Deadly Jewels by Jeannette de Beauvoir

Always supposing, of course, that you survived the trip.
    Patricia was hopping from one foot to the other when we arrived. I introduced them, and she kept looking around, still moving, not really seeming to be present. “What is the problem?” Julian asked her.
    â€œNothing.” She shrugged and looked around again.
    â€œThen let’s go,” I said, but he put a hand on my arm, stopping me. “Something’s the matter,” he said to her. “Is someone following you?”
    She looked startled. “No,” she said. “Yes. I don’t know.”
    â€œThen let’s take a walk,” Julian said easily, as though nothing could be more natural on a fine Friday afternoon in September. “Where did you leave your gear?”
    â€œAt the museum,” she said. “They let me store things there.”
    â€œGood. We’ll head that way.”
    Three people walking together anywhere is awkward; three people navigating the narrow cobbled streets and alleyways of the Old City is ridiculous, and made carrying on a conversation together nearly impossible. Julian, however, seemed to find it quite comfortable. He engaged Patricia in talking about McGill and a mutual acquaintance there, and in the process he managed to walk behind us, beside us, even in front of us, walking backward and laughing at something she’d said. I thought he was completely out of his mind.
    We reached the museum and he gave us a small formal half bow. “Ladies,” said Julian. “Miss Mason—may I call you Patricia?”
    She nodded, bemused.
    â€œGreat. Patricia is right. We’ve been followed. I’d like you to carry on into the museum and wait for me there. I’m anxious to see this body of yours, but I don’t want us to bring anybody else along with us.”
    â€œThis is your fault!” she hissed at me. “I didn’t want to bring anybody in on this!”
    â€œThey didn’t follow us , Patricia,” I pointed out reasonably. “They followed you. You’re the one who noticed them.” I looked at Julian. “Who are they, anyway?”
    â€œIf you’ll just do as I say,” he responded without bothering to clear the exasperation from his voice, “we just might find out!”
    We did as he said.
    *   *   *
    In the end, of course, he didn’t find out. We sat and chatted with the woman staffing the museum’s front desk about nothing for about twenty minutes before Julian showed up again, slightly pinker under the collar than usual. “We can go now,” he said.
    â€œWho was it?”
    He shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. He picked up the bus near the World Trade Center. Let’s go.”
    â€œDidn’t you follow him?”
    He sighed. “Martine, right now it’s more important for us to figure out whether or not there’s actually anything to investigate here. If he wants more, he’ll be back. We’ll get a second chance. Let’s go.”
    â€œBut what if he wasn’t alone? What if—”
    â€œDo you want to show me this find of yours or not?” he demanded. “Let’s go !”
    We went.
    *   *   *
    Generaloberst Karl Schultz was staring out the window.
    He wasn’t staring at anything in particular; night had already fallen on Berlin, and all he could really see was his own reflection, the reflection of the lit chandelier behind him, and that of the younger man nervously fingering the captain’s uniform cap he was holding.
    He had good reason to be nervous.
    â€œWe have someone in Montréal?”
    â€œYes, Herr General.”
    â€œAnd he has access?” He hadn’t moved from the window, hadn’t turned to face the young officer.
    â€œYes, Herr General.” The captain cleared his throat. “The vault is guarded round the clock by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but he’s obtained access