Chapter 1: The Panicked Professor

Chapter One: The Panicked Professor Sitting at his desk, the police inspector gazed wistfully at a picture of a woman holding a small boy in her arms. It was a picture from a happier time. His son was now twelve, and he had not seen him for six months. Not since his wife had gone to “visit” her family in Alsace Lorraine and taken Lucien with her. The note she left had seemed innocent enough at the time, but had turned out to be a prelude to a full divorce. Personnel cutbacks in the police force had made his case load so heavy he barely had time to call, much less attempt any sort of reconciliation. Of course, that was the problem, according to his wife Claudia. He saw it another way. Her late evenings spent with a certain young assistant curator at the Louvre were not about art appreciation. Did she not think he had earned his inspector’s badge?

As he stared at the picture, he wondered how much taller Lucien had gotten since he had last seen him. Now that his case load had lightened, he would have to take a few days off to go see his son.

The inspector’s assistant rang the intercom, breaking his reverie.

“Yes, Claude?”

“There is a professor on the phone—he says something has happened to his wife.”

“What has happened?”

“He doesn’t know. But he is quite panicked. He’s here from London over at the Institut de France where he is studying something—an old book.”

The inspector knew that the professor’s wife had probably gotten lost in the city. Foreigners always had difficulty with the Parisian streets. Most likely her phone had gone dead. Simple. However, he also knew that a British citizen could create a lot of trouble for him if the misunderstanding wasn’t handled quickly. The French and the British were never more than one or two incidents from a full blown diplomatic war. He didn’t need such trouble, especially now. “All right, Claude. I will see to it. Where is the professor?”

“He’s in the security offices of the institute. They are having difficulty calming him down. He’s still on hold.”

“Put him through.” The inspector sighed. Perhaps his wife was right about his being too absorbed in his job. But, all that was going

to change. He had a plan. He would show her.

“Hello, hello?” said a distressed voice.

“Professor Browning? This is Inspector Gilliard of the Paris police.”

“Inspector, you must help me. My wife. She has gone missing.”

“When did you last see her?”

“This morning.”

“Paris is a big city. It has been less than a day, perhaps—”

“She is not just lost. Something awful has happened.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

“Of course. Do you take me for an idiot?”

The inspector refrained from any comment. “I ask only whether you have tried every means to reach her.”

“Yes, I am sorry. I am terrifically fearful that something has happened to Margaret. She was on the phone. Then suddenly she was gone.”

“Perhaps her phone went dead.”

“You are missing the point. Something happened while she was on the Rue des Écoles. I could hear it in her voice.”

“What is that?”

“Fear.”

The inspector sat up in his chair, immediately interested. There had been several calls about gunshots on Rue des Écoles. He had two officers checking it out, but had not gotten a report yet. “Where did you say?”

“The Rue des Écoles. Margaret was at an antique shop—gold antiques—Les Antiquités D’or. I think it was near the College of France.”

“Just a minute, s’il vous plaît,” said Gilliard, switching to the assistant. “Claude, where was the report of gunshots?”

“Rue des Écoles, near Rue de Beauvais.”

“Close enough. Have we gotten an update?”

“Nothing yet from the detail you sent to check it out.”

“Send them to Les Antiquités D’or.”

The inspector switched back to the professor. “Excusez-moi. You say she was near the antique shop on Rue des Écoles?”

“She was right there at the shop. We had seen it the day before and—it doesn’t matter. Please help me.”

“I think you had better come to the police station.”

“Oh no. Has something happened? Is Margaret all right?”

“I don’t yet have any information. Should I send one of our cars to pick you up?”

“That will not be necessary. The security director here at the museum said he will arrange a ride.”

“Very good. I will see you soon. Don’t worry, we will find your wife.” After the call the inspector winced. He hated to make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

As soon as Dr. Browning stepped into the reception area of the police station, he started right in. “My wife Margaret. She is gone.”

Although he stood in front of the officer at the reception desk, he spoke to no one in particular. He didn’t care if anyone understood English. “She is always very careful. Something terrible must have happened. I never should have left her alone in this terrible city.” He rubbed his face, desperate to brush away the fear and panic that choked him.

“Monsieur, s’il vous plaît,” said the officer, pointing to a long wooden bench across from his desk.

The professor had no intention of sitting down. “Is anyone going to help me find my wife?” he said loudly.

“Professor Browning,” said a new voice from behind him. Intimate knowledge of how upset a man could be over losing his wife tempered Inspector Gilliard’s voice. “I will help you. Please come with me.”

Professor Browning whirled toward the voice, eyes wild and desperate. Seeing kindness and calm in the inspector’s eyes gave him hope. “Yes, yes, whatever you need,” he said, and obediently followed Gilliard down a hallway and into another office.

After sitting in the plain wooden chair in front of the inspector’s desk, Professor Browning took a deep breath and asked, “What have you found out? Where is my Margaret?”

Inspector Gilliard paused, knowing he must choose his words carefully. “We do have witnesses who confirm her whereabouts on Rue des Écoles at the time you spoke with her.” Gilliard did not want

to give any details of the brutal triple murder inside the very antique shop where Margaret Browning was shopping. “We have not yet located her, but I’m confident we will. We did find her cell phone.” He placed a black smart phone on the desk.

Phillip Browning recognized the phone. Margaret kept it with her at all times. It was a running joke between the two of them that she would leave him before she would leave that phone. His heart pounded in his chest. “Witnesses? To what?”

“There is no need to panic. We are investigating every possibility.

It is standard police procedure.”

“You haven’t seen panic. I may be merely an academic with no sense of your police work, but I’m an intelligent man, Inspector. And I know you are keeping something from me. This is my wife we are talking about, please.”

