P.S. from Paris(40)

Cristoneli hung up on him.

“Is he coming?” Mia asked in a pleading voice.

“Anything’s possible with him,” Paul replied dubiously, laying the phone back in its cradle.

“Well,” said the detective, getting to his feet, “if this man you were yelling at is stupid enough to help you, you’ll be sleeping at home tonight. If not, we have blankets here. France is a civilized country.”

Paul and Mia were escorted to the cells. Out of courtesy, they weren’t put in with the two drunks who had been left to sober up.

The door banged shut behind them. Mia sat on the bench and held her head in her hands.

“My business partner will never forgive me.”

“Why? It’s not like we ran over an old lady or something. Anyway, what are you so worried about? There’s no way she’ll find out we’re here.”

“She’s also my flatmate. When she gets back from the restaurant, she’ll see I’m not there. And I won’t be there tomorrow morning either.”

“You are allowed to sleep out at your age, aren’t you? Seems like a pretty controlling business partner. Unless she’s . . .”

“She’s what?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“I pretended to have a migraine so I wouldn’t have to work tonight, even though she needed me.”

“Ah. That wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”

“Thanks for twisting the knife.”

Paul sat next to her and said nothing.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have an idea, just an idea. Maybe you could neglect to mention the arrest and the police station and the handcuffs and all that to your great-grandchildren . . .”

“Are you kidding me? That would be their favorite part. Imagine Granny spending a night in the nick!”

They heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door to their cell opened and a policeman ordered them out. He led them to the detective’s office, where Cristoneli, after handing over a photocopy of Paul’s residence permit, signed a check to pay his fine.

“Perfect,” said the detective. “You can take him with you.”

Turning around, Cristoneli noticed Mia and stared accusingly at Paul.

“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed angrily, turning back to the inspector. “I should be able to take them both for that price!”

“Mademoiselle does not have her papers.”

“Mademoiselle is my niece!” Cristoneli said. “On that, I give you my word.”

“You’re Italian and your niece is English? That’s quite the international family you got there!”

“I am a naturalized Frenchman, Detective,” Cristoneli replied. “And yes, my family has been a mix of nationalities for three generations. You can call us immigrants, or the future of the continent, depending on how open-minded you are.”

“Okay, okay, just get the hell out of here, all of you! And you, mademoiselle, I want to see you again tomorrow afternoon, with your passport. Is that understood?”

Mia nodded.

Outside the police station, Mia thanked Cristoneli, who bowed respectfully.

“The pleasure was all mine, mademoiselle. It’s strange, but have I met you before? Your face is very familiar.”

“I doubt it,” Mia replied, blushing. “Maybe you know somebody who looks like me?”

“Probably. Although . . . I could have sworn that I—”

“Pathetic!” Paul groaned, cutting him off.

“What’s the matter with you?” Cristoneli asked, turning to face him.

“Is this how you try to seduce women, using stale old clichés like that? ‘Have I met you before?’” he repeated mockingly. “Pitiful!”

“You are the one who is pitiful, my friend. I was being completely sincere. I do feel quite sure I have seen mademoiselle somewhere before.”

“Look, we’re in a rush: mademoiselle’s carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin, so let’s just skip the pleasantries, shall we?”

“And that is all the thanks I get, I suppose?” Cristoneli grumbled.

“It goes without saying that we’re eternally grateful. Good night!”

“It also should go without saying that the fine will be deducted from your advance.”

“You two are like a grumpy old married couple,” Mia said, amused, as Cristoneli got back in his sports car.

“Well, he’s certainly got the ‘old’ part covered. Come on, let’s get a move on. What time does your business partner get back from the restaurant?”

“Usually between eleven thirty and midnight.”

“So, worst-case scenario: twenty minutes. Best case: fifty. Let’s do this!”

And he led Mia in a mad dash to his car.

After opening the door and telling her to buckle up, he drove off at top speed.

“Where do you live?”

“Rue Poulbot, in Montmartre.”

The Saab sped through the streets of Paris, veering into bus lanes and zigzagging between taxis, incurring a volley of abuse from a motorcyclist at Place de Clichy and a group of pedestrians at an intersection on Rue Caulaincourt, and swinging onto Rue Joseph-de-Maistre with tires squealing.

“Don’t you think we’ve had enough brushes with the law tonight? You might want to slow down,” Mia suggested.