Death Has Deep Roots by Michael Gilbert Page B

Phylida Rumbold, who was lying on her stomach on the carpet. Phylida tore it in four pieces and started to eat the largest piece.
    Meanwhile Nap had discovered the Bureau de Lorraine. The French, who have a genius for melancholia in their conduct of public affairs, had selected the most repulsive of the large houses which make up the south side of Charles Street, had decorated the front with a tricolor, and had already succeeded in imparting to the interior that particular odor of airlessness, frustration and a distant hint of the concierge’s cooking arrangements which characterize the French administrative building.
    Nap found a room marked reception and looked in.
    Seated behind a desk, sole occupant of the room, was a girl. She looked up, saw Nap and smiled. It did not need the new copy of Le Figaro in her hand or the elaborately simple, beautifully conceived clothes. The face itself was sufficient to place her within ten square miles of the world’s surface. Only one capital city could produce that deepest of dark brown hair, with highlights of black, that white neck solidly angled to the shoulders, yet too well-proportioned to seem thick: Siamese cat’s eyes of very light blue, which were so rarely found with such black hair.
    Nap realised that he was staring, but that the girl seemed unembarrassed by this circumstance.
    Possibly she was used to people staring at her.
    “Can I be of assistance?”
    “Well, yes,” said Nap. “I expect you can.”
    “What is it you want?”
    “I want to see Monsieur le Directeur.”
    “If you would very kindly indicate your business.” The girl drew a printed form from a rack and smiled at him. It was the sort of smile that sent the temperature of the room up ten degrees and turned all the lights on.
    All right, thought Nap. If this is a bureaucrat, vive le bureaucratisme.
    “I am inquiring,” he said, “about three persons, of all of whom I had hoped your organisation might have something to tell me. First, Mademoiselle Victoria Lamartine—” Nap gave such details as he had and the girl made a number of businesslike little notes on her pad. “Then of a Monsieur Sainte – Monsieur Honorifique Sainte – of the same department. He is now the proprietor of an hotel in Pearlyman Street. I believe that you have had dealings with him.”
    “ Bien, monsieur. And the third?”
    “The third,” said Nap slowly, “is an Englishman. A Lieutenant Wells, of the British Army. He was parachuted into the district of Maine-et-Loire in 1943 and afterward disappeared. Any news which you could let us have would be very much appreciated. It is possible, however, that he is dead – killed by the Gestapo.”
    “Very well,” said the girl. “Will you follow me?”
    She led the way out into the passage and pointed to a small room opposite. Nap went in. It looked like a waiting room. Half an hour later he had no doubts about it. It was certainly a waiting room. Almost an hour had gone by before the door opened and a small man in black came in and asked Nap to be good enough to follow.
    The directeur’s office was at the other end of the passage. It was a large and pleasant room and it overlooked the garden. Despite the warmth of the afternoon its windows were tightly shut, and the only air in the room appeared to come from a door in the opposite corner which was a few inches open.
    “Please be seated,” said the directeur. “I must apologise that you were kept waiting. Inquiries such as yours cannot be answered on the moment.”
    “Of course not,” said Nap. “It’s very good of you to see me at all.”
    “To business,” said the directeur agreeably.
    Nap said, “It is of two of your compatriots that I am inquiring – two persons I believe your organisation has helped in the past, Mademoiselle Lamartine and Monsieur Sainte—”
    The directeur pressed the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the tips of the fingers of his left hand in an exceedingly bureaucratical