Margaret Browning strolled along the Rue des Écoles, enjoying a holiday in Paris which her husband Phillip had been promising her for the past two years. Usually Dr. Phillip Browning’s academic commitments as ranking professor of literature at King’s College London in Westminster took precedence in their lives, leaving little time for holiday. However, a hastily convened conference in Paris on a newly discovered written work by nineteenth century French author Guy de Maupassant, and his wife’s persistence had finally won out. Today Phillip was somewhere inside the Institut de France, giddy over the possibility that a de Maupassant story had gone undetected for over one hundred thirty years and reeling with the opportunity to be one of the first to study it. Such a once in a lifetime happenstance overwhelmed and absorbed the professor completely, dimming the rest of the world and leaving his wife Margaret free to shop on her own. The day before, a small antique shop had drawn her interest, but a scheduled dinner with her husband’s colleagues had delayed her chance to explore it until now. As she neared the shop, she phoned Phillip, catching him waiting for the museum preservation room to finish preparing the next batch of documents he was to study.

“Margaret, I trust you have found something to entertain you,” said Phillip. He well knew how excited his wife was to be in Paris.

She was about to launch into an animated rundown of the places she had visited, when she spotted his wry humor. Without missing a beat, she said, “Why, yes, Phillip, although I may have to hire an extra cab to carry all the expensive antiques I have purchased.”

Phillip smiled. He and Margaret knew each other too well. “Where are you now?” he asked.

“I’ve just arrived at that shop you pulled me away from yesterday. They will surely have some bargains
…
o
h dear.” The shop had all the curtains drawn together and the sign on the door read FERM
É
. Margaret looked at her watch, hoping it might be a short dinner break. Then she cupped her hands and peeked in through a gap in the window curtain. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said.

“What is it, Margaret?” asked her husband, hearing the alarm in her voice.

Margaret never heard him. Her phone had already dropped to the sidewalk. Inside the shop, she saw a man strapped to a wooden chair. Two men held him roughly by the shoulders. Another man with a horrific tattoo on his neck stood in front of the victim, alternately firing questions at him in French and pistol whipping his face.

Margaret could do nothing but stare like a passerby at an accident, frozen by the sheer brutality of the scene. Her husband continued to call her name from the phone lying at her feet, but it was a faraway dream.

Finally the man with the tattoo forced the barrel of his gun into the other man’s mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brains on the men holding him.

The loud blast snapped Margaret from her trance. She backed up into the street. A small blue car screeched its tires, barely avoiding her, and the driver laid heavily on the horn. Margaret turned toward the car and watched the driver’s mouth move angrily as he passed by. Then Margaret remembered what she had just witnessed and she looked back to the shop, hoping that no one inside had noticed her.

An arm yanked aside the window curtain and she was face to face with the tattooed man. The evil in his gaze cut her to the bone. As adrenalin took over, Margaret turned and ran headlong across the busy boulevard, careening off the hoods of several cars before reaching the other side. She looked back and saw two men dart out of the shop across the way, guns drawn. She knew they were coming for her. With nowhere to run, she stood helplessly, resigned to a certain death.

Suddenly a blue and white police van she had not noticed swerved over to the curb in front of her and stopped. The side door opened.

“
Montez! Montez!
” said the officer in the van.

Needing no translation, she darted inside. The door slammed shut and the van sped away into the flow of traffic.

“Thank you so much,” said Margaret, to the two uniformed police officers who were in the back of the van with her. “You saved my life. Those men
…
” Her voice trailed off.

“You are safe now. What did you see?”

“I don’t know. A man with a tattoo.”

“Could you recognize him?”

“I will never forget his face. He shot a man. He killed him.”

The policemen spoke to each other rapidly in French.

There was an explosively loud crunch, and Margaret was thrown violently into the wall of the van. The van rocked and spun around, skidding to a stop. Woozy from a bump on the head, Margaret slumped to the floor. She tasted blood. One of the policemen was lying next to her, his head twisted at an odd angle. She heard shouting from the front, then gunshots. The other policeman opened the side door and stepped out, disappearing to the rear. More gunshots, then nothing.

A long ten seconds later, a man in a black ski mask appeared in the side door opening and climbed into the van. When he reached down toward her, Margaret passed out.

