"DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!

"Barbara? Barbara what's the matter?" Janet Greer peered around the office door to see her friend glaring down at the back of her leg.

"Nine dollars and I don't even get a full day out them."

"I keep a spare pair in my purse, if you want I could go get them."

"Thanks, no, Jan, I'm wearing these now out of spite." Barbara Spence straightened her skirt, huffing her annoyance. "So, you popped in for a reason - besides my outburst?"

"Yes. The courier from Nice will be arriving on Air France's three-twenty flight. Mr. Galbraith wants you to meet him and set him up in the St. Jerome. His name is Tremblay, have you ever met him?"

"No, just heard of him."

"He uh, said a regular room would do." Janet grinned.

"No royal treatment, eh?" Barbara laughed and shook her head. "Guess that'll be underlined when he sees his escort has a glaring run in her hose."

****

Arthur Galbraith studied the computer image sent to his office by a potentially new client. It was a photo of a scroll, a draft of one page, supposedly intended for a codex of anonymous letters that dated back to pre Roman times. The client, one Edward Tewksbury, claimed he had been contacted as a potential buyer by a party in France, who expounded on the fact that he could provide letters of provenance.

After receiving the photo, Tewksbury had insisted on examining the actual letters before making any decision, and a compromise was reached. Arthur's company was approached to meet and accommodate the courier from a service hired by the seller, and conduct an independent investigation into the seller's claim of provenance.

Any record for letters of provenance, could not be found and Arthur was convinced the whole thing might be a scam. The investigation into its authenticity so far had only uncovered one watery appraisal from a questionable authority, not enough for such an unheard of discovery or the amount of money being sought.

He had advised Tewksbury accordingly and had been told that, on one in a billion chances, he still wanted to go the extra step and view the papers.

***

The courier stood silently, surveying the room he had been assigned by Galbraith Research Associates. His impression was that he was not considered with much regard, and the rather noticeable disregard for refinement provided by the company's representative.

"Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, Mr. Tremblay?" Barbara knew exactly what was going through his mind and she really hoped he would not make a scene.

"Well it certainly doesn't have the amenities of the Hotel Villeneuve-Loubet Plage on the Côte d'Azur, but then this is America."

What an insufferable prig! "I'm sure, with a simple phone call, the hotel will provide whatever you need. I'll leave you to settle in and you'll be getting a call from Mr. Galbraith about your meeting." Barbara tipped the bellboy and shared a rolling eye grimace, relieved to be out of there.

Back at the office Arthur looked up from the file he was reading as Barbara knocked on the door and entered.

"Everything okay?"

"Let's just say, mission accomplished. Apparently the colonies still haven't emerged from tents and campfires compared to France. He really is something else."

"He's good at what he does and I suppose his reputation has inflated his ego, but you won't have to deal with him anymore. I get that privilege."

"Lucky you. Just make sure your wardrobe is all intact and stain free." She grinned.

Arthur closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair. "Tremblay's made quite a career out of being a professional courier. Interesting he is the one our seller chose, he's not cheap. Could be the item is real, but that wouldn't say much for our investigation. Did he mention any of the papers he brought?"

"To me! Hardly. I think I was relegated to the tent/campfire analogy." She pointed to the run in her hose, which had widened considerably.

Arthur made a guttural snort and waved a hand. "Supercilious Frog snob. The tarty look is probably de rigueur where Tremblay spends his nights."

"Gee, thanks, Arthur. I've always strived for that tarty look when dealing with clients."

"I didn't mean-"

"Have you known him long?"

"We've met once - I think- I can't remember, but I don't really know him - just what I've heard."

"Okay, well I'm leaving now and I'm going home to change from my cabaret costume to something more respectable."

"Barbara . . ."

The office door closed quietly.

***

The ringing of the almost forgotten burner phone startled him and he grasped it with a nervous curiosity.

"Yeah?"

"Snelgrove?"

"Yeah. Long time."

"Boss says there is a courier on his way to your city carrying papers that he wants. And he wants them before anyone else sees them."

"Okay. Details."

The caller gave him all the necessary information then warned him to dump the phone, get another and send them the number. Gregory Snelgrove jotted down the information and then rubbed his hands as read his notes. Jobs from this source, which had been few and far between, always paid big bucks without question.

Gregory made a fist pump and then removed the card, flushed it down the toilet, put the phone on the floor and crushed it under his heel.

***

Barbara sat on the bed and stripped off the offending hose, balling it up and lobbing into her little wastebasket. She opened her dresser drawer and took out a new package then dropped it back in and slammed the drawer; work could wait, she was going to have a glass of wine and just relax.

