"The Allies? But who warned them?" Houston's voice rose.

  "Yes," the old man said. "You understand."

  "Pierre?"

  "He snuck through German lines at night. He risked the Allied sentries. But he reached his goal. He told his story. Undetected he came back."

  Jan broke her silence. "Why?" The old man frowned. "If he collaborated with the Germans. Why?" Jan said. "It makes no sense for him to risk his life to help the Allies."

  "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" the old man asked Simone.

  She told him, and he nodded gravely. "Out. C'est illogique." Simone's translation filled the gap as if intruding from a parallel dimension. "But the lack of logic is apparent only. Not in fact or actual. Since we did not suspect him as a traitor to us, we interpreted the risk he took as bravery, as loyalty.

  Oh, he was celebrated. He was feted. He became our hero, and he had his pick of girls."

  The old man sipped his brandy, concentrating on a window, on the blackness of the night, as if the darkness were a screen upon which images now flickered.

  Houston heard an animal's sharp cry outside and suspected that a night bird was successful in its hunting. He felt cold abruptly, and a further sip of brandy did not warm him.

  "Oh, Pierre was clever," Monsard said. "He must have feared that we suspected him and were planning our revenge. Whatever, to protect himself, he had to make himself immune from accusation, had to demonstrate his loyalty beyond a doubt.

  Perhaps the Germans were not generous enough. Perhaps he thought the Allies would pay more. From greed, he sought a more rewarding master. But I don't believe the Allies paid him. The Americans respected altruistic motives. They maintained that Frenchmen should betray the Germans for the sake of liberation only. I imagine that Pierre was disappointed. But a part of me imagines something else." The old man's eyes appeared to darken, as if sickened and appalled.

  "An altogether different explanation. Evil. Disgusting. It has always puzzled me how he crept through the German lines so easily, and with the same apparent ease snuck back. Suppose the Germans paid him to take information to the Allies. In a second battle, fifty miles north of here, the Allies were defeated. The Americans were beaten because of information that the Germans had beforehand, information that was secret, that was crucial to the Allied tactics.

  You must know about the Underground. I was a member, as Pierre was. When the Allies won this hotel, when Americans made plans inside this room, the members of the Underground were called in to give help. It was important, we were told, for us to infiltrate the German lines and make assessments of their strength. We did so, our great moment, but our information was in error. When the Allies mustered their attack, they found that they had been expected. They faced reinforcements. I feel certain that Pierre was the informer. Either he switched sides again, or else he was a German agent all the time. To me, the blood of thousands stained the fields because of him. He was completely selfish, of no worth or consequence. He looked out only for himself."

  "I mean no disrespect," Pete said, "but where's your proof?"

  Simone translated.

  "Proof?" The old man's face contorted with disgust. "He disappeared the morning of the fight in which the Allies were defeated. He packed his belongings, and he vanished. There could be only one reason. Only something truly hideous would make him so afraid of our reprisals that he ran away."

  Chapter 9

  Pete glanced out toward the lobby as the elevator took them up. He felt so numb, so drained, that for a moment he imagined he was not ascending, but that the lobby floor was dropping away. Houston closed his eyes. Disoriented, he pressed hard against the elevator's wall. But then the second's vertigo was gone. The dizziness had passed, though he noticed with alarm that he was sweating.

  "Did you drink too much?" Jan asked. "You really killed that brandy."

  Houston mustered strength to blink. He saw a corridor appear. His stomach settled while the elevator smoothly stopped. He drew a breath and pushed off from the wall. "I need some sleep," he said. "I should have eaten more."

  He pulled the cage door open, heard the scrape of metal, paused, and glanced at her in pained confusion. "Well, we listened for two hours. He was totally convincing, don't you think? But if you asked me now, I'd say the only thing we know for sure is that his friend dropped out of sight one day. We don't know why he disappeared. Monsard is simply guessing."

  "No, we do know something else," Jan said. "Before he disappeared, St. Laurent went to the priest. He took confession."

  Houston's mind relaxed. Then weariness set in again. "If his confession and his disappearance are related, I don't see the link," he said. "We can't prove a connection."

  "But it's clear to me."

  "Because you're not a Catholic. Sure, to us as Protestant Americans, confession seems unusual. But not to Catholics here in France, and not in nineteen forty-four. These people ask the priest to hear confession all the time. In World War Two, with so much death around them, they'd have used confession twice as often." Houston realized that he still gripped the cage-door handle. He let go and stepped back so that Janice could walk out first.

  But she stayed in the elevator. "That's not what I mean," she said.

  He frowned at her. "What is it then?"

  "St. Laurent wasn't some altar boy. He liked the girls. He got himself and them in trouble. You remember, Monsard mentioned several scandals?" Houston nodded.

  "Do you think he would confess that kind of sin?" Jan asked.

