“I hope you’re right. Because if he is only here to blow the factory, then when the job is done, he’ll disappear. Whereas if he is here for a dual purpose, one job may give us the clue to the other.”
“You think he’s the man who killed Routier?” asked Watkins.
“Do you think he isn’t?”
“Then he must have been . . .”
“Precisely,” Lupa said, “he must have been among our gathering last night.”
I started to object. After all, everyone who had been there was a friend. But even as I began my defense, I realized that there was no other conclusion.
“That’s good,” Watkins said. “It narrows the field considerably.”
“Yes,” Lupa agreed. “Yes, it does.”
He got up and beckoned me to follow him. He paused at the screen to the back door. “Joseph, you’ll have to go to St. Etienne.”
Anna turned around to wave good-bye, and we proceeded back through the cellar, which was now brightly lit and stunning in color as well as fragrance. Another walk through the tunnel, and we reappeared in Lupa’s rooms.
I sat across from him. The weight of my friend’s death had begun to settle on me again. I must have looked tired.
“What are your ideas?” Lupa had gone to an oversize, overstuffed chair. “I’d like a beer,” he said, but he didn’t get up.
“I’d like some sleep,” I said. We spoke in English.
“I’d say you need it. But first, what do you think of St. Etienne and our list of suspects?”
“That’s been bothering me,” I said. “I mean the fact that it looks like the man we’re after is a friend of mine. Going on that assumption, everyone has a plausible opportunity, but . . .” I stopped.
He grunted. “It begins to look that way.”
“More than you know,” I said.
I got up, walked out to the kitchen and up the stairs, ordered two beers at the bar, and returned. He nodded graciously when I handed him a bottle, and took a long drink.
“I detest drinking beer from a bottle, but what can one do?” He drank again. “More than I know?”
“List our suspects,” I said. “Paul Anser lives in St. Etienne. Georges Lavoie delivers there, as does Henri Pulis—I would assume even to the arsenal itself. Georges with his first-aid supplies and Henri, of course, with his food. It’s one of those newfangled buildings where the workers have their own cafeteria and medical facility. I’ve heard Tania talk about it.”
“Tania?”
“That’s the worst part.”
He finished his beer and waited.
“One of Tania’s oldest acquaintances, through her husband, who was a French officer . . . Anyway, one of their friends was Maurice Ponty, who happens to be the director of the St. Etienne arms factory. She still sees him about once a month.”
