“I promised Dominique I'd be there by eleven-thirty.”

“Oh for chrissake. What's the hurry?”

“I'm making lunch for everyone.” She announced as she turned off the shower and started to dry herself off.

“That's interesting. You never cook here.” He was annoyed. They had had such a nice day the day before, and now she was in such a hurry to leave him. He had wanted to make love to her again before she left, but she was all business.

“This is different.” She explained, looking as though what she said made sense. “These are dancers.”

“Do they eat differently than everyone else?”

“Don't be silly.” He wasn't silly. He was just tired of the endless aggravation. “I'll call you tonight when I get home.”

“Don't bother.” He walked out of the bathroom, picked up a cigarette on his dresser, and lit it. He rarely smoked, but when she upset him particularly, it seemed to ease the tension, or add to it, he was never quite sure which, but it did something.

“John,” she said, smiling angelically at him as she brushed her hair with his hairbrush, “don't be childish. I'd take you along, but they're all dancers. No one brings outsiders to these events. You know”—she smiled and for the first time he saw something vengeful in her eyes—“kind of like when you visit your family in Boston.” So that was it. Or part of it anyway. Well, to hell with her games, and her dancers. “Will I see you tomorrow night?” She hesitated doe-like in the bedroom.

“Possibly. I have a lot of work to do on Monday.”

She walked over to him with her firm, lithe body straining against his and kissed him hard on the lips which visibly aroused him. He was standing naked in his bedroom doorway. “I love you.” She had a way of taunting him that he half loved and half hated, and before he could say anything to her, she was gone, and he wanted to scream in frustration.

For lack of anything better to do, he called his younger brother, and spent the day in Greenwich with them, playing doubles with Pattie and Philip and their son, and swimming in the pool with their daughter. It was a relaxed, easy day, and he was always embarrassed to admit to himself, as he did on the drive home, how intensely they bored him. But they were decent people, and they were family after all, and it had been a pleasant escape from New York and the reminders of Sasha.

The phone was ringing when he got home, but he didn't answer it. He didn't want to hear about Dominique and Pascal and Pierre and Andre and Josef and Ivan or any of the others. He was sick to death of them all, and even a little bit of Sasha. And the next morning, he went to Arthur's law firm and went through the files of George Gorham's estate himself after Arthur gave him carte blanche, and he found exactly what he had wanted. Arthur could have found it himself, years before, if he had looked. The last contact they had had with Margaret Millington Gorham was in 1962, at which time she was already the Comtesse de Borne and living on the rue de Varenne in Paris. There had been no contact since then, but she couldn't be too hard to find. And a search of the Paris telephone directory that afternoon showed her still living at the same address, listed as Borne, P. de, and the address was the same one. Now if she was only still alive and could tell him where Alexandra was, he'd be in business.





Chapter 19




“Not again!” Sasha looked outraged, but he was unmoved this time. Business was business. “What did you do, get a job with the airlines?” She was incensed. This was his third trip in as many weeks.

“I won't be gone long.” Things were a little cooler between them than they had been.

“Where to this time?”

He smiled. Jacksonville it wasn't. “Paris. At least my working conditions are pleasant.” She didn't answer him at first and then she shrugged. For all she knew he was lying and flying all over with assorted girlfriends. He had certainly never done all this traveling before. It seemed odd that he was suddenly doing “the legwork” himself, as he'd told her. “I should be back by Friday. Monday at the latest.”

“Have you forgotten? I go out on tour next week for three weeks. I won't see you till I get back. Unless you want to fly in to see me one night.” But he knew what that was like, a whole troupe of dancers completely hysterical and on edge, and Sasha barely coherent enough to acknowledge his existence.

“That's all right, I'm going to be busy too.” But they wouldn't see each other for a month. A year ago that would have worried him. Now he thought it might be a relief, for him at least. Her obsession with her work was beginning to oppress him.

They slept side by side that night, without making love, and he dropped her off at her apartment the next morning on his way to the airport.

“I'll see you when you get back.” He kissed her on the mouth, and she smiled up at him looking very innocent and pure.

