Chapter 1. Rain and Cigarette Smoke
Commissioner Henri DuPont stood by the window of his office in the Criminal Police on the Quai des Orfèvres and watched the rain lashing the Seine. Not the light, romantic kind pictured on Parisian postcards, but a cold, autumnal, Nordic downpour that forced passers-by to huddle in their coats and hurry for cover.
Today, the Sophie Legrand case had resurfaced.
"The Black Widow" – that's what the newspapers had already christened her, reveling in the death of her third husband, François Sarkozy. Officially – a suicide after a major gambling loss at the races. Unofficially – an astonishing sequence: three wealthy husbands, three tragic deaths, three inheritances. Too neat a chain for mere coincidence.
The case had been closed due to pressure from above; there was a lack of evidence. But the old Comte de Laroche, the last deceased's uncle, who had come to the station with a cane and tears in his eyes, would not let DuPont's conscience rest. His conscience – the last thing not yet archived in this building.
Henri reached for a stack of papers. His gaze fell on the pocket watch lying on the desk. It had belonged to his father and had stopped on the day he died, many years ago. 21:34. An eternal reminder that not all mysteries are solved, and not all justice triumphs. He slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket, feeling the familiar cold of the metal.
He did not summon her to the station. Instead, he booked a room at the Ritz. The arena had to be neutral, yet comfortable for the prey. So she would relax. So she would make a mistake.
The taxi braked sharply at the hotel, jolting Sophie Legrand out of her thoughts. The driver muttered something under his breath about eternal traffic jams. She did not wait for him to get out and open her door. Slamming the door loudly, she strode with a light, almost dancing gait towards the main entrance, leaving behind the irritated driver and all that dreary weather. Her appearance was like a flash of light in the grey Parisian gloom.
The doorman, an elderly man with impeccable manners, swung the heavy door open for her, and his stony face was momentarily illuminated by respectful admiration. Sophie gifted him a dazzling, practiced-to-automatic smile and slipped inside. The warm air of the lobby, saturated with the scents of expensive perfumes and flowers, enveloped her. Without slowing her pace, she headed for the reception desk, her haute couture red dress leaving a trace in space like a comet's tail.
