“There are two doors out of this police station. One leads to the courtyard, where you will be shot. Our court system is far too overloaded with our own terrorists as it is. And anyway, an American working with an enemy of the state on French soil wouldn’t be entitled to a trial. Foreign agents are subject to military punishment. So, think carefully about the story you’re about to tell me. You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. It would be such a shame for it to end so soon. Which reminds me, I forgot to tell you about the second door. How silly of me! Let’s say you give us some names, the location where you and your hapless friends have been hiding out—then I would be happy to take off your handcuffs and send you on your way through the second door back onto the street. I’ll consider those papers of yours authentic. Young Robert Marchand gets to go home. Imagine how happy your parents would be to have you back. Or, maybe there’s a little lady waiting for you? A sweet little fiancée, for example?”
Inspector Vallier glanced up at the clock on the wall and pressed a finger to his ear. “Ticktock, ticktock, you hear that?” he whispered to Robert. “My colleagues won’t be long now. You walked into a trap, you know. It wasn’t mere chance. Patrols are posted at every crossroads in the vicinity. We know you’re hiding out somewhere in those woods. The militia has been hunting relentlessly for weeks now. They will find it, they’re very close. With or without your help, it’s only a matter of time, a few days at best, before they smoke your friends out. Dying here today would be such a waste, just to delay the inevitable . . . how very silly, how very sad. Think of it this way. You decide to talk, you might actually spare your friends’ lives. If we’re able to find their hideout, we can bring them in quietly. No violence, just arrests. If we manage to surround them, they’ll have no choice but to surrender. But if the militia find them during patrol, everyone starts shooting. Same outcome, more bloodshed. If you’re clever, you can save your own skin and your friends’ lives in the process. Call out when you’ve made up your mind about what you wish to tell me. You have less than fifteen minutes to decide.”
27
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore
The moment George-Harrison walked into the dining area for breakfast, I began talking his ear off about the Stanfields. I had been up until the wee hours of the morning digging, only to come up short, with no leads on the elusive family. I wasn’t even able to find the address of their famous Baltimore estate. Thinking back to how Mum tracked down my father in Croydon all those years ago, I went to the front desk and asked for a phone book. The clerk gaped at me as if I had requested some otherworldly, mysterious object.
George-Harrison had barely taken his first sip of coffee when I asked him if he could take me down to city hall.
“Just run away and elope? No way, honey,” he joked. “You’re going to have to get down on one knee and propose first.”
I grinned at his stale joke, promising he’d get a real laugh if he tried a little harder next time. As we parked near city hall, we divided up the tasks so we could move quicker. I would head for the vital records department to find out if Hanna or Robert were still alive, and he’d cover property records to see if he could find any leads on their estate.
“Except if they’re already dead, we’ll find them in the cemetery, inevitably,” George-Harrison offered.
“Good lord. If you keep up this comedy show, it’s going to be a very long day . . .”
City hall was a perfect example of Second Empire Renaissance architecture, with baroque decoration adorning the structure, a mansard roof, and an imposing dome. I had visited other official state buildings on trips to the US in the past, yet I quickly found myself lost and going around in circles. George-Harrison was equally confounded by the sprawling labyrinth. We decided to split up, each of us knocking on door after door without any luck. After looping past each other three more times in the vast rotunda—a circular space with various corridors extending outwards and leading to the upper levels—we decided to join forces and head up to the second floor, where our luck changed. A woman approached and kindly offered to point us in the right direction. She must have watched us retrace our steps and wander about dejectedly, and realized we could do with a hand. She definitely seemed to know her way around the place.
“Head due south,” she instructed, gesturing down over the balustrade. “Take a right at the end, then a left, and you’re there.”
“And where is ‘there’ exactly?” asked George-Harrison.
“Vital records. But you’d better hurry up. They close at noon.”
“Great, thank you. But how do we even reach that staircase?”
“For that, head due north,” she said, turning around. “Straight down that first stairwell, then make a U-turn and continue straight through the rotunda down the middle corridor. That should put you on the right track.”
“Thanks. What about property records?” I asked.
“Wait, can I ask a question?” George-Harrison cut in. “Have you ever heard of an old Baltimore family by the name of Stanfield?”