This particular lady snorts loudly.
Oops! Way off the mark.
Shooting her a sidelong glance, I change the topic. “Is today a market day somewhere in your neighborhood?”
“There’s a busy fixed market on the Boulevard de la Croix-Rousse every morning until one in the afternoon. If you’re thinking about passing through to get rid of our pursuers, then we’d better skip lunch.”
She’s quick on the uptake.“Good point. We’ll buy sandwiches at the market.”
A short time later, we pull up by Renée’s shop, and Lucie gets out. I drive to my hotel, where I meet Anders and pass him the car key. He hands me a small bag with the items I might need today, including a pocket toolbox with miniature implements that I can use to take apart Emma’s fan and put it back together.
Anders drives off to the car rental to return the Citroën. I wash, change into a fresh shirt and jeans, and call the collector, Yannick Blanc-Mathieu. A man picks up thephone, informing me I have the wrong number. I phone Carlo who insists the number he gave me is correct.
With time pressing, I head back to Lucie’s. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know Kurt’s men are lurking behind me.
Lucie is ready when I arrive, which is much appreciated.
Even more appreciated is the knee-length jersey dress she’s put on. Its green color is faded from washing, and its cut is basic, free of voguish cleverness or asymmetric parts currently de rigueurin Mount Evor. But the way it envelops her round breasts and butt while revealing mouthwatering calves and ankles makes my breath catch in my throat.
Perhaps taking pity on me, she slips on a cardigan. “Let’s go, Boss!”
Within minutes we’re in the market, strolling up and down its length lined with plane trees and feigning interest in cheeses and sausages. Cautiously, I look left and right. Two well-dressed athletic men checking out spring onions catch my eye. Their interest in the produce is just as fake as mine, and their sleek look just as out of place.
“I know how we can lose them,” Lucie whispers near my ear.
“How?”
“Have you heard abouttraboules?”
“No. What is it?”
“In Lyon, hundreds of hidden passageways connect the buildings and streets of the old town to one another,” she explains. “The famouscanuts, whose brains we feasted on last night, used them to dispatch their precious silk to every corner of the city, avoiding bad weather and dirt.”
“You’re suggesting we use them to avoid being followed?”
“In theory, you can cross Vieux Lyon without ever setting foot on the street.”
“What about in practice? Can yourtraboulestake us from here to rue Serlin? Are they easy to find? Are they marked clearly?” I realize that isn’t necessarily a good thing and add, “Because if they are, the guys tailing us will keep up.”
She grins. “Fortunately, ourtraboulesare very discreet. If they’re marked, it would be a little bronze plaque here and subtle relief there. Besides, only fifty are open to the public.”
“That’s fascinating, but if they’re poorly marked, and mostly closed?—”
“This is your lucky day, Boss!” she butts in. “I’m a local, remember? What’s more, I grew up in this neighborhood. The Croix-Rousse teens spend so much time exploringtraboulesthat we invented a verb—totraboulate.”
I offer a hand. “Shall wetraboulate, Mademoiselle?”
“Shouldn’t we call the collector first?” she asks.
“The number I was given is wrong.”
She takes my hand. “All right then. Let’s go, Boss!”
As we troop toward the exit, I realize Lucie highlighted the professional nature of our relationship twice over the last five minutes. Her message is clear—and quite humbling for someone like me.
I look back. Kurt’s men are right behind us.
Lucie pulls my hand and steers me toward a narrow street. Quickly, we make a sharp turn. Our pursuers scramble to stay close. We rush through an alleyway that twists and winds, and then another. In the blink of an eye, Lucie negotiates another sharp turn, and we slip under an archway and sprint up a staircase. We cross a landing and descend the stairs on the other side, back down to the winding alley. Another alley, that is.
