Without A Clue

Without A Clue

PROLOGUE

Paris, France—January 2.

An explosion ripped through the frosty air, shaking the ground and rattling the doors and windows of the Left Bank cafe.

Positive it was another bomb, the woman held her breath, her fingers automatically tightening around the handle of her coffee cup. For an instant, she was too scared to move, afraid it would all start again. The police would be back, asking their endless questions like they had when the antiques shop was destroyed; the fire at the furniture factory they said was caused by a bomb; and then again when that nightclub owner's vehicle—

She shoved the unpleasant memories away.

People were yelling; a police car siren was gradually coming closer; then the ear-splitting blare of a fire truck as the red and silver monster raced past the cafe. She pushed back her chair and hurried over to the door to get a better look.

Wreaths of thick black smoke were coming from somewhere, and the butcher from the shop next door was rushing around, waving his arms like a madman. Then she saw the flames, leaping high above the buildings on the other side of the street. They appeared to be coming from the parking lot behind the bakery.

The exact same parking lot where she’d just sent Eric to see if he could help Cecile start her car!

She rushed back to the table. Snatching up her purse in one hand, she grabbed the briefcase with the other and ran.

One

Paris, France—September, nine months later.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

Eric Sinclair

Born Montreal May 1, 1962

And Cecile Simon

Born Avignon July 14, 1968

Died January 2, 2000

In God's Keeping

Paula Sinclair crumpled a wad of tissues in her hand as she reread the engraved steel plaque for what she promised herself would be the last time. When she was through, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in her chest. Even now, nine months later, it was difficult to believe Eric was actually dead. The big brother she'd looked up to and adored her whole life would never call her again, never tease her again, never again surprise her with an impromptu visit, or send her silly gifts from the different places he visited.

Eric was gone, blown to dust by a car bomb, and all she had left were her memories. He didn’t even have a proper grave she could visit and leave flowers. The only proof Eric had existed was this cold, impersonal strip of metal stuck on a wall in a cemetery on the outskirts of Paris, France, thousands of miles from his home.

She sat on a nearby bench and withdrew a small bundle of postcards from her purse. Apart from the postmarks, the four cards were all the same. The same picture on the front, the same message on the reverse side and they'd all been mailed in Paris over the past few months. While the cards were unsigned and the message unclear, instinct told Paula they were somehow connected to the disappearance of the valuable antiquarian diary her brother purchased shortly before his death. She'd hoped to figure out the connection before she showed the cards to Luc Dupré, her contact here in Paris. But so far her efforts had been in vain and time was running out. Her appointment with Luc was for this evening, just a few hours away, and there were several places she wanted to visit before then.

A nearby clock chimed the half hour.

Returning the postcards to her purse, she removed the cellophane wrapper from the two dark red roses she'd brought with her. She hesitated for a moment, then touched the roses lightly with her lips before placing them on the ground beneath the plaque.

Despite her resolve, she read the memorial dedication one more time. This time for Cecile Simon, whoever she was.

From what the police told her, Cecile had no one. No family, no relatives, no one at all to remember her.

Correction. Cecile now had Paula.

The day had been unusually hot and humid, more like August than September, and the weather forecast was calling for an electrical storm before morning. By the time Paula exited the Paris underground railway, otherwise known as the Metro, it was already dark and it had started to rain. She turned off the Boulevard Michel into a side street as a flash of lightning illuminated the sky ahead followed by the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance.

A few blocks farther on, she descended a short flight of rough stone steps, then continued on along the lower level until she reached a plain, unmarked wooden door at the far end. There was no street number and no sign. Nothing to indicate it was the entrance to the neighborhood bar—unless one happened to notice the battered metal disk on the wall advertising a well-known brand of French beer. If the bar had a name, Paula had no idea what it was. It had been Eric's favorite drinking spot and he'd never called it anything but that place around the corner.

The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and went inside. The interior was hot, smoky and crowded. She couldn’t see Luc, and for a brief moment she was tempted to leave. Having lunch here by herself was one thing. Coming here alone at night could become a problem if some of the looks being directed her way were anything to go by.

