Free The Remaining Voice by Angela Elliott Page B

America? Hood? I can try and find him if you would like, but he is probably dead.”
    “Maybe. Married? Wow.” I stared at the notes Laurent had made, thinking of the photograph I had found on Berthe’s nightstand, and the other photographs in, what I had decided to call, the music room. I wondered if any of them were of her husband, the Prince, or this man Truffaut – the ‘hood’. I rested my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes.
    “You are tired, I can see that,” said Laurent. “May I contact you in the morning?”
    I opened my eyes and stared directly at him. “You seem to do exactly what you want to do. You have not asked before if you may keep me company. Why start now?”
    “Uhuh. You think I do not care? You think I play with you? Perhaps because you are rich now?” He frowned. “I do not need your money. I like your company. You are… what shall I say? Bright and alive… and I find myself wanting to spend all my time with you and none of it in that office of mine. Is that so wrong?”
    I was embarrassed and did not know what to say.
    “Monsieur… Laurent… I too… I enjoy your company a great deal. I’m just not used to a man paying me such attention. I’m still a married woman, after all.”
    Laurent interjected: “I thought you were getting a divorce.”
    “Yes, but you know how difficult and expensive that is in the States?”
    “Not so difficult when you have a lawyer on your side.” He smiled and I sensed a rekindling of his charm. It was difficult to remain mad at him for long.
    “Okay,” I said. “This is what my plan is. I have been to see an old family friend here in Paris and he has agreed to look over the photographs I took this afternoon…”
    “Oh, you took photographs?”
    “Yes. It was necessary… easier. Anyway, he is going tell me if there is anything of value. I can pick the photographs up tomorrow morning.”
    “Who is this ‘family friend’?”
    For a moment I thought Laurent jealous, but it was rather that he was used to asking questions of this nature.
    “Someone my father knew. Jacques Le Brun? You know him?”
    “Non.”
    “Well, he’s an antiques dealer, or perhaps it would be better to call him a collector. I have absolute trust in him.”
    “So… that is good, but you cannot have finished already. It is too big a task. N’est pas?”
    “That’s true. I haven’t, not yet, but…”
    “But you are fearful.”
    I bit my lip. I did not want to admit to being scared, yet at times, during the last two days fear had washed over me so that I felt sick to my stomach.
    “Would you like me to come with you tomorrow?” Laurent asked.
    I would like that very much, but I did not know how to say it without sounding over eager.
    Laurent pushed his chair back, ready to dismiss himself.
    “If not,” he said. “I will find out some more about our man Truffaut. I can meet you at the apartment at lunchtime, if you like.” He had sensed my caution. I was grateful for his sensitivity.
    “That would be a good idea,” I said.
    “Very well. A demain.”

Chapter 9
    I wish I could say I slept well that night, but I did not. After Laurent left me I ate in a small café close to the hotel and returned early to my room. I took some painkillers for a headache that had been threatening most of the day, and when I lay down the room started to spin and I felt sick. I thought I may have eaten something that had disagreed with me, and I got up and walked the room back and forth, back and forth, nursing both my head and my belly. By one o’clock I was anxious and dizzy with fatigue. My head had stopped aching, and my stomach had settled, but I had been left with the sensation that I was out-of-sync with time, and could not lay down again for fear that something terrible might happen.
    I opened the window for some fresh air and the cold night blasted in. I pulled my dressing gown tighter and peered out of the window at the street below. A taxi drew up and