“Yes. But I’ve got to stop at the hotel first. They didn’t even give me time to see my room.”
3
In the lobby, while she was asking for her key, a man stepped up beside her at the desk, removed a rich black homburg with a slight flourish, and said, “Pardon, Miss North.” He extended a card. Looking over her shoulder, Simon saw that it said “M Georges Olivant” with an address in St Cloud.
“I ’ave waited for you all zis morning,” Olivant said. “I am an old friend of your fahzer. I would ’ave met you at ze boat, but I was unable to leave Paris because of business.”
He was a stout man with a face that was unfortunately reminiscent of a well-fed rat, although the only fur on it was a carefully trimmed black moustache, the rest of the skin having that glossy pink patina which can only be produced by the best barbers. From the points of his polished shoes, up through his studiously tailored blue suit and studiously manicured fingernails, to the top of his pomaded head, he exuded an aroma of cologne and solid prosperity. He spoke English in an aggressive way which somehow gave the impression that he was extremely proud of his accent, which was atrocious. And just as the Saint had liked Valerie North at first glance, from the first glance he disliked M Olivant.
“This is quite a surprise,” the girl was saying politely. “How did you know about me, and how did you find me so quickly?”
“I read about your trip in ze newspapers,” Olivant said, “so of course I am waiting for you. Eet was not difficult. Zere are not so many ’otel in Paris where ze Americans descend.”
She seemed to take the reference to a newspaper story on her trip so matter-of-factly that a tiny line creased between the Saint’s brows. Her name had meant nothing to him, and he thought he was aware of most celebrities.
“Then you must have known my brother,” the girl said.
“Alas, no. I am in Belgium, on business, when I read ze newspaper. It is ze first I ’ear of you bose since ze war. I mean to look for ’im, of course. But as soon as I return, before I can look, I read in ze newspaper about ’im again, and ’e is dead.” Olivant allowed an expression of grief to dwell on his face for a measured period of time, and then bravely set it aside. “’Owever, I come to place myself at your service. For finding ze murderers, we can only ’ope ze police ’ave success. But anysing else I can do... You will, per’aps, ’ave lunch wiz me?”