Picking Up The Pieces

Chapter 4

The instant François and I realized that the pair of shoes protruding from beneath the oak desk contained a pair of feet, we rushed to kneel beside him.

“He’s breathing,” I said, watching his chest rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths. I gently placed my fingertips on the pulse point of his wrist. “It’s strong and steady,” I said, counting off the beats against the second hand on my watch. Crouching lower, I could see a gash above the man’s ear, the grey hair around it matted with coagulating blood and the bashed ear turning blue in the light from the windows.

Suddenly the muscles under the white cotton shirt twitched and the man groaned. Without a word, François and I turned him gently onto his back. His eyes fluttered open and his hand reached for the injury on his head, but I stopped him while I dug around in my bag for a tissue. As Francois assisted him to a sitting position, I dabbed at a trickle of blood.

“What happened?” I asked, then switched to French and tried again. “Q’est-ce qui ce passe?”

“It’s all right,” he said, sending me a pain-filled glance. “We can speak English. I assume that you are Madame Moss,” he said.

“That’s right,” I replied. “Are you Dr. Bernaud?”

“Yes,” he replied, sitting up straighter, “but as you can see, I have recently had other visitors.” He suddenly noticed François beside me. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Bernaud,” I said, “this is François Trouville. He is an old friend of Neil Bryant’s.” They shook hands then François helped the doctor to his feet.

“My goodness,” Dr. Bernaud exclaimed after settling into his desk chair and surveying the room. “What a mess this is!”

“Who did this?” I asked, staring at the destruction around us.

“I have no idea who they were,” Dr. Bernaud began, “only that they rushed in here like commandos and began shouting and shoving me, demanding something, and when I didn’t respond how they wished, one of them came after me with that,” he pointed to a stone figure lying on the floor under the window. I bent and picked it up, turning it carefully in my hands. Near the base of the statuette I could see traces of blood, which I wiped with the tissue in my hand, then set it on the corner of the desk. “After that,” Dr. Bernaud continued, “everything went black.”

“Are you feeling all right?” I inquired. “We could call an ambulance or take you to see a doctor.”

Dr. Bernaud waved this idea away. “I have a bit of a headache, but I will be fine.”

“How many these guys?” François inquired.

“Just two.” He looked around the room and sighed.

“Would you like us to help clean up your office?” I asked. The task looked gargantuan.

“Oh, goodness, no,” replied the doctor. “I will have someone come in and help me tomorrow. I have an assistant who comes in twice a week. Too bad she is not here today. She is of formidable proportions, and has a temperament to match.” He smiled briefly and put a hand to his battered ear. “Well, at least this has stopped bleeding. I will clean it up in a minute. However, Madame Moss,” he said, turning his attention on me, “we must now discuss your mission.” He picked up a pair of glasses from the floor under the desk and held them up to the light. Satisfied that they had not been smashed, he polished them with the front of his shirt and settled them upon the bridge of his nose, gingerly tucking the temple wires over his ears.

“Yes,” I agreed. “What can you tell me?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur.”