“You shall?” Hugh’s heart hitched, and he sat forward. “Who is it?”
Jouveau blew out a leisurely lungful of smoke, adding to the growing haze. “Since our discussion the day we visited the Strand Palace Hotel, I’ve pursued a lead. Tonight I have an appointment that should answer my last questions.”
“Who did it?”
“No, my friend. This ismyscoop.” Jouveau caressed his notebook on the table. “Today I told Fletcher how big this storywill be. After the murderer is arrested, I want to broadcast on the BBC Home Service.”
“The Home Service?” MacLeod gave him an approving smile. “Big break for you.”
Jouveau scoffed. “It would be if Fletcher weren’t a fool.”
“I say.” Gil glared at him. “Is that quite necessary?”
“Quite.” Jouveau blew smoke through his nostrils. “He said the story would deserve no more than a line in the nine o’clock news.”
Hugh slumped back in his seat. With a war on, the murder of an MP was minor news, even if that murder greatly affected those who loved him.
Barn added more smoke to the haze. “I’ve never met this Fletcher fellow, but you give him a big enough story, and he’ll pounce on it.”
“Au contraire,” Jouveau said. “He ordered me to drop the story. Since I now know the murderer was not French, Fletcher says the case has nothing to do with me.”
What an odd thing to say, and Hugh frowned.
Jouveau poked a finger up into the sickly gray cloud. “The man is a fool!”
Gil yanked a cigarette from his mouth. “How dare you speak about him like that?”
“Because it’s true. I told him I’d come back tomorrow with the proof, and he said he’d refuse to see me. Fool!”
Gil’s face reddened. “He’s doing his job. You think you can dictate what the BBC broadcasts? Typical French arrogance.”
Jouveau cried out. “French arrogance? You English drip arrogance.”
Gil shoved back his chair and started to rise.
The men had never liked each other, but heat filled the room, as toxic as the tobacco smoke ringing their heads.
A diversion was needed.
Hugh grabbed Jouveau’s notebook and bolted from his seat.“What do we have here?” He opened the notebook with a flourish.
“Collie!” Jouveau stood, scraping chair legs over ancient floorboards, and he lunged after Hugh.
Laughing, Hugh circled behind his friends, keeping the table between him and Jouveau. A diary entry for 3 November at nine o’clock in the evening read, “JI-GB.”
Standing behind Aleida’s chair, Hugh squinted at the letters. “JI? GB? Great Britain?”
With a chuckle and a theatrical spread of his arms, Jouveau plunked back into his chair. “Do you think I’d give away my scoop so easily?”
Hugh’s heart and his smile sank. “I don’t want a scoop. I want to know who killed my uncle.”
Aleida glanced up over her shoulder at Hugh with a sympathetic frown.
Jouveau’s smug smile drifted down. “I understand, my friend. Soon I shall know. Then you will know. Come. Sit.”
The smoke was thicker up high, and it tickled his throat. He returned to his seat and set Jouveau’s notebook beside his own.
Lou lit a second cigarette. “Gil and Jouveau raise an interesting question. Who gets to decide what is worthy of news? The reporter? The editor? The paper or radio network? The government? Or the public? And if we agree it’s the public, who speaks for the public?”
