They got out of the Peugeot and went up the steps to the main entrance. As they stood examining the name cards, each beside its bell push, the door opened and a stout, middle-aged woman in raincoat and headscarf, a basket over one arm, emerged.
She paused. “Can I help, gentlemen?”
“We are seeking Monsieur Rocard,” Dillon told her.
“But he is not here. He went to Morlaix for a few days. He’s due back tomorrow.” She went down the steps, put up her umbrella, and turned. “He did say he might be back this afternoon late, but he wasn’t sure.”
“Did he leave an address? We have legal business with him.”
“No, I believe he was staying with one of his boyfriends.” She smiled. “He has many, monsieur.”
She walked away, and Dillon grinned. “Let’s take a look.” He pressed a button at random, and when a woman’s voice answered said, “It’s me, cherie,” in French.
The buzzer sounded. The door opened at a push, and they were in.
They found Rocard’s apartment on the third floor. The corridor was deserted and Dillon took out his wallet, produced a picklock, and went to work.
“A long time since I had to use one of those,” Blake said.
“You never lose the knack,” Dillon said. “I’ve always felt it would be useful if I ever have to take to crime.”
The lock yielded, he eased the door open and went in, Blake following.
It was a pleasant, old-fashioned apartment, with lots of antiques and Empire-style gold-painted furniture. The rugs were all collector’s items, there was what looked like a genuine Degas on one wall, a Matisse on the other. There were two bedrooms, an ornate marble bathroom, and a study.
Dillon pressed the recall button on the answering machine. The voice said: “Michael Rocard here. I’ve gone to Morlaix.”
“Go through his messages,” Blake said.
Dillon pressed the button and the messages, all in French, came through and then Judas cut in.
“Hebrew,” Dillon said. “We’ve just won the jackpot. I’ll play it again.” He listened intently, then nodded. “Berger’s been killed in an accident in London. Contact me as soon as you can.”
“Judas?” Blake said.
“Or I’m a monkey’s uncle.” Dillon looked around the study. “Not worth turning the place upside down. He wouldn’t leave incriminating evidence around, a smart man like that.”
Blake picked up a photo in a silver frame from the desk. It was very old-fashioned and in black and white. The woman was in a chiffon dress, the man in dark suit and stiff collar. There was a boy of perhaps ten or twelve, a girl of five or six. It was strange, remote, something from another age.
“Family group?” Blake said.
“He’s probably the kid in the short pants,” Dillon told him.
Blake replaced the photo carefully. “Now what?”
“Better leave quietly. We can try again in case he does come back late afternoon. Otherwise we’ll just have to fill in the time.” He smiled. “In Paris, that usually means having a really great lunch.”
They left the apartment, paused while Dillon relocked the door, then went downstairs. Outside it was still raining and they paused, looking across at the Bois de Boulogne.
“A good address,” Dillon commented.
“For a successful man,” Blake nodded.
“The man who had everything and in the end found he had nothing.”
“Until Judas came along?”
“Something like that.”
“So what do we do now?”
Dillon smiled. “We’ll go and see if my barge is still in one piece.”
It was moored in a small basin on the Quai St Bernard. There were pleasure boats tied up to the stone wall, motor cruisers with canvas awnings up against the rain and mist drifting across the Seine. Notre Dame was not too far away. There were a number of flower pots on the stern deck with no flowers in them. Dillon lifted one and found a key.
“How long since you were here last?” Blake asked.
“A year or eighteen months, something like that.” Dillon went down the small companionway and unlocked the door.
He stood just inside. “Jesus, smell the damp. It could do with a good airing.”
It wasn’t what Blake had expected, a stateroom lined with mahogany, comfortable sofas, a television, and a desk. There was another cabin with a divan bed and a shower room and a kitchen galley.