He didn’t think that at all funny and crossed back into the house, where he could eat in his cool and shaded kitchen, washing everything down with his daily demi-bouteille of uncomplicated wine.
I decided it would be a waste of time to see Lupa before I’d been to St. Etienne, and so I found myself for the second time that day with some spare time on my hands. I walked slowly up the stairs to my room and reached into the false bottom of my lower left-hand drawer, taking out my pistol.
It was an older but nevertheless effective weapon, excellent for close quarters and concealment. I don’t know why I’d stopped wearing it when I’d returned home this last time. That had been foolish. It was a derringer, its tiny butt overlaid with carved ivory. For all its beauty, it was a terribly powerful weapon—the same gun, though of course an earlier model, had been used to assassinate the American President Lincoln. I carried it in a special holster that I wore under my shirt. Up in my room, I began to clean and oil its few moving parts, so that by the time I left the house, I felt finally prepared for the work I might have to do.
It was still early for our rendezvous—I was meeting my friends at the town fountain at one thirty—so I stopped by Tania’s house to see if she’d come back yet. I found her inside, fuming. Sitting down next to her, I kissed her on the cheek.
“Is something wrong?”
“That man is such a . . .” She was so angry her voice was shaking. “And I thought you were to be in St. Etienne.”
I explained the delay, though her eyes still flashed in anger. “It’s not really you—it’s him. He’s so infuriating, I . . .”
“Now, now,” I continued, “Henri’s under a lot of pressure, and . . .”
“Not Henri. That other man, the one you asked to join us the other night. Lupa!” She stood up and stalked around the room.
“What’s he done?”
She stopped and glared across at me. Then suddenly her face softened, and she walked back and kissed me.
“I’m sorry. I’m just very upset. Let’s go outside and talk, shall we?”
So we walked out to where she’d eaten earlier that morning. She asked Danielle to bring us some tea, then sat down.
“Now,” I said, “what’s wrong? What’s Lupa done?”
“He’s done nothing. He’s just so arrogant! He omits doing things, and so superciliously . . . well, no. I’m being hysterical.” She leaned forward and clasped her hands together on the table.
“We were coming back, and as you know, Madame Pulis was very upset by the whole thing, and I was thinking of the callousness of our fellow townspeople. We happened to pass La Couronne on our way, and we saw your Monsieur Lupa sitting under the awning, reading a newspaper and drinking beer. I wanted to scold him—all right, I know I’m too much a mother sometimes—but I did want to. I asked Henri to stop.