  "If what he'd done was common knowledge, then he'd realize he couldn't hide it from the priest. It wouldn't hurt him to confess that he was lustful."

  "Right. The priest might give him hell. But what's the point of going to confession and not telling every sin, especially a sin the priest knew all about already. Would lust have shocked Father Devereaux?"

  "Hardly. Priests are specialists in human nature. They expect to hear the sin of lust."

  "All right then," Jan said, eyes severe. "Explain to me what so disgusted Father Devereaux that to this day he still remembers that confession and despises the young man who came to him for absolution."

  Houston felt as if the elevator were dropping. He had to reach the hallway.

  Janice followed, clutching at his arm. "And something else," she said. "The way Monsard describes him, I don't think Pierre was terribly religious to begin with. I'm just guessing, but I doubt he made a habit of confession. This time, though, he saw the priest, and he told everything."

  "But why?"

  "Because Pierre de St. Laurent was scared to death. He asked for absolution before something awful happened to him." In the silence of the corridor they stared at one another. "Father Deve-reaux's the only man who knows the secret,"

  Jan continued. "And for sure it isn't lust, and it's for damn sure he's not telling."

  Houston blinked at her. The sound of the elevator bell startled him. Someone down below them had pressed a button. But the elevator didn't move. Houston pulled the metal grill until the catch snapped into place. As cables creaked, a motor hummed and the cage descended.

  "We'll wake everybody up," he said. They walked along the hallway. Houston heard the elevator reach the lobby and the motor stop. He heard the grill as it was opened down there, its sound like that of a fingernail scraped along a blackboard. Then the motor started again.

  "This is foolish," Houston said. "Why should I be worried? That's just someone who was out late, coming back to get some sleep."

  "You're scaring me now," Jan said.

  As they reached their door, the elevator halted on their level. Houston fumbled in his pocket for the key. The elevator's door was yanked abruptly open. Houston stared along the hall. And almost laughed.

  The guest in black tie and dinner jacket, who had reeked of lilac talcum as he'd walked past Houston in the lobby, stumbled from the elevator, blearily looked down the hall toward Jan and Houston, lost his balance as he shut the grill, and staggered down the far end of the hallway.

  "So much for imagination." Houston laughed and kissed Jan.

  "Want to fool around?"

  He grinned and turned the key. They stepped inside their room. The place was dark except for the dim light from the hall that cast their silhouettes across the floor.

  "The thing is, I don't care what St. Laurent was up to. All I want to know is where "

  He flicked the lights, and in mid-sentence Houston halted.

  Chapter 10

  They stared toward the bed. A man lay propped against the pillows glaring at them.

  In his middle thirties, square-jawed, with a thin nose and short dark hair combed straight from right to left, the man looked sick, perhaps because his stubble made his face seem gray. His clothes were dark crew sweater, wool pants, crepe-soled shoes.

  Astonished, Houston felt a scalding panic. He received too many messages at once. Jan's sharp grip on his arm transmitted fright. Conflicting instincts prompted him to shout for help, to flee with Jan, to grab the phone, to storm in and confront this man. His will became a flywheel. Then the flywheel caught and jammed and froze, and he stood paralyzed.

  "Please shut the door," the man said in a deep, calm voice. The words were English, but the accent was distinctly foreign, though not French.

  Too many details. Houston was conscious that he hadn't moved, that he was gaping, that while blood roared in his head he wasn't breathing.

  "Please," the man repeated. "Shut the door."

  "No," Jan said.

  Adrenaline insisted. Forced to act but with no other clear directive, Houston shut the door before he understood what he was doing.

  "Pete!" Jan said and tried to grab the door.

  But Houston raised a hand to stop her. He glared toward the man. "All right, I closed it."

  From the bed, the man considered him, then breathed out slowly. "You'd better have a damn good reason," Houston said.

  "I'm calling the police," Jan said. She stalked across the room.

  "I wouldn't do that, Mrs. Houston."

  As she grabbed the phone, the man jumped off the bed. Jan's eyes enlarged with fear. She recoiled hard against the wall. The man pressed the cradle down and yanked the phone away from her.

  Pete lunged. "God damn it, get your hands away from her! I'll ram that fucking phone "

  The man swung toward him, the phone raised as a bludgeon. Houston stared in horror at the coldest, most unfeeling eyes he'd ever seen. He stopped abruptly.

  Frantically he stumbled back.

  "Don't make this complicated," the man said.

  "Tell me what the hell you want."

  The man set down the phone. "I should have thought it was obvious. The same as you. Pierre de St. Laurent."

  The name was like a coin that rattled in an empty metal cup, or like a diamond's screeching over glass. Instantly it shut all other thoughts from Houston's mind.

  "You know we're looking for him?"

  "Everybody does," the man replied.

  "But how . . . ?"