Chapter One: The Panicked Professor

Sitting at his desk, the police inspector gazed wistfully at a picture of a woman holding a small boy in her arms. It was a picture from a happier time. His son was now twelve, and he had not seen him for six months. Not since his wife had gone to “visit” her family in Alsace Lorraine and taken Lucien with her. The note she left had seemed innocent enough at the time, but had turned out to be a prelude to a full divorce. Personnel cutbacks in the police force had made his case load so heavy he barely had time to call, much less attempt any sort of reconciliation. Of course, that was the problem, according to his wife Claudia. He saw it another way. Her late evenings spent with a certain young assistant curator at the Louvre were not about art appreciation. Did she not think he had earned his inspector’s badge?

As he stared at the picture, he wondered how much taller Lucien had gotten since he had last seen him. Now that his case load had lightened, he would have to take a few days off to go see his son.

The inspector’s assistant rang the intercom, breaking his reverie.

“Yes, Claude?”

“There is a professor on the phone—he says something has happened to his wife.”

“What has happened?”

“He doesn’t know. But he is quite panicked. He’s here from London over at the Institut de France where he is studying something—an old book.”

The inspector knew that the professor’s wife had probably gotten lost in the city. Foreigners always had difficulty with the Parisian streets. Most likely her phone had gone dead. Simple. However, he also knew that a British citizen could create a lot of trouble for him if the misunderstanding wasn’t handled quickly. The French and the British were never more than one or two incidents from a full blown diplomatic war. He didn’t need such trouble, especially now. “All right, Claude. I will see to it. Where is the professor?”

“He’s in the security offices of the institute. They are having difficulty calming him down. He’s still on hold.”

“Put him through.” The inspector sighed. Perhaps his wife was right about his being too absorbed in his job. But, all that was going to change. He had a plan. He would show her.

“Hello, hello?” said a distressed voice.

“Professor Browning? This is Inspector Gilliard of the Paris police.”

“Inspector, you must help me. My wife. She has gone missing.”

“When did you last see her?”

“This morning.”

“Paris is a big city. It has been less than a day, perhaps
—
”

“She is not just lost. Something awful has happened.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

“Of course. Do you take me for an idiot?”

The inspector refrained from any comment. “I ask only whether you have tried every means to reach her.”

“Yes, I am sorry. I am terrifically fearful that something has happened to Margaret. She was on the phone. Then suddenly she was gone.”

“Perhaps her phone went dead.”

“You are missing the point. Something happened while she was on the Rue des Écoles. I could hear it in her voice.”

“What is that?”

“Fear.”

The inspector sat up in his chair, immediately interested. There had been several calls about gunshots on Rue des Écoles. He had two officers checking it out, but had not gotten a report yet. “Where did you say?”

“The
Rue des Écoles. Margaret was at an antique shop
—
gold antiques
—
Les Antiquités D’or. I think it was near
the College of France.”

“Just a minute,
s’il vous plaît
,”
said Gilliard, switching to the assistant. “Claude, where was the report of gunshots?”

“Rue des
Écoles,
near Rue de Beauvais.”

“Close enough. Have we gotten an update?”

“Nothing yet from the detail you sent to check it out.”

“Send them to Les Antiquités D’or.”

The inspector switched back to the professor. “
Excusez-moi
. You say she was near the antique shop on Rue des
Écoles
?”

“She was right there at the shop. We had seen it the day before and
—
it doesn’t matter. Please help me.”

“I think you had better come to the police station.”

“Oh no. Has something happened? Is Margaret all right?”

“I don’t yet have any information. Should I send one of our cars to pick you up?”

“That will not be necessary. The security director here at the museum said he will arrange a ride.”

“Very good. I will see you soon. Don’t worry, we will find your wife.” After the call the inspector winced. He hated to make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

As soon as Dr. Browning stepped into the reception area of the police station, he started right in. “My wife Margaret. She is gone.” Although he stood in front of the officer at the reception desk, he spoke to no one in particular. He didn’t care if anyone understood English. “She is always very careful. Something terrible must have happened. I never should have left her alone in this terrible city.” He rubbed his face, desperate to brush away the fear and panic that choked him.

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