“One of his men left it for me at a bar last night. Le Galleon Rouge.”
“Who?”
“I forget…no, no.” Delacroix searched feverishly for the name of the man with long sideburns and a peasant’s mustache he’d met at the bar. “Jack. Giacomo Pizzaloto.”
“Did you see Coluzzi there, too?”
“Coluzzi? No. He wasn’t there. Please take it. Take the money.”
The woman dropped the stack of bills onto the floor. “It’s yours. You earned it. Use it to buy a new knee.”
Delacroix swallowed hard and nodded. Maybe he would live to see another day.
The woman asked: “So you don’t know where Mr. Coluzzi is or how I can reach him?”
“No.”
“No phone? No email?”
“No.”
“And the American who visited you earlier…”
“I didn’t tell him about Coluzzi. I swear.”
“I don’t imagine he was interested in the money.”
“He said the prince was carrying important documents. He wanted them back.”
“Did he mention the letter?”
“What letter?” Delacroix knew at once that it must be what the prince had had in his possession.
“The letter. We are not interested in the money either.”
Delacroix shook his head violently. “I know nothing about a letter,” he insisted.
“Did you read it?”
“I told you! I’ve never heard about a letter.”
The woman crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps until she stood above him. “I’d simply like to know if you have read it.”
“How could I have read something I know nothing about?” he pleaded.
“Yes or no?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“You must believe—”
The pistol coughed. A bullet shattered Delacroix’s other knee. He gasped, pain robbing him of his breath. He looked down and saw blood spreading across the floor. An artery, he thought, memories of his time in combat flooding back. He needed to tie it off quickly.
“I never saw a letter,” he managed. “I promise you.”
“I believe you.”
