Background
In Chapter 1, the author discovers a fascinating envelope at the Paris Stamp Market.
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I folded the envelope carefully and placed it inside the small black notebook that I kept in my hip pocket. This aide-memoire contained notes for the travel story I was researching, but also happened to record my forthcoming assignation, at midday, in the Parc Monceau. It was a meeting that I felt distinctly uneasy about.
The young lady and I had met only two days earlier, under the most dramatic of circumstances. I had been seated that evening at a pavement café, enjoying a glass of Chambertin and watching the world go by, when my attention was drawn to two women at a nearby table, who were having an animated discussion.
I could not see the one with greying hair, for she had her back to me, but I was struck by the feline intensity with which the younger woman listened; an intensity underlined by the elegant steeple she made with her fingertips. The steeple always leaned slightly to the right as she bent forward to hear more clearly, and this gesture accentuated the unsheathed edge of her vermillion nails, suggesting to me an exciting element of danger.
I could not hear what they were saying, nor would I have understood the French, but I enjoyed following it in mime and found myself becoming more and more fascinated. Her eyes would sometimes flash momentarily up to the right as she spoke, and this hesitation as she searched for the right word made it clear that French was not her native language.
It was a warm evening, and light from the setting sun blazed on the windows on the far side of the avenue, giving a theatrical atmosphere to the ornate sandstone façade and its rows of wrought iron balconies. It also highlighted the soft outline of the young lady's cheek and glinted on the opalescence of her drop pearl earring. For a moment this reminded me of the girl in Vermeer's famous painting, though her raven hair and sharply lined eyebrows were quite unlike the Dutch painter's vision of innocence, and I soon discarded the thought.
Eventually, the older woman stood up and bent forward to give a quick peck on each cheek before she left.
"Au revoir, Helen, ma chérie," she said with a thin smile.
I could see the tension drain from Helen's body as she leant forward and took a sip of Perrier water. Then - a sudden sickening squeal of brakes and a dull thud. Helen's acquaintance who, just a moment ago, had been seated opposite, deep in conversation with her, was now spreadeagled like a discarded marionette that had been tossed carelessly into the gutter. The body lay at an unnatural angle, a look of surprised terror caught on her lifeless and blood-stained face.
Helen spun round with a half-stifled cry and started to rise, but the scene that confronted her was too much. Her knees buckled and she fainted. I sprang forward, quick to rush to her aid.
A small crowd gathered and Helen and I were left in the shadows behind them, near the café entrance. I had wrapped my coat around her shoulder and could feel her shivering with shock as she leaned into the crook of my arm.
Within minutes, the eerie sound of ambulance sirens reached a crescendo and the thin wail of a policeman's whistle heralded the arrival of the law. Helen's body tensed and she looked up at me like a cornered animal.
"Quick!" she said. "Get me out of here."
Before I knew what was happening, she was almost dragging me down the street and into the anonymity of the boulevard beyond. As soon as she saw the green light of an unoccupied taxi, she began waving wildly to attract the driver's attention. I was about to climb in with her when a look of horror crossed her face.
"My bag!" she exclaimed. "Sweet Jesus! I've left my bag behind."
I stepped back onto the pavement as she leaned forward to give the driver an address. As the taxi drew away from the curb she turned, obviously distraught, and gave me a pleading look.
I retraced my steps, arriving back at the cafe to find the body had been taken in an ambulance and most of the crowd had dispersed. The police had cordoned off the area and were standing guard. I could see Helen's bag in the shadows but did not know how I could get to it. However, as luck would have it, one of the remaining bystanders was able to substantiate my story, telling the policeman that he had seen me shortly after the accident, sitting at the table with a lady, and so the bag was handed over without further question.
I was loath to ferret through the bag, but found several business cards near the top with the name Helen Culverson on them, describing her as a freelance travel writer and giving a phone number and an email address. Her mobile phone was in the bag, so when I got back to my lodgings, I e-mailed, and the following morning had a reply which briefly stated: Meet me in the Parc Monceau at 12 noon this Sunday. I shall be at the kiosk near Guy de Maupassant's statue.
A sense of foreboding came upon me as I set off from the stamp market, carrying her handbag wrapped in brown paper. It occurred to me that my mood was very much in keeping with the pessimism of some of Maupassant's better known short stories.
I suppose I could have caught the Metro, but I wanted time to think things out, for I was not at all sure what I might be getting myself into. It was a sunny day and only a half-hour walk up the Rue Washington and into the Rue de Monceau, a gentle uphill stroll that a younger man might have accomplished in half the time. However, I was not as young as I used to be, and in no particular hurry to confront my fate.
