She frowned at him. "Then you still believe "

"That Jan was murdered? Absolutely."

"But the police investigated. There's no proof. They checked the address you gave them. No one named St. Laurent was ever there. They searched for the van.

They even went to body shops in case its side was being repaired. They didn't find it."

"I bet they wonder if it exists. You saw the way they looked at me. They think I'm hysterical, or maybe I was drunk, or I simply lost control of the car and I'm lying about the van to hide my mistake."

She shook her head. "They believe you. It was. .h.i.t-and-run."

"It was more than that. I know it. I'm not leaving till I find out why my wife died. She was fine and good. I loved her. And some b.a.s.t.a.r.d's going to pay for what he did to her." The steel edge of his voice surprised him. Rage shut out his grief. He didn't want that. Rage felt ugly. But his anger had complete control.

Monsard spoke in French. Simone responded. Then she looked at Houston. "My father's right. I don't see what ..."

She was reluctant to continue. Houston stared at her. "Go on," he said.

"If you won't count on the police, if you don't think they're trying hard enough, I don't see what you think you can accomplish on your own. You're just one person, and forgive me, but you don't know what you're doing."

Houston smiled bitterly. "But apparently I'm managing just fine, or else whoever drove that van would not have tried to kill me. I'll keep doing what I was. I'll ask more questions, follow where the answers take me. I'm d.a.m.n close. That much is certain."

"If you're right I won't insult you by pretending to believe you if you're right, though, then you'll put yourself in danger. Maybe next time you won't be so lucky."

Houston clenched his teeth. "You want to know the truth? I should be scared.

Except I feel so G.o.dd.a.m.ned empty, and I feel so G.o.dd.a.m.ned angry that I'm not afraid at all. I'm hoping he'll try for me again. That way he'll show himself.

I'll have a chance to get my hands around his throat."

She winced.

"My wife is dead. I've only got two choices. Either I go home and grieve forever, or I tell myself she was murdered and I try to find out why. What would you do? If I go back home, if I don't try " His eyes implored her. "Help me."

Chapter 15.

Though the buildings were older and the architecture was distinctly European, Roncevaux reminded Houston of the mill towns he had known in western Pennsylvania. Even the topography was similar. The thickly wooded lumpy hills through which a dirty dying river flowed and in the middle of a narrow valley, Roncevaux, industrial pollution capping it from hill to hill with haze. This was a part of France he would have preferred to avoid; but since Jan had died, his memory of pristine countrysides was tainted, and this underside of France was now in keeping with his feelings.

He'd been told that the main product here was paper, and he smelled the rancid, bitter mash. He squinted toward the buildings, stone facades caked ashen gray.

His eyes began to water, irritated by the grit that settled from the sky. He closed his window and turned toward Simone.

She drove her recent-model white Renault. She'd asked him at the start if he wanted to do the driving, but his ribs still ached if he raised his arms or turned abruptly. What was more, he now felt nervous about driving "gun shy," if she understood the slang. Instead, he navigated from a map while she maneuvered through the busy traffic. Even major streets were narrow, and the somber buildings seemed to squeeze him as he studied street sign after street sign.

Noon, and yet the dense haze shut the sun out.

"Imagine what it's like to live here," Houston said.

"What's worse, they don't have any choice. You're sorry you came?"

Instead of answering, he pointed toward an intersection. "Left here. Do you see it?"

She nodded toward the sign: rue gabriel.

His anger quickened. Soon, he thought.

She turned the corner into an ancient part of town. The buildings seemed to list. Exhausted. Wooden, parched, and peeling.

Houston shuddered. Old men on the street looked decadent, diseased. There weren't many numbers on the buildings. Fifty-five. Then eighty-three, and ninety, ninety-six. Those figures hung fatigued on top of doors. But his heart beat faster when he saw one hundred and thirteen.

Simone drove by it.

"Wait."

"I have to find a parking s.p.a.ce," she said.

He glanced back, trying to determine if the building had apartments. There were old stone steps and then a wooden arch. The windows on the four stories seemed to have been painted over. Either that or they'd never been washed. Ahead, a truck pulled sharply from the curb. It narrowly avoided sc.r.a.ping the Renault's front fender. As he flinched, Simone braked quickly, jerked hard on the steering wheel, and slid the car neatly into the parking s.p.a.ce the truck had left.

He marveled at her skill. She made an obscene gesture toward the truck. Despite himself, he had to laugh. She glanced at him in surprise, and then she had to laugh as well. "I learned to drive in San Francisco," she explained.

"I'd have thought you'd learned on stock-car tracks. I'm glad I'm not behind the wheel."

"We'd better lock it. In this district, we'll be lucky if it isn't stripped when we get back."

"I feel like I'm back home." And then he wished he was back home, had never come to France, had never taken Jan here.

"You turned pale," Simone said, worried.

"Just a thought I wasn't ready for." He stepped from the Renault and locked it.

"Let's check out the building. Settle this."

