“Ah, Simmons. Your wisdom is surpassed only by your wit.” From a shattered drawer, Hugh sorted papers and notebooks, most of which he no longer needed. Why ever did he keep them?
He scrambled over the rubble and dumped more papers into the scrap bin, then returned to his desk and lifted the bottom drawer.
Underneath rested items that had fallen behind the drawers, particularly from his overstuffed top drawer—crumpled papers and—
And a small black notebook.
His breath caught. Could it be?
He picked it up, opened it, and saw writing in French. “It’s Jouveau’s!”
“Jouveau’s?” Dirt streaked Simmons’s face.
“My reporter friend who was murdered.” Hugh flipped through frantically. “I’ve looked everywhere for this. It slipped behind the drawers.”
The thrill of discovery raced through his fingers, followed by a rush of grief for his friend, then by pangs of annoyance at himself. If he’d been neater, if he’d taken more care with the notebook, he would have found it—and any clues it contained—back in November.
He had to take it to the police, but first he wanted to study it. He wanted to discuss the contents with someone.
With Aleida?
He frowned. Should he?
In the past week and a half, she’d come to the Hart and Swan five times. He’d been careful to be as open and friendly with her as before, but also careful not to sit beside her. She’d requested friendship, which was more than he’d hoped for, but he did pine for what had been.
He’d told her he wouldn’t try to win her back, and out of respect for her, he’d stay true to his word.
But right now, her friendship was precisely what he wanted.
“That’s all for today, Simmons,” Hugh said. “I’ll sort more tomorrow after church.”
“Very well, sir.”
Out in the sitting room, he rang Aleida’s flat. Thank goodness she owned a telephone and thank goodness she was at home.
“Good news,” he said to her. “I found Jouveau’s notebook.”
“You did? I thought you’d looked everywhere.”
“Everywhere except underneath the desk drawers. It must have fallen behind.” He clutched the notebook. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh yes.”
“I’ll come over in about an hour. I’m rather grubby from sorting through rubble.” He frowned at his ancient gray jumper and his rumpled corduroy trousers.
“May I come to your house? I’d rather not wait.”
He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Excellent. Then I can take it to the police.”
“The police? Of course, you must. But what a shame for you to lose those clues.”
A shame indeed. “Whilst I wait for you, I’ll copy every word.”
“Yes, do. Be precise, Hugh. Copy everything you read, with dates and times.”
He tipped up a salute she couldn’t see. “Yes, ma’am.”
After he hung up, he sat down with Jouveau’s notebook and one of his own, and he took careful transcription.
