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44 Gaultier

He had no regret or remorse for taking the geniza. Anatoliy Zub and Peter Collinson had been so very distracted with the police knocking on the door of the suite to even notice. He'd simply rolled the items, metal bins stacked and stored on a luggage trolley, onto a service elevator and out to Carson Wells waiting in a white van. Wells had even been good enough to drop Gaultier at the Memphis Airport, where he'd caught a plane to Atlanta and then on to Paris. He had to sit in economy class but the thought of all the money he'd made on the American expedition had lulled him to sleep. The only thing that he hadn't expected, never even contemplated, was that Zub and Peter Collinson would get away, too. Ostensibly on Zub's private aircraft, flying back to wherever fit Zub's fancy.

To those in the know, those in the arms trade, Collinson was quite dead. Zub had supposedly bragged at a trade show in Frankfurt that Collinson had been dropped in the Atlantic, halfway across the pond. Gaultier had offered the geniza to Monsieur Wolfe through his emissary, Carson Wells. (Wolfe was already brokering a new deal with the Israeli national library.) And if the millions Peter had counted on to buy his own life from Zub came to Gaultier instead, well, such is life. What do such things matter to a dead man?

Many weeks later in early spring Tippi joined him in Paris. They were walking together now along the Seine at sunset and in the shadow of the Musée D'Orsay. Tippi had adopted a look of fuzzy sweaters with scarves, dark jeans with knee-high leather boots. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun with very red lips as was the fashion with Parisian women.

"Do you have any remorse?" she had asked. It had been the first time she'd brought up Peter since arriving in Paris.

"Why would I?" he said. "I tried to save his life many times. Turnabout is more than fair."

"He was a bastard."

"Very much so."

"I wonder what he did with my mother."

"It is best not to think on such things, my dear," he said. "Let's find a quiet café and have dinner. Have you been to the Lipp? I like good and hardy Alsace food. Despite all the old women and their pampered dogs."

"I have other plans," Tippi said. "But thank you."

Gaultier shrugged. Tippi had made it quite clear that she never wanted to be anyone's mistress and certainly not his second or third, but she would work for him in some capacity. What she called a Girl Friday. She was very intelligent and spoke passable French. Even if she said no to him now, he hoped that one day she would say yes. Since his return Valerie had become such a bore. Telling him that she'd grown to hate the smell of cigars and that she had already taken another lover. A Corsican named Philippe.

As they crossed the Pont Neuf, Tippi allowed Gaultier to hook his arm in hers. An older man and a much younger woman not exactly scandalous in Paris. The evening had taken on that lovely glow, a quality of light that he only knew in his wonderful city. Tippi saying no to dinner but yes to one drink at Le Fumoir.

He stopped for a moment to allow Tippi to admire Notre Dame at its golden hour. A pleasure boat passed under the bridge, the music from a band echoing beneath their feet.

"Just one drink."

"Of course," Gaultier said.

She sat outside with him on the large, comfortable chairs of the café. She smoked a few skinny cigarettes while he enjoyed a Liga Privada with his cognac. Tomorrow he would be back in Sète with his wife and his children. Apparently, his son had grown obstinate in his absence and their aging mansion needed a new roof. His wife was sometimes more demanding and forceful than Zub.

"Pick you up at eight?" Tippi asked.

He nodded.

"Gare de Lyon?"

He nodded again.

"Oh," she said. "I bought a present for your wife today. I will give it to you in the morning."

"Was it expensive?"

"Extremely."

They didn't speak for a while, Gaultier burning the cigar down to a nub. He stood up and kissed her on both cheeks, telling her that he'd see her in the morning. Being in such close proximity to a wonderful young woman had put him in a melancholy mood. He walked the streets alone, stopping off at two more cafés before finding himself crossing the Champs- Elysées and over to Le Balzac. A line had formed outside on the brick streets. A fitting turnout for a retrospective of Melville.

He bought a ticket to Le Samoura? and sat in the rear of the theater, sleeping on and off, once spotting a man who looked so very familiar in the other row. With the dull head of tobacco and cognac, he believed for a moment it was Peter Collinson. The man back from the dead and swimming across half the ocean to get his money. Such paranoia and stupidity.

Gaultier knew he'd had too much to drink and needed to get back to his flat and pack. Morning would come very early. He excused himself and walked over past several people before pushing the cinema doors wide out to the street.

The air had grown cooler that evening, as he slid into his suit jacket in the glow of Le Balzac's marquee. He lit a fresh cigar and walked along the narrow one-way street back up to the Avenue Friedland, where he'd kept the same flat for twenty years.

As he was about to cross the street, he spotted Tippi standing by the entrance to the apartments. She held up something in her hand and Gaultier immediately knew he'd left his father's lighter at Le Fumoir. He nodded and smiled, walking quickly across the road to join her. But instead of handing him the lighter, she pressed tight against him and gave him a most wonderful kiss.

"Why?" he said.

"The boy I met bored me," she said. "I heard you know things."

Gaultier held up both of his hands. "Me?"

"This double snake thing?" she said. "My mother said Collinson learned it all from your mistress."

"It is a dragon," he said. "A double-crested dragon."

Tippi kissed him again and soon they were up in his flat, Gaultier's oft-neglected bird, LouLou (his housekeeper was paid well for its care), squawking with welcome. Clothes were shed and bodies intertwined. There was much gasping and some screaming, Gaultier very proud of himself after they finished. The dragon not so much a trick as a wondrous performance of stamina and strength.

He offered Tippi a cigarette. But instead, she took the silk sheet around her (so very modest) and went into the bathroom. Gaultier opened a window and lit up the rest of the cigar, happy but still very melancholy about returning home, the admonishment of his wife so loud in his ears.

He was already thinking of tomorrow when he barely heard the tight little click in the other room. LouLou began squawking. He reached for the gun on his nightstand only to recall he'd left it in his travel bag in the bath. Tippi was running the water in the bathroom now. He stood up, completely naked, streetlights cutting through the shadows, as Peter Collinson entered with a gun.

Peter didn't say a word. He looked at Gaultier, so naked and vulnerable, while he moved like the sweeping hand of the clock with his back to the bathroom door. The water had stopped and all was quiet. Gaultier could hear his own breathing, thinking to himself. Well, this is how it happens. But if so, are you not very happy?

Collinson told him to turn around, get on his knees, and face the window. Gaultier had few options and did as he was told. Collinson was dressed in black pants and a black sweater, looking very much like the killer he was rumored to be.

"You talked your way out from Zub?"

"Zub is dead," Collinson said.

Gaultier nodded. Collinson told him again to turn around. He'd want the spray of blood away from him and onto the bed, nice, compact and professional.

"May I ask your true name?"

Collinson knocked him hard across his temple and Gaultier stumbled, finally getting down onto his knees and seeing the smoke rising from the ashtray and the lights across the street. The sounds of zooming traffic and an ambulance from far off. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Was it too late for prayer? He was trying to remember the last prayer he had made when he heard the gunshot and a heavy thud behind him.

He turned, his head bleeding over his one eye and down his cheek and saw the blurry vision of Tippi, still clutching the silk sheet around her, holding the pistol he'd packed with his shaving kit in her right hand.

There were no words.

Gaultier shook his head as she walked closer to him and handed him back the warm gun. She wrapped her arms around him and took in a deep breath before standing back as if suddenly wondering if Collinson was truly dead.

He watched her staring at the man's body. And then she turned her wonderful face to him. The bright eyes and perfect profile of a star of classic cinema. He nodded. "Yes, my dear," he said. "It is over."

Tippi took in a deep breath. "Easy Come," she said. "Easy Go."

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