“Have a good trip. I'll miss you.” Unusually kind words for her, ordinarily she would have been predicting the weather from the pain in her feet. And her sudden gentleness made him sorry to see her go. The problem with her was that she really had no idea how totally egocentric she was. To her, it seemed perfectly normal.

He waved at her from the cab, and promised to call from Paris as they rounded the corner, and a moment later, he sat lost in thought, wondering what he was going to find in Paris. Surely not a life like Hilary's if Margaret Gorham had married a French count. At least he hoped not.

At Arthur's request, he flew first class, and his flight landed in Paris at midnight, local time. He went directly to the Hotel Bristol after clearing customs, and was in bed by two o'clock, but he was too tired to sleep, and it was five A.M. before he fell asleep, and he was horrified to discover that it was eleven o'clock when he woke up the next morning. He instantly jumped out of bed, ordered coffee and croissants, and dialed Margaret's number, before taking his shower.

He asked for the Comtesse de Borne when the phone was answered by a male voice, speaking French, and stumbled in his limited French when the butler asked him “De la part de qui, monsieur?” He gave him his name but was unable to translate the words but she doesn't know me. But whatever was said at her end, she was on the phone with him a moment later.

“Monsieur Chapote?” she said in French with a heavy American accent, sounding puzzled.

“Sorry.” He smiled. He liked her voice. “John Chapman, from New York.”

“Good God. André can never get American names. Do I know you?” She was blunt and direct, and there was something in her voice that suggested quick laughter.

“No, ma'am. I'm here on a business matter I'd like to discuss with you at your earliest convenience.” He had no intention of telling her over the phone though.

“Oh.” She sounded a little startled. “All my business matters are handled in New York.” She told him the name of the firm. “Except my husband's of course. Is this about an investment?”

“No.” He didn't want to frighten her, but he had to tell her something. “Actually, it's a little more personal than that. It's about an investigation I'm conducting for a partner of your late husband's.”

“Pierre? But he didn't have any partners.” It was a very confusing conversation.

“I'm sorry. I meant Mr. Gorham.”

“Oh poor George … but that was so long ago. He died in 1958 … that was thirty years ago, Mr.… er … Chapman.”

“I understand that, and this goes back an awfully long time.”

“Was there anything wrong?” She sounded worried.

“Not at all. We were just hoping you could help us find someone. It would be a great help to us if you could. But I'd rather not go into the entire matter over the phone. If you could spare me a few moments, I would like very much to see you. …”

“All right.” But she sounded uncertain. She wished she could ask Pierre, or someone, if they thought she should see this man. What if he were a charlatan, or a criminal of some kind … not that he sounded like it. “Perhaps tomorrow, Mr. Chapman? And the name of your firm in New York?”

He smiled. She was right to check him out. “Chapman Associates on Fifty-seventh Street. My name is John Chapman. What time would you like to meet?”

“Eleven o'clock?” She wanted to get this meeting out of the way. He was beginning to make her nervous. But when she checked him out with her attorneys in New York, they knew the firm, and her attorney was even personally acquainted with John Chapman, and he assured her that he was entirely aboveboard. He just couldn't imagine what Chapman was doing, speaking to Margaret de Borne in Paris.

He arrived punctually the next morning, and the elderly butler let him in with a subdued bow, and then led him upstairs to wait in the countess's formal study. It was a room filled with beautiful Louis XV furniture, and a tiny Russian chandelier with what looked like a million crystals that caught the sunlight shining into the room and cast it into a myriad of rainbows against the walls. It was the prettiest thing John had ever seen, and he didn't even hear her come in, as he stared at the beautiful lights, and the lovely garden in the distance.

“Mr. Chapman?” She was tall and elegant, with a firm handshake and a strong voice, and the look in her eyes was warm and friendly. She was wearing a yellow Chanel suit, and their classic shoes, and a beautiful pair of yellow diamond earrings that had been a gift from her late husband. She smiled warmly at John and waved at one of the room's larger chairs. Most of them were extremely small and not very inviting, which always made her smile. She laughed as they both sat down. “I'm afraid none of these pieces were designed for people of our proportions. I don't use this room very often. It was designed as a ‘lady's study,’ and I've never quite gotten the hang of it. My six-year-old granddaughter is the only person I know who looks comfortable here. My apologies.”