The English Girl

“His name, Marcel. Tell me his name.”

“Brossard,” Lacroix gasped through the pain. “His name is René Brossard.”

Gabriel looked at Keller, who nodded his head.

“Very good,” he said to Lacroix, releasing his grip. “Now keep talking. And don’t even think about lying to me. If you do, you’ll go back in the water. But the next time it will be forever.”

12 (#ulink_bf38a46a-65b8-5946-91be-99bf182f5065)

OFF MARSEILLES (#ulink_bf38a46a-65b8-5946-91be-99bf182f5065)

THERE WERE TWO opposing swivel chairs on the afterdeck. Gabriel secured Lacroix to the one on the starboard side and then lowered himself into the other. Lacroix remained blindfolded, his tracksuit sodden from his brief swim in the ocean. Shivering violently, he pleaded for a change of clothing or a blanket. Then, after receiving no answer, he recounted a warm evening in mid-August when a man had appeared unannounced on Moondance, just as Gabriel had earlier that afternoon.

“Paul?” asked Gabriel.

“Yes, Paul.”

“Had you ever met him before?”

“No, but I’d seen him around.”

“Where?”

“Cannes.”

“When?”

“The film festival.”

“This year?”

“Yes, in May.”

“You went to the Cannes Film Festival?”

“I wasn’t on the guest list, if that’s what you’re asking. I was working.”

“What kind of work?”

“What do you think?”

“Stealing from the movie stars and the beautiful people?”

“It’s one of our busiest weeks of the year, a real boon to the local economy. The people from Hollywood are total idiots. We rob them blind every time they come here, and they never even seem to notice.”

“What was Paul doing?”

“He was hanging out with the beautiful people. I think I actually saw him going into the hall a couple of times to see the films.”

“You think?”

“He always looks different.”

“He was running scams from the inside at Cannes?”

“You’d have to ask him. We didn’t discuss it when he came to see me. We only talked about the job.”

“He wanted to hire you and your boat to move the girl from Corsica to the mainland.”

“No,” said Lacroix, shaking his head vehemently. “He never said a word about a girl.”

“What did he say?”

“That he wanted me to deliver a package.”

“You didn’t ask what the package was?”

“No.”

“Is that the way you always operate?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much money is on the table.”

“How much was there?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Is that good?”

“Very.”

“Did he mention where he got your name?”

“He got it from the don.”

“Who’s the don?”

“Don Orsati, the Corsican.”

“What kind of work does the don do?”

“He’s got his fingers into all kinds of rackets,” answered Lacroix, “but mainly he kills people. Occasionally, I give one of his men a lift. And sometimes I help make things disappear.”

The purpose of Gabriel’s line of inquiry was twofold. It allowed him to test the veracity of Lacroix’s responses while at the same time covering his own tracks. Lacroix was now under the impression Gabriel had never had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a Corsican killer named Orsati. And, at least for the moment, he was answering Gabriel’s questions truthfully.