Not that she’d had much choice. Her hotel was the typical small Left Bank establishment with no restaurant or other meeting facility for guests to use. Between the bad weather forecast and the bar’s close proximity it was the obvious choice for the appointment with Luc Dupre.

Careful to avoid eye contact with any of the other patrons, Paula settled herself on a stool at the far end of the scratched and dented zinc-topped counter and looked quickly but carefully around the packed room. There were a few faces she'd seen here before, but still no Luc.

She swallowed her annoyance and checked her watch. He was late. She’d give him another ten minutes. If he wasn't here by then, she’d leave.

The noise level in the crowded, low-ceilinged room was high and the mindless thump of canned music at full volume made it even worse. Paula leaned her elbows on the bar and pressed her fingers against her ears in an effort to soften the sound.

She closed her eyes, remembering evenings she'd spent here with her brother and his friends. Back when the heat generated by the closely packed humanity and the pungent smells of Pernod and French cigarettes hadn't seemed so overpowering, and the basement bar had actually felt quite cozy. But tonight, with Paris sizzling in the grip of abnormally high temperatures, Paula wished she’d forgotten about picking the closest spot and suggested meeting Luc elsewhere. Preferably somewhere that had air-conditioning.

She looked at her watch, then checked it against the clock at the other end of the bar. Luc had said nine. It was now almost nine-thirty. She signaled the sour-faced barman and ordered a small cognac, wishing just for once he would lighten up and say something friendly, maybe even smile. But when he returned with her drink all she got was a nod and the same contemptuous look he always gave her.

She handed him a bill that more than covered her drink and, in a moment of weakness, waved away the change. For all she knew, women were the cause of the wretched man's miserable attitude.

Mentally dismissing the barman, she glanced toward the door. She'd give Luc just a few more minutes—as long as it took to finish her drink. If he hadn’t shown by then, she’d go back to the hotel and give him a call. Maybe he was busy; maybe he'd forgotten; maybe he just didn't want to be bothered with her and her problems.

Whatever Luc’s reason, she still had to find the diary, so she’d have to continue making appointments until he gave in and kept one.

She lifted her hand to stifle a yawn. It had been another long and exhausting day. The third in a row. She'd been so sure whoever was behind the postcards wanted to make personal contact she'd given them every possible opportunity. She'd come to Paris alone. She was staying openly at a hotel not far from where her brother used to live. The exact same hotel where she'd stayed back in January after receiving news of Eric’s death.

Since arriving in Paris three days ago, everything she'd done had been with a view to keeping herself in plain sight. She'd wandered around the parks, visited the most popular tourist attractions, and lingered on the main streets, taking leisurely strolls or window shopping. She'd had lunch and dinner at different restaurants in the area, and her evenings had been spent reading a newspaper or book at one of the sidewalk cafés.

Apart from the time she'd spent visiting Eric's memorial, today had followed pretty much the same pattern. After leaving the cemetery, she'd stopped for an early dinner at Eric's favorite restaurant on the rue de Richelieu not far from the gray stone bulk of the National Library. Then she'd taken the Métro north to Monmartre, visited a few of the cafés Eric had liked to frequent, and mingled with the crowds and the street sellers in Pigalle before returning to the Left Bank to keep her appointment with Luc. An appointment he's obviously forgotten, she decided with a flash of irritation as she failed to locate him in a group of newcomers.

She picked up her glass and took a sip of the cognac. Her efforts to make contact with the person sending the postcards had been a complete waste of time. Hanging around the streets and cafés had earned her a few inviting smiles and a couple of suggestive glances, but that was all. No one had made any attempt to approach her let alone actually speak.

As she swirled the cognac around in the glass, she felt someone push hard against her back. Startled, she looked in the mirrored wall behind the bar, but all she saw was the back of a tall, well-built man as he moved slightly away to her left. She continued to watch the action in the room behind her for a few seconds, then idly took stock of her own pale reflection. She looked exactly the way she felt: hot, tired and completely washed out. Definitely in need of a good night's sleep.

