if you had success.”
Nicholas nodded. “Expect the request to come for his transfer to Clairvaux, but don’t release him to their custody until I give you the go-ahead. I need to make sure the information he gave us was the truth.”
The woman spoke without irony. “You may count on me to do my duty, Monsieur Drummond.”
They wound out of the prison’s heart, through the clanging gates, and she bid them adieu at the cement bench she’d collected them from two hours earlier.
Mike couldn’t get out of the prison fast enough, and she could tell Nicholas was anxious to be gone and follow the lead, too. It wouldn’t take long to verify the information regarding Victoria’s adoption; it would be in the state records. The ghost. Fant?me.
She said, “Couverel said the ghost was Victoire’s friend. I assume you made the connection, too, between Henri’s fant?me and our master thief, the Ghost.”
“Yes, I did. He’s a busy man, this fant?me.”
Mike nodded.” This is the last bit of evidence we need—they have to be partners. And maybe the number she was calling on the plane belongs to him. We can track him through the number.”
“It fits, Mike. Menard told us the Ghost was a retired assassin. No wonder Couverel was so terrified to tell us about him. The fant?me has already murdered five people we know of in the past couple of days. At least he told us enough about her adoptive parents to track them down.”
He didn’t argue when Mike took the keys from his hand and got behind the wheel. He climbed in beside her, and she turned the engine over. Heat began shooting from the vents of their rented Peugeot, and she rubbed her hands in front of the stream of air. She was cold through, and it wasn’t only because of the winter chill.
“You’re quiet. Still hurting?”
He was hurting, the adrenaline of the chase wearing off. He could make it awhile longer, though.
“I’ll do. I’m going to look up the parents’ murder as we go. Do you need directions?”
“No, I have the GPS. But I do need know where we’re going.”
“A destination would help, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, and having a plan might be good, too.”
“I think our first priority should be finding some food. I’m famished.”
“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve eaten a proper meal since this case began. You, either.”
“Drive west, toward the Eiffel Tower. We’ll find something suitable along the way.”
She put the Peugeot into gear and pulled out. Forty minutes later, they were seated at Café L’Ardoise, steaming cups of café au lait at their elbows and croissants on the plates in front of them. Nicholas’s computer was open, and he was reading out loud between bites.
“Isobel and Henri Couverel. This is interesting, they were murdered. During a robbery gone wrong, it seems. Henri Couverel was a shopkeeper; his wife was an artist. Oils, watercolors, the like. They were mugged, and fought back. Both were shot and left on the street. Their assailant was never caught.”
“So they left two kids, five and nine. No family to take them in. Does the orphanage have good enough records?”
“There should be records of an adoption. And if her name really is Victoire, we can search from that angle, too.”
He typed in the name of the orphanage. “Oh, bugger. The orphanage burned down in the nineties, and there are no online records. We’ll have to go at this the old-fashioned way, through the state system, and it’s going to cost us time.”