Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

Jacques didn’t pull a weapon or make a sudden break for cover. He didn’t move at all. He stared into the rearview mirror for several breathless seconds before finally nodding to himself and turning around in his seat to face her. His happy grin was no longer in evidence; he looked worried.

“ Pardon, mademoiselle, but I must ask you a thing. Is mademoiselle in some kind of trouble?”

She regarded him evenly. “Trouble? What do you mean?”

“I mean there is a car, une Citroën gris, I see before we arrive at the musée this morning and again when I am waiting outside for you, coming through the street where I am standing more times than one. I do not think about it until I see for sure it follows us from the musée. It is a man in the Citroën, with the dark skin. Not black, but brun . Un Arabe, peut-être? I have, how you say, gived him the slap.”

“The slip,” she whispered. “You gave him the slip.”

“Yes, I gave him the slip, but I don’t know how long for I do this. I lose him back on the Quai de Tuileries, but he may search for us. For you, mademoiselle.” Now he softened his voice, and the expression on his weathered face was one of concern. “Is there people here in Paris who look for you? Is there the husband, or the man who is not your husband? It is not the business of Jacques, but perhaps I can be of service if I am told-”

Nora raised a hand to silence him. This was too much; she had to think. She had to absorb this new information and fit it into the scenario. A dark-skinned man was trailing her, and she thought of the man in the plane and the park yesterday. How on earth could he possibly-

She shut her eyes and took in a long, deep breath. Calm down, she commanded herself. First things first. It was nearly one o’clock, and she needed food. Her last full meal had been lunch at home two days ago, before the phone call. Oddly, this sudden infusion of fear caused her to realize just how hungry she was.

“Jacques, I must leave Paris now,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage, “and I don’t want anyone to know about it. Can you get me to the train to Besançon?”

He peered at her across the seat. “So, you are in the trouble…”

“Yes, I am, but I can’t discuss it now. I must go to the Franche-Comté. How do I do that?”

He thought a moment. “Tay-zhay-vay.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Tay-zhay-vay-this is the train that leaves from Gare de Lyon to Dijon and Besançon.”

“Oh.” She suppressed a smile. TGV, France’s supersonic train system. “Gare de Lyon is not far from here, south of Place de la Bastille, where we just were-is that right?”

“Yes, but no. You do not go in the tay-zhay-vay. I take you there.”

“What, drive me to the Jura mountains? I couldn’t ask you to do that. You must have other things to-”

“I take you there,” he repeated. “I have no other things. You have already paid for me for the whole of the day, and that is what you shall get. This is my final foot down!”

Despite her misgivings, Nora couldn’t help but smile at the man’s dedication to his job. And it would certainly make things easier for her. She nodded, accepting his offer, and decided to add a generous bonus for him when this day was over.

“Thank you, Jacques,” she said.

“ De rien, mademoiselle. It is, how you say, no bigness.”

Nora laughed. “No biggie .”

He nodded. “ Oui, no biggie. Now, mademoiselle, if people look for you, they will look in the trains and the avions, yes? You wish to disappear? Jacques will help you disappear. I take you to the village in the Jura where you wish to go. It is four hours with some minutes, five hours in the tops. No biggie! But they have seen this car, so this car is not good. We go otherwise. Come, it is time for the déjeuner .”

Yes, she thought, it is. She said no more, merely followed him meekly when he got out of the car and opened the door for her. He led her only a few yards, toward the end of the alley, and in through a small doorway. They were in a hot, aromatic restaurant kitchen where an older woman and a young man were busy preparing dishes. The woman smiled at them.

“Jacques!” she cried, delighted. She ran over from the stove to greet him. There followed a conversation in French, from which Nora gathered that Jacques and the woman, Felicia, were old friends; he ate there all the time with his wife, Marianne; he lived just down the street; he must attend to some business; and would Felicia serve his client, Mlle. Hugs, an excellent lunch while she waited for him? Mais oui! Jacques slipped back through the side door into the alley, and the woman named Felicia proudly led the rich American touriste out into the tiny dining room, which fronted on the street.

There were six tables here, with red checked cloths and plain wooden chairs, all but one of them taken. Felicia seated her at the empty table in back, next to the kitchen-and shielded from the front windows, Nora noted. Groups of happy working-class Parisians were making serious work of their meals, joking between tables and calling for bread and wine. Everyone seemed to know everyone, and they all smiled and nodded at Nora. She smiled back. There was no need for a menu; Felicia simply brought things to the table. Thick vegetable soup was followed by a chicken breast sautéed in lemon butter over wild rice, with a basket of fresh bread and a glass of white wine.

In that simple room, which definitely was not listed in Frommer’s, Nora enjoyed the finest meal she’d ever been served in Paris. In a city that boasted the best food in the world, it was quite a discovery. It was called Chez Felicia, naturellement, and the fact that the woman herself was serving the American lady in the corner clearly impressed the locals, who were attended by the young man. Nora inhaled everything placed before her, blissfully refusing to think about her predicament.

Felicia would not sit at the table, but she hovered, chatting as Nora ate, and Nora was able to practice her rusty French. Felicia was a widow of six months. She’d been the chef here since they’d opened the restaurant thirty-eight years ago, and her late husband had handled the dining room. Now her son, André, did the honors, and his wife-pregnant with Felicia’s third grandchild-helped out on weekends. Nora admired everything and complimented the food, the décor, and the handsome son, but she didn’t go so far as to claim to be a fellow widow. That she simply could not do; it would be an insult to this woman, whose bereavement was genuine.

Felicia and her late husband had known Jacques Lanier and his family for many years, and Jacques was one of her favorite people, even though she’d never been quite sure what he did for a living. Nora told her that Jacques was a chauffeur who’d met her at the train station this morning, which caused the other woman to raise her eyebrows and shake her head.

“Vraiment?” she said. “Il est un chauffeur aujourd’hui? Quel étrange…”

So, Nora thought, my gallant little driver is a jack-of-all-trades. A Jacques -of-all-trades, ha-ha. Her conversation with Felicia had put her mind even more at ease about him. He was Felicia’s friend and neighbor of long standing, and that was enough of a recommendation for Nora.

She was sipping excellent espresso and politely refusing a shimmering array of pastries when Jacques arrived from the kitchen. He’d changed his clothes; he was now in an old leather jacket, jeans, and work boots, and he was grinning once more.

“Come, mademoiselle, it is time for to go.”