Just then, the man behind turned abruptly and, reaching over her shoulder, deposited his empty glass on the bar. In that brief moment, Paula saw his face clearly reflected beside hers in the mirror. A face she hadn't seen in years.

Their gazes locked, and she held her breath.

For one short, shattering moment she was trapped by warm brown eyes that left her paralyzed with shock. Then the spark of recognition she was positive she'd seen in the man's eyes vanished. He frowned and shook his head, then he turned and was gone from view before she could speak or even move.

Charles St. Aubin! In the flesh.

She knew Charles had left Montreal. The last she heard he was living and working in Europe. But her informant had said he was somewhere in Belgium or Holland, not here in Paris.

She finished the cognac in one swift, burning gulp. Maybe it wasn’t Charles. Simply someone who looked like him. Except the likeness had been so strong...

She left the stool and quickly scanned the faces of the people around her. Unable to see him, she began pushing her way through the crowd in the hope of catching another glimpse. But she was too late. He’d left the bar.

Paula shook her head and headed for the exit. The Charles St. Aubin she knew wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.  

She’d almost made it to the door when the clutching hands of an amorously inclined stranger tried to hold her back. She wrenched free of his grasp, opened the door and hurried up the steps. There was a chance she’d imagined the likeness between the man in the bar and Charles, even so, she paused, her gaze scanning the area as she searched in vain for the tall, well-built figure. Apart from a teenage boy walking a small white dog and an old woman selling flowers, the street was deserted. Whoever the man was, she’d never know now. Sliding the strap of her purse securely over her shoulder, she continued on along the street in the direction of her hotel.

Hey, Paula. Wait for me.

At the sound of Luc's voice, Paula stopped and turned around. I figured you weren't coming, she said the moment he caught up with her.

Sorry. The handsome, dark-haired Frenchman gave her an apologetic smile, then grasped her shoulders lightly and bestowed the usual Gallic greeting of an impersonal kiss on each of her cheeks. A problem with a client. Were you waiting long?

Years, she muttered, unintentionally voicing her thoughts of Charles aloud.

Excuse me? Are you all right?

Fine. Why? She'd tried to sound calm and offhand, but Luc was looking at her oddly, as if he'd picked up on the fact she was off balance.

You look a little... He shrugged. I'm not exactly sure.

As if I'd seen a ghost?

Did you?

Maybe. At least I thought I did. She gave a self-conscious laugh. Except I'm too tired to figure out if I did, or if I've finally lost it and started to hallucinate.

Luc's dark eyes narrowed slightly. Want to tell me about it?

Well... To Paula's surprise, since Luc's arrival the brief encounter in the bar had lost its impact. While I was waiting for you, I thought I saw someone I used to know. I can't imagine what he'd be doing here in Paris, let alone in that bar. She frowned and gave a dismissive shrug. I probably imagined the likeness. Blame it on tired eyes and dim lights.

But it shook you up?

A bit. But you're here now. Any news?

Luc shook his head. No. But since I've been telling you that for several months, you shouldn't be surprised.

With his dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones and lean sexy physique, Luc was a very attractive man. He wasn't tall by North American standards—no more than five or six inches taller than Paula's own five foot five, but he looked thinner than she remembered. He also had dark circles under his eyes and a general air of exhaustion that made her wonder if he was working too hard. Judging by his appearance, he was skipping meals as well as sleep.

Have you had dinner? she asked bluntly.

But of course. It's almost midnight. What about you? Are you hungry?

Whenever Paula felt nervous and strung out, she was also ravenously hungry. She'd been feeling that way a lot lately. I had some Italian food a couple of hours ago. But I could use a coffee. And... She smiled. Maybe a small sandwich.

The rain had stopped and they found a table in quiet café a few blocks away. Luc called the waiter over and ordered two coffees plus Paula's all-time favorite—crusty French bread stuffed with the locally made garlic sausage.

