Her face was a study.
“Then Charles’s medal—”
“Must have been a duplicate of that one, leaving him the other half.”
She sank unsteadily into the nearest chair, ignoring the clothes which she crushed underneath her.
Simon laughed, and got up again to give her a cigarette.
After a full minute, she said, “Where is the other medal now?”
“I expect your brother’s murderer has it. But he hasn’t had time to do anything with it. Besides, he won’t be satisfied until he has both of them.”
“Why hasn’t he done anything until now?”
“Because he couldn’t. Your father confided at least part of his secret to a friend whom he trusted, named Georges Orival. But Orival turned collaborationist, and after the war he was tried and imprisoned. He only recently got out, and he hasn’t wasted much time. He introduced himself to you as Georges Olivant.”
“Olivant!”