  "The clerk whose records you went through. His life is dull. He sharpens it with gossip. Two Americans inconvenienced him. The name Pierre de St. Laurent means nothing to him. But the older folks remember. After thirty-seven years, the sudden mention of the name is news. It's not surprising that I know about your search."

  "That doesn't give you any right to "

  "Mrs. Houston, you look uncomfortable. Please sit down, why don't you? While we chat." The man had earlier used "folks." Now "chat" confirmed it, Houston thought. The idiom was less American than British.

  Houston glanced toward Jan, whose eyes were more wary than frightened now. She kept her distance as she circled toward a chair. For one tense instant, she appeared about to yank open the door. But then she sat.

  "Are you some kind of cop?" Pete said. "A "

  " person with some interest in this matter. Nothing more. Don't make this more mysterious than necessary. I too have been looking for him."

  "Why?"

  "I can't tell you. It's delicate. A private motive."

  "You won't tell us? But you're asking us for help?"

  The man began to laugh, but without mirth or relaxation. The sound was like a consumptive's cough.

  "You don't understand. No, it is I who offer you help. You have reached a blank wall in your search. But I can help you past it."

  "How and why?"

  The man squinted. "Why? Because my efforts aren't successful. It's possible that with your fresh view you may notice a detail I've missed. And how? With this address. The city known as Ron-cevaux. Rue Gabriel. One hundred and thirteen."

  "He lives there?"

  "No more questions. You have all you need to know."

  "And if I find him?"

  "You tell me."

  "But how will I find you?"

  "You don't. I'll come to you."

  The man moved smoothly toward the door.

  "Remember. Roncevaux. Rue Gabriel. One hundred and thirteen." He gripped the doorknob. "Mr. Houston. Mrs. Houston."

  Nodding, he slipped out.

  The door clicked shut. Pete glanced at Jan. Exploding into motion, he ran toward the door. He yanked it open.

  The hall was empty. in "Pete, let's stop this."

  "What?"

  "I'm scared."

  Houston, concentrating on the curve he was approaching, couldn't take the time to look at her. The Citroen took the curve smartly, then sped down a straightaway. He had his window low. He smelled the cool, fresh morning dampness. As he glanced away from fields and fences, Houston saw that Jan was ashen. "I'm scared too," he said. "That doesn't mean I'll back away."

  "You're being stubborn."

  "You're damn right I am. What's more, I'm angry. I woke up yesterday expecting I'd see my father's grave. But everywhere I went I got the runaround. I heard all kinds of reasons why I couldn't find that grave. At the cemetery, Andrews as much as said I was crazy. I met a priest who wouldn't talk to me. A clerk whose records don't go farther back than nineteen fifty-one. Mon-sard who spins fantastic stories about nineteen forty-four. And then that creep who takes a catnap on our bed and thinks he's the midnight messenger."

  "I still say we should go to the police." "Think about it. We went over this last night. The cops might never find that guy. Suppose they did. The most they could charge him with is trespass. There's no sign he broke in. We checked our stuff, and nothing's missing. So the cops would want to know what he was doing there. They'd want to know what we discussed with him. Imagine their reaction if we told the truth. A disappearing grave. A villager who vanished back in nineteen forty-four. They'd treat me like the superintendent did. They'd think I'm crazy." "I'd feel safer if we spoke to them."

  "Who says we're in danger? No one's threatened us. Besides, we'd have to stay in town while they investigated. But ten days from now, we fly back home. I'd like to get this fool thing settled and enjoy what's left of our vacation." "No, there's more than that."

  The Citroen droned smoothly down the two-lane road. The sun was wanner, higher.

  Houston glanced at fields on either side and saw farmers at their work. He shrugged. "What makes you think there's more?"

  "You just admitted you're scared."

  "Because of something nagging in my head. A thought that isn't clear yet. If Pierre de St. Laurent was even half as selfish as Monsard believes, you tell me why he took the time to write a letter to my mother, why he promised to maintain my father's grave. And then abruptly disappeared. I'm sure the answer to that question's simple. But I won't sleep easy till I hear it. And I'm terrified that there won't be a simple answer, even any answer."

  "All right, promise me."

  He studied her.

  "I won't complain," she said. "I'll shut my mouth and go along with you on this. In Roncevaux, I'll wait while you go off and ask your questions. But if you can't find anything, you have to promise that you'll stop this, that you'll whisk me off "

  " to passionate, exciting places." Houston laughed. "That's what I'm doing. Hey, I'm taking you on an adventure."

  "You're a con man." Janice laughed.

  Then suddenly, in sick, hot, squirming fear, he heard her scream. His foot kicked spastically on the accelerator. The Citroen surged forward with a rush that pressed him back against the seat. His startled hands torqued the steering wheel. The car swerved sharply right, then left, before he had control.

  He stared at Jan as quickly as he could. Her eyes were panicked, huge and black and bottomless. Her face was twisted, stark and white. Her scream became a hopeless moan.