Chapter Five #3
The exchange was brief. Arbuthnot removed his pince-nez, the handkerchief already halfway out of his breast pocket, but Oliver didn’t wait for the ritual. A few clipped words, and he stepped around him, leaving Arbuthnot with the handkerchief dangling from his fingers.
“Elizabeth.” Oliver raised a finger to a passing waiter. “A whisky, please. Anything for you?”
“Not for me, thank you.”
His glance went to the chairs by the orchestra. “Where’s Clemmi?”
“She left just a few minutes ago.”
“How was she? Exhausted, I’d wager, after your trip to Lanvin and lunch at Rumpelmayer’s.”
How did he know where they’d been? Had Clemmi told him?
“On the contrary, she was on sparkling form all evening.”
The waiter returned with the whisky. Oliver took it with a murmured merci and drank half of it down.
“And how did the meeting go, if one’s permitted to ask?”
“Like wading through treacle. The moment they agree on one point, they discover two more to argue over. At this rate, we’ll still be at the table at Christmas.”
He drained the rest and set the empty glass on the guéridon. “I need a word with de Massenet’s chef de cabinet before he leaves. Shall I arrange a car to take you back to the apartment? I’ll likely be at this for some hours yet.”
“Thank you, but there’s no need. Clemmi’s left me in Maggie’s care.”
“I see.” He glanced at his wristwatch, his mouth tightening. “Right, back into the fray. Tell Clemmi not to wait up.”
She watched him go until he disappeared into the crowd, then made for the French windows and the promise of cooler air on the terrace.
The night air brushed her bare shoulders, a welcome relief after the heat of the salon.
The strains of “Somebody Loves Me” faded as she crossed the terrace, resting her palms on the stone coping of the balustrade.
How had Oliver known about Lanvin and Rumpelmayer’s? They’d told no one. Not even Sylvie. And Clemmi had been quite adamant that she was a grown woman and didn’t need Oliver’s permission to leave the apartment.
Yet somehow he’d known, down to where they’d taken their lunch.
Movement caught her eye at the far end of the terrace.
A tall, fair-haired man in white tie descended the steps, passing out of the reach of one lamp and into the next.
At the bottom he stopped and glanced back towards the lit windows of the salon, and for a moment the light fell full across his face.
“Jonathan!”
He faltered, the barest break in his stride, then kept walking.
He’d heard her. She was sure of it.
So why hadn’t he acknowledged her?
She pushed away from the balustrade and started down the terrace steps after him.
He rounded the end of the gravel path and disappeared from view. She quickened her pace, reaching the corner in time to see him partway down a narrow alleyway, past the dustbins and stacked delivery crates, making for a gate at its far end.
Elizabeth waited until the gate swung shut behind him, then slipped through onto the pavement. He’d turned left, heading away from the lights of the Castiglione.
Ahead, Jonathan strolled on, hands in his pockets, every inch a gentleman without a care in the world.
Except that a gentleman with nothing to hide had no reason to ignore a lady calling his name.
Elizabeth followed, the shopfronts shuttered on either side, closing the gap whenever he passed from view and dropping back the moment he showed again. At the rue de Rivoli he moved beneath the arcades, and she trailed him on the inner side, pausing at each column until the next stood clear.
He stepped from beneath the last arch and paused at the kerb.
Elizabeth drew back, pressing herself into the column’s shadow, and counted the seconds while a motorcar rattled past. Cross behind him now, and she’d be in plain view with nowhere to go if he turned, but if she waited, she ran the risk of losing him.
A couple strolled arm in arm towards the river, and Elizabeth fell in a few steps behind them, letting them screen her as far as the wall.
He pressed on along the quai, past the dark bulk of the Louvre, and turned onto the Pont Neuf, where a knot of theatregoers spilled along the parapet, loud with laughter and someone’s tuneless singing.
Elizabeth followed the river wall to the foot of the bridge and slipped into the shadow where the parapet met the quai. Out on the bridge, a man stood in one of the half-moon alcoves, his match flaring as he bent to light a cigarette.
Jonathan walked out to the midpoint and stopped, turning to face the water.
The man in the alcove flicked his match over the side. He waited a moment, then pushed away from the wall and moved along the parapet, stopping a yard short of Jonathan. Neither man acknowledged the other.
A shot rang out.
Then a second.
The laughter died. A woman screamed, the theatregoers breaking apart, some running for the ends of the bridge, others dropping to a crouch against the parapet, hands over their heads.
The stranger bolted for the far bank, low and fast, past the last of the lamps and out of sight.
Jonathan buckled against the parapet, one hand pressed to his side.
Then he was gone.
“Jonathan!”
Elizabeth broke from the shadows, making for the bridge.
She’d almost reached it when a hand clamped her arm and yanked her back into the darkness.