CHAPTER 15
Cotton tried to assess Lars.
Ironic, as the older man shared a name with Stephanie Nelle’s late husband.
He’d never met that man, who died about a year after Cotton joined the Magellan Billet, at a time when he and Stephanie were just getting to know each other.
But he’d subsequently read all of Lars Nelle’s books, which were a mixture of history, fact, conjecture, and coincidence.
Nelle had been an international conspiratorialist who’d thought the region of southern France, known as the Languedoc, harbored some sort of great treasure.
He’d supposedly taken his own life, found hanging from a bridge, a note in his pocket that merely said GOODBYE, STEPHANIE.
For an academician who’d penned a multitude of books, such a simple salutation had seemed almost an insult.
Though she and her husband had been long separated at the time, Stephanie took the loss hard.
Eventually, years later, Cotton had helped her work through it all and discover the shocking truth about her husband and his death.
Which was what friends did for each other.
The apartment for-the-alive-Lars seemed a statement to order.
An upholstered sofa, tapestry chairs, flat beige walls, and a brick hearth.
No signs of neglect anywhere, everything in its place.
Lars appeared to be around Cotton’s mother’s age, mid-seventies, with a mouthful of crooked yellowed teeth.
He apparently lived alone save for an annoying short-haired cat that kept patrolling with a wary eye.
“Is Princess Lysa in trouble?” Lars asked.
“She has not returned home.”
“I hate to hear that. She is a fine lady. We have spoken on several occasions.”
“She comes by often?”
Lars nodded. “Twice every day when she is in town. She always stops by Olle to leave a coin.”
“It seems a lot of people do the same thing.”
“As I told you, it is a way to find good luck. For her it was also a chance for her dog to answer nature’s call in the grass around the tree.”
Apparently this man was quite the watcher.
So he asked, “What happened yesterday?”
“While her dog satisfied himself, two men and a woman approached her.”
“Did you see their faces?”
Lars shook his head. “My eyes are not as good as they once were.”
He doubted that. “Young? Older? Skin color?”
“The men were young. Pale-skinned. The woman was dark-skinned. They left no coins for Olle. But they did talk to the princess.”
“Was she upset? Frightened?”
“Not that I could see. They just spoke to one another. Then the woman took the dog and went one way, the two men and the princess the other.”
That was odd. “And then?”
“They all walked away.”
“Why did you not call the police?”
“I saw no reason to involve the authorities. It was none of my business.”
Except that he watched it all. “She’s a member of the royal family.”
“But I had no idea what was happening. It could have been nothing.”
He changed tack. “There’s a screened gate below in the archway. Where does it lead?”
“Down to the tunnels beneath the old town, where the rainwater and the melted snow go before returning to the sea.”
It made sense that anyone taking the princess would find a concealed way to make their escape.
Cameras were everywhere these days, though he’d noticed none on the buildings outside in the courtyard.
Back toward the palace and busy Slottsbacken, there would be a multitude of electronic surveillance devices and lots of people.
Not a good escape route. But a subterranean path?
That seemed perfect. “Are there many ways in and out of that underground area?”
“Oh, yes. They are all over old town. Is the princess all right?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“You did not ask me about the other man.”
Do tell. “What other man?”
Lars stood, gripped his cane, and shuffled across the wood floor to the window that opened to the courtyard below. He stopped, though, before standing directly in front of it. “Stay to the side and look past Olle and the tree, to the alley beyond, the one you walked down.”
“You saw me approach?”
“I have been watching since yesterday.”
Which further begged the question, why had this man not called the police?
Cotton stepped to the curtains and carefully peered out through the dingy glass. A man was visible where the courtyard ended and the narrow street began, wearing a clear wet poncho. He was moving back and forth, disappearing past the corner, then returning, as if on guard.
“He has been there since yesterday evening.”
“Same man?”
Lars nodded.
A twinge of alarm passed through him. “Thank you for your time.”
And he stepped for the door.