Three Ricards made me a little tipsy so I had a steak frites to sober up a bit. Alain, my driver, urged me to eat quickly. What's the hurry? I asks him.
Your hotel, monsieur, is no longer safe for you. The girl, Fifi, she is working for Monsieur Roy, donc what you tell her is now no secret.
At first I thought I hadn't told Fifi anything that Roy could use. Then I remembered the times I left her alone in the room when I went out for cigarettes. As I chewed over my last forkful of steak I went over everything she might have discovered in my luggage.
You are thinking, Monsieur? wondered Alain.
Take me to Inspector Blaireau, I ordered. The situation was out of my hands now. We'd have to start over.
Ah, said Alain, the Inspector is away for the weekend, Monsieur Butter Boy, but I have already spoken with his office. They wish you to stay at a safe house on ---
Alain looked nervously over his shoulder and stood up. It is best if we leave immediately.
We spent the next hour zigzagging through a maze of unfamiliar streets, sometimes doubling back on our course. When he was satisified we weren't being tailed Alain hung a right on a narrow, windy street and pulled up at a grocery store. Alain handed me an envelope and a key, pointed at a red door. Numero quatre, monsieur, through that door. I stepped down and thanked Alain.
Je vous en prie, monsieur. Alain tipped his cap and lashed the horse into a trot. I went through the red door and three doors down a dimly hit hallway to number 4. It was a tidy little room, cheerfully decorated. I took off my shoes and lay on the bed. Waiting a day to see Inspector Blaireau was no problem. Starting over was no problem. Not going back to the hotel was a problem. My gun was there.
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