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Nora knew she had done everything she could to have stopped it from happening. In alarm, she had made eye contact with Mrs. Parker, who, knowing full well the implications of being singled out, had simply shrugged, having had to make a decision of her own.
    Surely though, even a Nazi detective would know how difficult life could then become for that person? Had this Kohler and his French partner wanted this to happen, and if so, why? Had they realized that she had wanted to remain alone in the room while the others had rushed away to crowd the windows and watch them?
    The urge to scan her bed for the reason was resisted, she remaining in the doorway and unseen as yet, for the one called “Louis,” having gone through everything he could easily search, had taken to fingering things in Madame de Vernon’s suitcase. Letters, money—jewellery—were they so blatantly dishonest they would rob defenceless women who had little enough?
    Quickly he emptied a thin envelope of its photos and, holding one up next to that of Madame’s former villa in Provence, muttered to himself, ‘The year 1910, madame. It’s curious, n’est-ce pas ? Firstly, because there is no more recent photo and, secondly, why keep a dog-eared photo from the past pasted to the wall beside your pillow when you have similar and far better ones tucked away? Was it so that each night before sleep you would be reminded not just of the house but of something else?’
    While saying her prayers, Inspector, thought Nora. While begging God to forgive and release her from this place, but do you always speak to an empty room as if the person were right there beside you?
    He still hadn’t sensed her presence, was not nearly as tall as the Bavarian, was of medium height but as broad across the shoulders and with the hands, the fists, and lightness on his feet of a former boxeur .
    He moved easily, fluidly, thoroughly and carefully. Fifty. . . fifty-two. . . Was he three years younger than that ‘partner’ of his?
    There was a wedding ring, though the shabby overcoat showed no sign of such a one’s attention. It being open, buttons hung by their threads or bits of string, and the right pocket, crammed with the things he’d already found and taken, was torn.
    One strap of Caroline’s spare brassiere dangled from that very pocket. The grey fedora he wore was pushed well back of what must be a broad forehead. Had he a mustache? He looked the type—would smoke a pipe, too, when he could get fuel for that little furnace.
    Quickly he replaced the photos. Now he felt along the back edge of the suitcase and when he had what he wanted, drew that little cedar box out and held it up by its tie of braided parcel string.
    But instead of opening it, he set it down and, turning his attention to Caroline’s shelf, ran a forefinger quickly over the little bottles with their labels. ‘Borage,’ he said en français . ‘Marshmallow, thyme, and the ground, dried leaves and stems of the Datura stramonium, the thorn apple, though being une Américaine, Mademoiselle Lacy wouldn’t have known it by that name, would she?’
    Ah, merde ! ‘She suffered terribly from asthma, Inspector. Night after night she’d be up, wheezing, trying to catch a breath while Madame patted her on the back, as if that would have done her any good! “Steam,” I would hiss at them. “Boil a little water.”’
    ‘And?’
    He had taken the datura bottle from that shelf and pocketed it. ‘Brother Étienne reluctantly prescribed the jimsonweed. We call it that because the settlers who first found it in America lived near Jamestown, Virginia. The name then became a contraction of that. It can, of course, cause terrible highs. Everyone knows of this and has been warned of it by him.’
    He reached for the little white porcelain mortar and pestle Madame had also kept in her suitcase, and brought it up to a nose that was full and robust, his dark brown ox-eyes never once leaving her. He did have a mustache,