The Templar Cross by Paul Christopher Page A

off. Almost immediately the woman from the Audi stepped out and stood by the door, wiping her hands on a tissue. She looked up and down the street, then turned and spoke through the open doorway behind her. The man with the Vandyke stepped out, carefully closing the door behind him, then stripped off the latex gloves and slipped them back into his pocket. He stood for a moment, then reached into his other pocket and brought out a flat gold cigarette case. He took out a cigarette, put the case away, then pulled something from his lapel and began delicately poking at the filter.
    “What the hell is he doing?” Holliday asked.
    “I know precisement what he is doing,” said Japrisot with a grimace. “He is putting pinholes in the paper of the cigarette. It is something longtime smokers do to convince themselves they are being healthy.”
    “That’s crazy,” said Rafi from the backseat.
    “Bien sûr,” replied Japrisot. “Of course. Smoking is for crazy people, yes?”
    They watched as the bearded man brought out a heavy-looking gold lighter and lit his cigarette. Then the couple walked back up the street to the Audi and got in. The engine started, the headlights came on and they drove off. They turned right on rue Louis Blanc and went up the hill.
    “They were in there for less than three minutes,” said Rafi. “I timed it.”
    “Not very long,” said Holliday. “What kind of business can you do in three minutes?”
    “Bad business,” said Japrisot. He stared out the window at the darkened storefront. He slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Je suis une connard! Nique ma mere!” He swore under his breath. “Something is wrong.”
    The Frenchman sat for a moment, his features grim.
    “M-e-r-d-e,” he breathed, drawing out the word. Finally he reached across the console, popped open the glove compartment and took out an ancient and enormous Manhurin-73 revolver with a wooden crosshatched “blackjack” grip and a huge five-inch barrel.
    “Big gun,” commented Holliday, impressed. The revolver was chambered for .357 rounds. It was the French version of the weapon used by Dirty Harry.
    “Yes,” said Japrisot. “And it makes very big holes in people, which is why I like it.” The grizzled policeman looked at Holliday severely. “Stay in the car, please.” He got out of the Peugeot and approached Valador’s shop, the heavy pistol held at his side.
    “We going to stay in the car?” Rafi asked.
    “Mais non,” said Holliday. “Not a chance.”
    They got out of the vehicle, keeping their eyes on Japrisot. The policeman turned and saw them. He scowled, gesturing them back, then turned to the door once again and raised the revolver. He spread his fingertips on the door and pushed gently. It opened slightly. He toed it with his foot and it opened wider. Japrisot took a hesitant step forward, arm raised and elbow locked, the long barrel of the big pistol leading the way.
    Holliday and Rafi held their breath as Japrisot stepped inside the store. A few moments later the lights went on and a few moments after that Japrisot appeared in the doorway, the revolver by his side again. With his free hand the cop waved them forward.
    The interior of the shop looked more like something out of a Dickens novel. There were antiques and collectibles piled everywhere in no kind of order: wooden filing cabinets, a thirties-style leather couch, a sunburst mirror from the fifties, armoires, religious paintings, eighteenth-century gas lamps, a Louis Sixteenth Bergere confessional chair, chandeliers, figurines, an old-fashioned Bakelite wall phone between two plaster columns, lamps, picture frames, a giant clock face, granite garden lions, a pair of Pallisandre armchairs, a dozen faux wax fruit clusters in bell jars, three holy water fonts, seven ornately framed copies of Edgar Degas’s Two Dancers in Blue , a giant stuffed peacock staring into a long cheval glass beveled mirror in a tilting stand and a