“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.
“And what if we get there after your business partner does?”
“Good point. Keep going.”
The car accelerated, zipping up Rue Lepic. On Rue Norvins, Mia shrank back in her seat.
“Is the restaurant around here?”
“We just passed it,” she whispered.
At last, they turned onto Rue Poulbot. Mia pointed out her building. Paul slammed on the brakes.