Paula waited until Luc leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie, then she opened her purse and took out the postcards. Each of the four cards was the same—a brightly colored photograph entitled 'A typical Parisian street scene'. They all bore French stamps, they all had the same message on the back and they were all postmarked 'Paris'. The only difference was the date of the postmarks since they'd all been mailed at different times. The first had been delivered to Paula's home in Montreal in May, the second in June, the third in July and the last in August, almost a month ago.

She spread the four cards out on the metal table, face up. Then, as she slowly turned each one over to reveal the message on the back, Luc leaned forward for a closer look.

What are these? He frowned as selected one of the cards at random. Paris au mois de septembre, he said, reading the message aloud. He put the card down and checked each of the others in turn. The picture is the same on each card. The writing is the same, they’re all addressed to you and they all say Paris in September. His frowned deepened. Where did you get them? Is it a joke of some kind? An advertisement, perhaps?

Paula sighed. Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that they keep arriving in the mail. I received the first one around the middle of May, and the last one a few weeks ago. I don't recognize the writing, so I have no idea who sent them.

Luc spent several minutes carefully examining each card individually. Finally, he stacked them one on top of another and tapped the edges against the table. May I? He held the cards up and, as Paula nodded her agreement, he tucked them in the inside pocket of his blazer. Why haven't you told me about the cards before now?

Paula hadn't told Luc because she'd assumed the sender wanted to contact her discreetly. Now, after three days spent doing everything but standing on her head in the middle of the Place de la Concord and screaming I'm here, she was no longer sure what the sender intended.

The waiter returned with their order. She waited until he’d left, then she said, You think the postcards could be important?

Maybe. Who knows? Luc lifted his shoulders in a non-committal shrug, then he reached for his coffee and added his usual three cubes of sugar. We can't ignore the fact that whatever they are intended to accomplish, they’ve brought you here to Paris for the whole month of September. Yes? She nodded, and he added, Which solves a little mystery for me.

Paula had no idea what Luc was talking about. What mystery? She picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

You own one of the biggest bookstores in Montreal and students everywhere return to their studies in September. Yet when you called to say you were coming over, you said September was the only time you could get away. He smiled, his brown eyes alive with humor. Here in France, the bookstores are exceedingly busy in September. They hire extra staff and stay open late. Does this not happen with your store?

It happens. But it's my grandfather’s store, not mine.

But one day it will be yours?

If we can manage to hang on to it.

Luc appeared surprised. Really? There's doubt?

I’m afraid so. My grandfather has lost a great deal of money over the diary, Paula admitted reluctantly. Between what he borrowed from the bank to buy it in the first place, the interest on the loan, plus all these extra expenses, things have been rather tight. She tried to smile but failed. And, as we’d expected, the insurance company has now officially refused to entertain our claim.

Can you sue them?

Our lawyer said it would be a waste of time and money. Although we'd already guessed that. Unfortunately, our coverage is basic so it doesn't include such exotic items. She held up a hand. I know, you don't have to say it, we should have arranged special insurance. But Eric had made several similar purchases before without any problem, so Granddad didn’t think it was necessary. She sighed deeply. My grandfather is very secretive about his sideline. He believes the fewer people who know about it the better, and that applying for extra insurance to cover the purchase of a special item would increase the risk of something going wrong.

Luc nodded. Unfortunately your grandfather is correct. Enormous amounts of money are involved in the sale of rare books and papers, and extra insurance for a special item can be tantamount to advertising. That’s why collectors must go to extraordinary lengths to avoid attracting any kind of attention.

You think there's a chance that’s what happened to Eric? Someone found out what he was doing and tried to steal the diary?

No. Luc shook his head. There is not one shred of evidence to think anything of the kind. Your brother was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he died exactly how the police told you he died. There is no point in trying to prove otherwise.