Impatiently he waited while she came around to join him. Then they walked along the littered street. They pa.s.sed three toughs who snickered toward Simone. They reached one hundred and thirteen.

Houston stared up at the opaque windows, squinted toward the darkness of the splintered wooden archway, drew a breath, and climbed the steps.

There was a dusty door beyond the archway. He turned the k.n.o.b. It opened, creaking. They entered an unlit corridor. He smelled the must, the mildew, and if he was not mistaken, urine. A door came open to his right. A bald unshaven man zipped up his pants as he stepped out. Beyond him, Houston saw two pull-chain urinals.

The man stopped in surprise. He grinned, embarra.s.sed. "Par-donnez, madame." And Houston understood. "I did not hear you."

"J'accepte." She spoke rapidly in French then. The unshaven man replied as quickly.

Houston waited in suspense.

Simone turned. "It's an office building. He's the janitor, he says. So many offices are vacant, he's afraid the place will soon be sold. He'll lose his job." The bald, unshaven man kept grinning nervously. "He thinks we're here to buy the place," Simone continued.

"Ask him."

"St. Laurent?" Simone told the man. "Pierre de St. Laurent?"

"Ah, out. Je le connais."

Abruptly Houston felt a scalding in his stomach. "Did he say he knows him?" He tried to keep his voice controlled. "But the police claimed St. Laurent wasn't here."

"Le nom. Je connais le nom. Quarante et un." The man nodded cooperatively, pointing toward the wooden stairs in back. "77 a lone quarante et un."

"Simone, quick tell me."

"St. Laurent. He rented number forty-one. Upstairs."

"My G.o.d, he's seen him?" Houston didn't know which impulse he should follow first to hurry up the stairs, or wait and get more information.

"Avez-vous lui vu?" Simone asked. The janitor replied. Simone turned back to Houston. "No. He says he gets instructions from the rental agent. He received a note directing him to leave the office open and to put the keys on the desk. He then received another note directing him to change the name on the office door.

The mailman comes with parcels for him."

"Is he up there?" Houston asked. "Est-il id?"

"Jamais," the janitor responded, then elaborated.

"What?"

Simone explained. "He says that St. Laurent is never here. Each night the office needs no cleaning. And the parcels are unopened."

"What the h.e.l.l?" Abruptly Houston started toward the stairwell. He trembled.

"Peter?"

He heard footsteps from behind him but didn't bother turning. Clutching the rail, he went up two steps at a time. The stairway creaked. The railing wobbled.

At the top, a dangling yellow light bulb lit the second hallway.

"Peter?"

Finally he turned. Simone hurried behind him. "The police came here," he said to her, "and they learned nothing. I don't understand it. But this proves I had a visitor that night."

"I never doubted it."

"But you're my witness when we go back to the cops. I never could have linked this place with St. Laurent unless somebody told me where to look. You came here with me, and you know how hard it is to find. I had to have directions. Someone had to point me here."

"I said I believed you."

They climbed higher as they talked. They reached the third floor, but no light hung from the ceiling; the darkness troubled Houston.

Then the fourth. They reached the fourth.

Chapter 16.

He paused. There was no sound here, though he did hear m.u.f.fled traffic noises coming from the street. He smelled the mildew and the must. His apprehension made the corridor appear to lengthen. But his anger took the place of his -uneasiness, and he continued down the hallway.

Forty-one was at the far end of the corridor. He squinted toward the letters importations, st. laurent stenciled on the frosted window.

Houston knocked. No answer. Houston knocked again, and this time when he got no answer he tensed to grip the doork.n.o.b.

Simone reached for his hand. "You're sure?" she said. "If what you think is true, you'll be in danger."

"Both of us," he said. "I wasn't thinking. Look, you'd better wait out here."

"You must be joking. If you think I'm going to stay out here alone . . ."

"I have to do this. I owe it to Jan." Houston pushed the door. It sc.r.a.ped on rusty hinges and revealed a one-room office there were no doors to provide a second exit and two frosted windows.

Houston stepped inside. He felt Simone clutch at his arm but didn't look at her.

He concentrated on the office. To his left the room was barren. To his right he saw a dingy wooden cabinet. He searched the drawers; they were empty.

Straight ahead, a battered desk showed liquid stains from bottles and gla.s.ses.

On the desk there was a phone. And three small packages with canceled stamps on them.

Houston walked around the desk and stared down at the packages. They were addressed in type: pierre de st. laurent. He picked one up. "It's heavy." Houston shook it. "Doesn't rattle. Wonder what it is."

He set the package down and raised the phone, nodding when he heard the dial tone. "Well, it's working. Someone must be using it." And that was all. Except for one parched leather chair, there was nothing else inside the room.

"What do we do now?" she said.

"I'd like to know what's in these packages."

"You mean you're going to open them?"

"No, I don't want to show that we've been here. The door says imports. But I doubt it. Not unless he's starving. This place isn't used for business."

"What then?"

"I don't know. A drop perhaps. A place where you can leave and pick up messages."

"Or packages?"