Spark [Sheldon_Sidney]_The_Other_Side_of_Midnight(BookSe | Seite 136

NOELLE
Paris: 1941
8
Christian Barbet was an unhappy man. The bald little detective sat at his desk, a cigarette
between his stained, broken teeth, and gloomily contemplated the folder in front of him.
The information it contained was going to cost him a client. He had been charging Noelle
Page outrageous fees for his services, but it was not only the loss of the income that
saddened him: He would miss the client herself. He hated Noelle Page and yet she was the
most exciting woman he had ever met. Barbet built lurid fantasies around Noelle in which
she always ended up in his power. Now the assignment was about to come to an end, and
he would never see her again. He had kept her waiting in the reception office while he
tried to figure out a way to handle things so that he could squeeze some additional money
out of her to prolong the case. But he reluctantly concluded that there was no way. Barbet
sighed, snuffed out his cigarette, walked over to the door and opened it. Noelle was sitting
on the black imitation leather couch, and as he studied her, his heart caught in his throat
for a moment. It was unfair for any woman to be so beautiful. “Good afternoon,
Mademoiselle,” he said. “Come in.”
She entered his office moving with the grace of a model. It was good for Barbet to
have a name client like Noelle Page, and he was not above dropping her name frequently.
It attracted other clients, and Christian Barbet was not a man to lose any sleep over ethics.
“Please sit down,” he said, indicating a chair. “Can I get you a brandy, an aperitif?”
Part of his fantasy was getting Noelle drunk so that she would beg him to seduce her.
“No,” she replied. “I came for your report.”
The bitch could have had a last drink with him! “Yes,” Barbet said. “As a matter of
fact I have several pieces of news.” He reached over to the desk and pretended to study the
dossier, which he had already memorized.
“First,” he informed her, “your friend was promoted to Captain and transferred to the
one hundred thirty-third squadron, where he was put in command. The field is at Coltisall,
Duxtford, in Cambridgeshire. They flew”—he spoke slowly and deliberately, knowing
that she was not interested in the technical part—“Hurricanes and Spitfire Il’s and then
switched to Mark V’s. They then flew—”
“Never mind,” Noelle interrupted impatiently. “Where is he now?”
Barbet had been waiting for the question. “In the United States.” He saw the reaction
before she could control it, and he took savage satisfaction in it. “In Washington, D.C.,” he
continued.
“On leave?”