“There has been a murder in the vicinity. Not your wife,” the inspector quickly added. “There is likely no connection at all.”

“Oh, dear God,” said the professor.

The inspector had the same sentiment. He did not mention that a witness had seen a woman fitting Margaret Browning’s description getting into a police van near the scene. Or that the van had been found several blocks away, along with three dead policemen and no sign of the woman. The Director-general was already raining fire on the police department to find the killer. He couldn’t let the professor find out the connection.

“Do you know of any reason your wife would be in trouble?”

“No, of course not.”

“Has she been to Paris before?”

“No.”

“How were the two of you getting along?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I am looking for a reason for her disappearance. Sometimes with a spouse the cause is, how shall I say it, closer to home.”

“I assure you that our marital relationship had nothing to do with her disappearance. Moreover, it is none of your business. I demand you do something to find my wife. Otherwise, I shall be forced to go to the British Embassy.”

The inspector’s attempt to sidetrack the professor had blown up in his face. He said stiffly, “I have a half dozen men tracking down every lead. We will find her. Let us do our job. You should go to your hotel in the event that she shows up there.” Gilliard called the front desk and arranged for a car to take the professor home. When an officer came to escort the professor, Gilliard said, “I will personally contact you as soon as we know anything. I have your cell number.”

Once outside, Professor Browning refused to go to back to the hotel. “Take me to the British Embassy or I march right back inside.”

The officer decided bringing the professor back into the station would be worse for his career. Ten minutes later he dropped the professor at the front gate to the embassy.

Using the intercom, the professor gained entry into the embassy compound by briefly explaining his predicament. The main hall of the building was decorated with intricate gold leaf that was at least one hundred fifty years old and the walls displayed portraits of English kings going back even further. On another day he might have felt compelled to study them more closely. Today he barely noticed.

A pleasant young woman hustled out to meet him. “Professor Browning, I presume,” she said, offering her hand. “Please, follow me. The deputy ambassador is eager to see you.”

The expressed urgency gave the professor hope. He followed the woman into an office no less ornate than the hall. The queen looked down from the wall behind a small man seated at a desk that seemed too large for his petite stature.

“Deputy Ambassador, this is Professor Phillip Browning,” said the woman. “Professor—the Deputy Ambassador, Reginald Hamm.” As the men shook hands, the woman left the room, closing the heavy carved wooden door behind her.

“Please be seated. I have received word from the police that you think your wife has been the victim of foul play.”

“Not think. I know.” Browning told his story to the ambassador who listened intently.

The ambassador nodded frequently until the professor paused for a breath. “I have been assured that the local police are searching city wide for her as we speak,” said the ambassador, continuing to nod. “I’m sure she will turn up soon.”

The professor knew patronizing when he heard it. “Look—Deputy Ambassador, is it? The police are hiding something from me. They mentioned a murder. I want you to force them to cooperate. I demand it,” he said, raising his voice to a volume he was not comfortable using.

“I can understand your frustration. But you must keep in mind it has only been a few hours. There is a matter of police protocol. I will check into the investigation.” The ambassador kept nodding, like one of those bobble-head dolls. “I will stay in close contact with the inspector who is handling the case. Otherwise, there is nothing I can do. My driver can take you to your hotel.”

Just like that Professor Browning found himself walking back down the hallway to the front of the building. Only hours ago he had been passionately engaged in his research while his wife Margaret enjoyed Paris. Now she was missing, maybe dead and being referred to as “the case.” Staggered by the realization no one was going to help him, he steadied himself against the wall beneath a portrait of Prince Charles. He remembered a news story about a man who, after being refused insurance, went berserk and shot up the company offices. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t own a gun.

The pleasant woman greeted him in the entry hall and walked him to the door. Just outside, she grabbed his arm gently. “Here. Call this number. My brother met him at Oxford. He can help.” She slipped a card into his jacket pocket. “I’m so sorry. I hope your wife turns up safe.”

Before he could say anything she turned and went back inside.

The diplomatic car pulled up in front of the steps. “Sir, where are you staying?” said the driver as he opened the rear door.

“The Hotel Regina.”

“Very good, sir.”

The rage had passed, and the professor sank into the car’s soft leather seat, finally giving in to the hopelessness he had been resisting. He idly fingered the business card in his side pocket. What could this one man, a stranger at that, do for his Margaret? He let the card go. He would have to do something himself.

When the driver drove off after dropping him in front of his hotel, Professor Browning lingered near the door, waiting for the car to

disappear from sight. Then he asked the doorman to hail a taxi.

“Rue des Écoles—Les Antiquités D’or shop, s’il vous plaît,” said Browning, as he climbed into the vehicle.

“Yes, sir,” said the cabby, recognizing the professor’s English accent. When the taxi drove past the antique shop there were two policemen posted outside. Barricades and crime scene tape blocked the sidewalk on both sides.

“Pull over here,” said Browning, once they had passed by the shop. He handed the driver too many euros and scanned the crime scene. The driver folded the money and quickly drove away. A closer approach revealed a yellow evidence marker on the ground outside the window of the shop. Browning recalled the moment when he lost contact with his wife, and imagined the phone landing where the marker now stood. “Unrelated murder,” he said out loud, but under his breath. That is what the inspector had said. He was lying. When one of the policemen guarding the shop took notice of him, the professor turned and walked away from the scene. He stopped half a block away and sat down at a small outside cafe. Realizing he had no plan and no clue what to do next, he pulled the business card from his pocket.

The card featured an embossed gold crown over a falcon holding a sword in the upper left corner. The name Raja Williams was printed across the middle of the card. Beneath was a phone number. As a scholar of literature, the professor couldn’t help noting that the font was 14 point Baskerville Bold. He had no idea who this Raja Williams was, but he needed help. He pulled out his phone and punched in the number.

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