Six years she had been the client representative and assistant to the president at Galbraith's, a position she loved. Interesting people, travel and a very generous expense account contributed handsomely to that - until, of course people like Pierre Tremblay showed up.

Barbara drew her legs up under her as she settled on the sofa, the scent and taste of the Medoc teasing her senses. She smiled, thinking of how Arthur would be worriedly composing an unnecessary apology for his 'tarty' remark, when the phone rang. Sucking her teeth noisily she set down her glass and picked up her cell.

"Barbara? Where are you?"

"I came home to change, Jan, and I'm taking a few minutes to myself. Why, what's up?"

"It's Tremblay. Mr. Galbraith phoned him to set up the meeting and police were at the hotel - they took the call."

"Police?"

"He's dead, Barbara. Tremblay is dead."

"What . . . how?"

"Mr. Galbraith said they told him that they were investigating it as a homicide."

Barbara stared at her wine glass if only to anchor her attention while she processed Janet's words.

"Tell Arthur I'm on my way in, should only be about fifteen minutes."

"No! He's gone to the hotel and he wants you there as well." He uhm- he said they wanted to question you . . . you were the last person to see him,"

"That's not true. The bellboy was still there when I left." She knew that sounded silly and she rushed on, telling her friend she would go straight to the St. Jerome.

***

Barbara left the taxi and walked a short distance to the hotel entrance where she was stopped by a uniformed officer and questioned. Three police cars, an unmarked sedan, an ambulance and a station wagon marked with bold letters, identifying it as belonging to the Coroner's Office, all crowded the road in front of the hotel.

She was passed through to another officer, who had more questions and then spoke into a mouthpiece clipped to his uniform shoulder before leading her to the elevators. A number of worried looking employees stood about in small groups, all watching Barbara's passage through the lobby with attentive curiosity.

The elevator doors opened and Arthur immediately broke away from a small group and strode toward her.

"Good, you're here." He took her arm. "Detective Railton, this is my executive assistant Ms Barbara Spence, she delivered Tremblay here from the airport this afternoon."

Barbara gave a weak smile and did a quick inventory of the surprisingly young and somewhat good looking detective.

"Could you tell me what time you arrived here with the victim?"

"Not exactly, I didn't pay that much attention." She tried to see into the room where several people were huddled around the body.

"Ms Spence?"

"Let's see, the flight was about fifteen minutes late - Air France," she paused for emphasis then continued. "The drive from the airport was about ah- forty, forty five minutes. Maybe around four-fifteen. I'm sure the desk will know."

"They do. I was just confirming."

Barbara coloured slightly at his statement.

She went through the whole story of registering and going up to the room, Tremblay's disappointment with the accommodation, her tip to the bellboy and her departure. Railton nodded, looking the entire time at his phone.

"Is there anything else you might have forgotten?"

"No. I did tell him Arth- Mr. Galbraith would call and set up their meeting."

"And do you know what that meeting was about?"

"Of course."

He waited, straight-faced.

"I'm certain Mr. Galbraith has told you that already."

"He has. He also told me that the victim was bringing some special papers for this meeting. Do you know anything about that?

"Detective, I have already-"

"I'm sorry, I meant did you see them at all when you brought him here?"

"No. I assumed they would be in his luggage." She looked about. "Did you check?"

He smiled and put his phone away. "Yes, Ms Spence. We checked."

"And?"

"And that will be all for now, thank you."

"How did he- how was he killed?"

Railton smiled with his mouth only. "We may have further questions so . . ."

"Don't leave town." She said it as a joke but it didn't get a laugh.

***

Arthur paced about his office, sleeves rolled up part way, tie undone and nervous fingers combing his thinning hair.

"No papers. They were gone. Whoever killed Pierre took the letters."

"But who?"

"Barbara, I have no idea. It makes no sense." Arthur swore under his breath.

"Do we know if anyone else knew of his trip here?"

"The seller, naturally. Some guy named Frossard according to Tewksbury - and Tewksbury himself, but that's all I know. I don't know if he said anything - can't see why he would."

"Did he know Tremblay?"

Arthur stopped pacing and stared at her. "The man in France arranged for the courier. Are you thinking our client had something to do with this?"

"No . . . it wouldn't make sense for a buyer to not want something verified. If anything it's the other way 'round. I was thinking more of the seller."

"Wouldn't your same logic apply?"

"Not if it was a scam."

"But he arranged for the courier himself . . . I think that's enough speculation." Arthur clasped his hands and gave her a puzzled shrug. "Railton said they would be contacting our client and the seller, so other than a courtesy call, I guess our business is done."