M Georges Olivant folded the evening paper he had been reading and tucked it into his pocket.
“Eet say ’ere,” he said, “ze police ’ave learn nozzing new about ze tragedy of your brozzer. But do not fear. Zey are very pairseestent. Soon, I am sure, zey will ’ave ze clue.”
“They know more than they’re saying for publication,” Simon remarked. “They told me so.”
He wanted to draw Olivant’s attention to himself, not only to turn it away from Valerie North’s pale stillness.
“So, you ’ave talk wiz zem?”
“And I’ve got a few leads of my own.”
“I ’ave read American stories,” Olivant said, “where ze reporter is always a better detective zan ze police. You are per’aps one of zose?”
“Sometimes I try to be. Anyway, at least the motive for the murder is known.”
“Eet is?”
Simon took a leisured taste of his cocktail.