Free A Man in Uniform by Kate Taylor Page A

now discussing with Dubon exactly how the pari-mutuel system worked, having dismissed with some amusement his initial patronizing attempts to explain it.
    “I don’t believe you actually know. You said you never go to the races. Think about it—if everybody bet one hundred francs, and say ten thousand people are betting on the tote today …”
    “So, the payout would be a million francs … What would you do with a million francs?”
    “But, Maître, I wouldn’t win a million francs,” she pointed out, looking up at him. “Divide a million by the number of people who have correctly picked the winner.”
    “Of course. I wasn’t thinking.”
    “So, say, fifty or even one hundred picked the winner, I would win ten thousand or twenty thousand francs.”
    She was quick with numbers, he noted, very quick.
    “And how would you spend it?”
    “Why, Maître, I would pay your bill!” she announced gleefully.
    He smiled back but groaned inwardly. If the bill was on her mind, she definitely couldn’t afford Déon. He had still vaguely been thinking of simply sending her upstairs, but he realized now he needed to find her someone young, eager, and cheap. He would start asking colleagues for names tomorrow.
    She had laughed when he had, on the spur of the moment, suggested she accompany him to the races that afternoon.
    “I am hardly dressed for it,” she had said, indicating her mourning clothes.
    “No, but I don’t suppose it matters. It’s a weekday: the diehards won’t care what you are wearing.”
    “The diehards and the aristocrats …”
    “Maybe. We can lunch there,” he added expansively, supposing to himself that if she accepted he would send a note to Geneviève to tellher he was unexpectedly delayed at the office and would not be home at noon.
    The truth is he hadn’t known what else to suggest to the widow. She had come to see him that Thursday morning. Lebrun had been out filing documents at the Hôtel de Ville, and finding no one about, she had popped her head through his office door, calling out, “Anyone home?” He had received her gladly, but he had little to show her. The mysterious journalist, Azimut Martin, had yet to reply to Dubon’s message, and his only plan was to go out to Longchamp that afternoon to meet his friend Morel and the military correspondent from his paper, a man by the name of Fournier. He had exaggerated Fournier’s importance to the widow, to make the trip to the racecourse seem like some kind of action, but he had found a few of the journalist’s articles in her clipping file and the man was clearly only parroting what little information the military had released officially. If Dubon wanted to find someone with an insider’s view of the case so he could steer the widow toward the right lawyer, he doubted Fournier was the man.
    “We will see what this journalist can tell us,” he said to her brightly. “You can bat your eyelids at him. Men are susceptible to that.”
    She smiled, but straightened herself and smoothed her black dress with one hand. “Really, Maître, I hope that’s not what you think I am doing here.”
    “No, of course not. My apologies, Madame. That was a thoughtless remark.”
    “All right, I’ll come,” she said, cutting short his apology. She seemed eager enough to accept the pretense she might be of some use.
    “Tell me, Madame, what is Dreyfus like? What kind of man is he?” asked Dubon, as they settled together in the back of the carriage.
    She looked down at her skirt as though she might find an answer in its folds.
    “Noble and brave, Maître,” she began.
    He waited, hoping for something more revealing.
    “A meticulous officer, very hardworking, and, most of all, loyal. He is always loyal.”
    “Meticulous, you say?” It was the only adjective that gave any hint of personality.
    “Oh yes. He is scrupulous about his financial affairs and a perfectionist on the job. And very generous, to his family, to his friends. Very