Gregory Snelgrove threw the papers across the room in a fit of rage. Two bloody disasters for the price of one! He kicked his wastebasket into the wall and swore. "Fakes! Bloody fakes, and you wind up killing a high profile courier in the process."

Gregory had found Tremblay's room at the hotel, and in the process of getting the papers the courier broke down. The papers were part of a scam, and while pleading his case, chose to fight instead of just backing off. His error. When Gregory called his employer with the news he was told not to call again and to lose the new phone.

That did not bode well, he worried. His employer would not want any loose ends that might be traced back to him. Didn't matter he was overseas. Something good had to come out of the mess. He forced himself to calm down and leaned both hands and his forehead against the window glass.

He slapped the glass and began pacing again. The killing had definitely been a huge mistake, even if it was unavoidable. The police would now be alerting everyone. He stopped, staring at nothing. The courier had given up his employer. If he could get the actual scroll back . . . Making a quick decision, Gregory reached for the phone and contacted the airlines' desk.

***

Railton left his Captain's office with more questions than answers about the direction the investigation was supposed to take. Aubert was a French citizen impersonating another Frenchman. Pierre Tremblay had been contacted and questioned, demonstrating his outrage by holding a financially beneficial interview with a local TV station.

The seller Maurice Frossard was also French, and Railton had already contacted the French authorities in Nice about his involvement.

Edward Tewksbury was the only local he could investigate, and why the buyer would kill someone bringing information he wanted kind of put him in the doubtful column. His Captain said he should be running these people down – a product of very close to retirement thinking, considering their location.

He flopped down at his desk and went through his messages, hoping faintly for one from Barbara; he knew she was too smart to call him at his office – considering. One that did catch his eye was from a Municipal Police Constable Charles Marchand, Nice, France.

Railton frowned as he listened to the confusing descriptions of how his request for information and action regarding the events in his city had been forwarded to the National Police, who immediately referred it back to the Nice Mayor, head of the Municipal Police.

He made an irked noise and grabbed up the phone, asking for the long distance operator.

***

Janet had nagged Barbara all morning about her phone call from the dishy detective, as she cringingly described him. Barbara had parried deftly, but the onslaught was wearing her down and finally she admitted, lying blatantly, that they had met for a coffee.

"What did he want? Did you get any details?"

"Details?"

"You know. Is married? Seeing someone?"

"He just had a few more questions about my meeting the courier and the times." She closed her eyes and shrugged. "No big deal."

"He could have done that on the phone, why meet for coffee?"

"Janet, don't you have work to do . . . or even a life of your own?"

"Oh, excuse me."

"Hey – I'm sorry, I didn't mean that . . ."

"It's fine. I don't want to pry." She stood and went back to her desk in the outer office.

Don't want to pry! Barbara shook her head and sighed loudly.

The truth was, she wanted to hear from him but she knew it wouldn't be here at work. She also wondered if it would be at all. Maybe Detective Railton was just an opportunist. That would be humiliating, and she scolded herself for considering the possibility.

The rest of the day dragged on agonizingly and she hurried home after work to shower and change, bringing herself to a screeching halt when she realized she was behaving like an infatuated teen.

A micro-waved dinner and a glass of wine later, Barbara gave random attention to a romcom on TV, her mind constantly returning to the previous night. When the phone rang she jerked so suddenly it hurt, and forced herself to wait for a couple more rings before answering.

"Barbara? Catch you at a bad time?"

"I'm just finishing dinner . . ."

A long pause. "Ah, about the other night," Here it comes, she thought. "I was hoping that we might sort of keep that to ourselves."

"I won't be taking out ads, if that's what you think."

"No! Barbara – you misunderstand! I- the other night was- was-"

"A mistake."

"No, dammit! Will you let me finish?" He paused again. "Maybe this call was the mistake."

"I'm sorry. I'm just very- emotionally vulnerable at the moment."

"I am definitely not sorry about that – for the reason. I realize how impulsive it was and- and I wanted to say . . . dammit, no! I'm not sorry. It's just that you were right. The investigation, not to mention the ethics, could be compromised."

A rush of relief flooded through her as she parsed his words – not sorry for the reason.

"Oh!" Was all she could muster.

"Barbara, I want to see you again. Am I making a mistake?"

"I uh- I don't know . . . are you?"

"May I come over?"

"Now?" Was that a, damn the torpedoes, decision? "You just mentioned ethics-"

"I meant in public . . ."

"Oh. Uh, sure. Yes, I guess."

"Thank you, that's great."

And so was the sound of the smile in his voice.

***

Gregory had managed to book an American Airline flight to Munich, and a Berlin Air business class to Nice. He was focused entirely on his goal and the magnificence of the Alps passed by with barely a notice. The landing couldn't be overlooked; the approach over the water to the too small looking peninsula landing strip, was a nervous thrill.

The rental car booked online was ready and Gregory, equipped with his car's GPS, made the twenty-minute run along the Promenade des Anglais into town. Using contacts and the information he'd compiled, he set about tracking the location of the seller, Maurice Frossard.

He spent the first few hours in a small bar café but not having any French, left him flustered with the snubs and impatience of staff. Finally he gave up and found a one night stay at the Radisson Blu Hotel.

The phone, the next day, was getting hot from the calls he was making and the desk asked if there might be another way for him to gain his information. He snapped back that he was paying for them and he'd make as many as he needed.

At checkout, Gregory seethed while paying his bill, calmed only by the fact that his many calls had finally yielded the information and possible location for Frossard, the courier's employer. Rumours among the informed were, Frossard had stolen something of great value from someone nobody cared to get involved with, and of course Gregory knew exactly who that was.

Making certain he was safely under the radar of that same someone, he relaxed and enjoyed the scenic drive along the Route du bord de Mer toward Juan-les-Pins, and hopefully Maurice Frossard. His enjoyment upon arriving was short, however, and after another session of frustrating communication, Gregory tore up his phrase book and threatened the map vendor in the street kiosk until he got what he wanted.

Still fuming, he located the apartment Frossard was supposed to be in and jammed an angry thumb into the bell press. The concierge, a wary elderly woman, examined the description he had managed to have translated to French, and was assured that the man did indeed have an apartment there.

Gregory left after determining he wasn't in and found a comfortable spot to keep watch. So far, the time and money spent seemed to have been worth it – in spite of the aggravation.