The Day After Tomorrow

12

Wednesday, October 5.

IT WAS just after ten in the morning when Henri Kanarack stepped into a small grocery a half block from the bakery. He was still disturbed by the incident with the American, but nothing had happened in two days and he was beginning to agree with both his wife and Agnes Demblon that the man had either picked the wrong person or just been crazy. He was bent over collecting several bottles of mineral water to take back to work when Danton Fodor, the store’s overweight and nearly blind owner, suddenly took him by the arm and brought him into the back room.

“What is it?” Kanarack said, indignantly. “I’m current with my bill.”

“It’s not that,” Fodor said, peering out through thick glasses to make sure no customers were waiting at the cash register. Fodor was not only the owner but clerk, cashier, stock boy and custodian.

“A man was here earlier today. A private detective with an awkward drawing of you.”

“What?” Kanarack felt his heart jump.

“He was showing it around. Asking people if they knew you.”

“You didn’t say anything!”

“Of course not. I knew he was up to something right away. The tax man?”

“I don’t know.” Henri Kanarack looked away. A private detective, and he’d gotten this far. How? Suddenly he looked back. “What was his company? Did you get his name?”

Fodor nodded and opened the lone drawer of a table that served as a desk. Pulling out the card, he handed it to Kanarack. “He said we should call if we saw you.”

“We, who’s we?” Kanarack demanded.

“The other people in the store. He asked everyone. Luckily they were all strangers and no one recognized you. Where he went from here or who else he talked to, I don’t know. I’d be careful when I went back to work if I were you.”

Henri Kanarack wasn’t going back to work. Not today anyway, maybe never again. Glancing at the card in his hand he dialed the bakery and got Agnes on the telephone.

“The American,” he said. “He’s got a private detective after me. If he shows up, make sure he talks to you. Make sure nobody else says anything. His name is—” Kanarack looked down at the card again—”Jean Packard. He works for a company called Kolb International.” Suddenly he got angry. “What do you mean, what should you tell him? Tell him I no longer work there and haven’t for some time. If he wants to know where I live, you don’t know. You sent some paperwork to me after I left and it came back with no forwarding address.” With that, and saying he’d call her later, Kanarack abruptly hung up.

Less than an hour later Jean Packard entered the bakery and glanced around. Conversations with two other shop owners and a young boy who happened to see his sketch by accident had pointed here, to the bakery. There was a small retail shop in the front and behind it he could see an office. Beyond that was a closed door that he assumed led to the area in the back where the baking was done.

An elderly woman paid for two loaves of bread and turned to go. Packard smiled and opened the door for her.

“Merci beaucoup,” she said in passing.

Jean Packard nodded and then turned to the young girl behind the counter. This was where the man worked. He would show the sketch to no one here. That would be a tip-off someone was after him. What he wanted was a list of employee names. This was obviously a small organization, with probably no more than ten or fifteen people on the payroll. All would be registered at the central Tax Bureau. A computer cross-check would match names with home addresses. Ten or fifteen people would not be difficult to canvass. Simple elimination would give him the one he wanted.

The girl behind the counter wore a tight short skirt and high heels, and had long, shapely legs covered with black net stockings. Her hair was pulled tight in a knot at the top of her head and she wore big loop earrings and enough mascara and eye shadow for three. She was the kind of half-girl, half-woman who spent most of her day waiting for night. A job behind a bakery counter was not high on her list of turn-ons, it just helped with the bills until a better arrangement could be found.

“Bonjour,” Jean Packard said with a smile.

“Bonjour,” she replied, and smiled back. Flirting, it seemed, came naturally to her.

Ten minutes later Jean Packard left with a half-dozen croissants and a list of the people who worked there. He’d told her he was opening a nightclub in the area and wanted to make certain the local merchants and their employees got first-night invitations. It was good public relations.