The Snake Stone

110

Auguste Boyer, charge d’affaires to the ambassador, had not been sleeping well. Drifting off to sleep, he would remember with a start of shame his own appearance at the courtyard window, drooling onto the cobbles: the ambassador could easily have seen him. Asleep, he dreamed of faceless men and wild dogs.

Yashim’s arrival shortly after Boyer had dressed, and before he had drunk his bowl of coffee, collided unhappily in the attache’s mind with the memory of Lefevre’s bloodless corpse.

“The ambassador cannot possibly be disturbed,” he said vehemently.

“He’s asleep?”

“Certainly not,” Boyer retorted. “Already he is settling various affairs, in discussion with embassy staff.” Like the chef, he thought: there was a luncheon planned. Provided, of course, the ambassador was awake. Boyer’s tummy began to rumble; he pulled out a small handkerchief and coughed.

“Do you happen to know if the ambassador has completed his report into the death of the unfortunate Monsieur Lefevre?”

Boyer regarded the eunuch with some distaste. “I have no idea,” he said.

Yashim still entertained a small hope of delay. “And the testimony of Madame Lefevre? Did that prove useful?”

Boyer looked at him blankly. “Madame Lefevre?”

“Amelie Lefevre. His wife,” Yashim explained. “She came here the evening before last.”

Auguste Boyer thought of his bowl of coffee, growing cold.

“Of Monsieur Lefevre,” he said, drawing himself up, “the embassy is aware. But as for Madame-no, monsieur, I am afraid that you are utterly mistaken.”

Yashim rocked slowly on his heels.

“Madame Lefevre came here to the embassy. She had been in Samnos, and she needed help to get home. To France.”

Boyer seized on Yashim’s change of tack. The ambassador’s report was beyond his jurisdiction, but this was easy.

“You are quite mistaken. This Madame Lefevre, whoever she may be, has not been seen at the embassy,” he said crisply, mentally connecting himself with his coffee and a warm croissant. “Good day, monsieur.”

He turned on his heel and strode off across the hall, leaving Yashim staring after him, a puzzled frown on his face.

Either the little diplomat was lying-or Amelie had gone somewhere else, after all. She had disappeared into the great city as suddenly as she had come, taking her little bag and a head full of dangerous new ideas. Determined, she had said, to find out who had killed her husband.

Yashim’s frown deepened. Ideas were dangerous, certainly; but men could be deadly.