Paula took a sip of coffee and another bite of the sandwich. According to the statement her grandfather had given the police, after he collected the diary from the seller, Eric was to have taken it with him to Montreal that same day. The owner of the travel agency where Eric bought his ticket told the police there had been a last-minute change with Eric's travel arrangements. Something about a cancelled flight and switching him to a later flight with another airline. Instead of completing his business and taking a taxi straight to the airport as originally planned, it had been necessary for Eric to return to his apartment where Cecile Simon, an agency employee, was waiting to give him the new ticket.

Why Eric had then accompanied Cecile to the lot where she parked her car was unknown and likely to remain that way. The travel agency owner thought Cecile may have offered Eric a ride to the airport since she was on her way there to meet with one of the agency’s clients. The owner also told the police that Cecile had been having trouble starting her car. Maybe Eric had offered to see if there was something he could do, His flight had been delayed by several hours, so he would have had the time.

If Eric was aware of Cecile's car problems, Paula knew there was a good chance he’d have done exactly that. Eric liked helping people. He also loved messing around with cars.

The only thing the police or anyone else knew for certain was that Cecile's car had exploded the instant the key was turned in the ignition. Nothing was found to suggest Eric or Cecile were anything other ordinary law-abiding citizens, but in recent months there had been a rash of similar bombing incidents in the same area. That was why the police concluded the bomber made a mistake and attached the device to the wrong car.

After completing his own investigations, Luc had agreed with the police.

Paula had asked one of the police officers why they were so sure the bomber had made a mistake. He'd replied by saying white Renaults were as common as sparrows in Paris. At any given time there could have been several parked in that particular lot, so it would have been an easy enough mistake to make.

Paula finished the sandwich and pushed the plate aside. I still find it hard to believe the explosion left nothing at all for the experts to identify. I thought there should have been at least a few bits and pieces, she said, unwilling to go along with Luc's apparent determination to accept the official verdict without question and close his file. From what she'd been told, the force of the explosion and ensuing fire had reduced everything inside the car into miniscule and totally unidentifiable fragments.

Except for Cecile's purse which had been found some distance from the car. It had survived the explosion intact and for that Paula was very grateful. Especially as the police had been unable to find anyone who’d seen Eric and Cecile together that day. If Eric's airline ticket had not been in Cecile’s purse, it could have been months, if ever, before anyone realized what had happened to him.

Luc reached out and touched her hand. I understand how difficult it must be to lose your only brother in such a dreadful way. But thank God Cecile parked in that lot and not on the street. There was damage to the surrounding property and to a few of the other cars as well, but at least no one else was harmed.

If she'd parked on the street, the bomber wouldn't have made a mistake, and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Paula hesitated and rubbed her tired eyes. I have no choice but to accept Eric's death. What I cannot get past is everyone's insistence that there was absolutely no trace of the diary. Eric would have put it in his briefcase for safekeeping. Cecile's purse was blown out of the car by the explosion, so why not the briefcase as well? I don't care what you say, I'm certain the diary was stolen.

Luc sighed and shook his head. Stop it, Paula. You're clutching at straws. If someone stole the briefcase, they would have taken the purse as well. The police won't reopen the case without new evidence and to this point nothing has been found to suggest any new evidence exists. Eric, Cecile and the diary were the victims of an unfortunate accident. You must accept what’s happened and try to understand there’s nothing anyone can do to change it.

For several seconds Paula’s gaze remained firmly locked with Luc's, then she gave up and looked away. Luc's services had been recommended by the French police when they learned Eric had a priceless historical document in his possession at the time of his death. Luc specialized in the retrieval of stolen objets d'art and there was no doubt in Paula's mind but what he had worked very hard on her behalf. Probably harder than she had any right to expect. Luc was one of the nicest, most helpful people she'd ever met, but unless she could find a way to change his mind, she had a nasty feeling he was about say case closed and goodbye.

What about the postcards I gave you? Can't they be considered as new evidence?

Not unless they can be solidly connected to what happened to Eric and the diary.

Then that's what we have to do, Paula said, hoping she could convince Luc to continue with the case. Figure out the connection.

Luc tapped the pocket where he'd put the postcards. "I doubt there is one. They make no sense