Black Diamond

I could come and live with you in Paris.
    “I’m still on the personal staff of the minister of the interior, in a section run by the brigadier.” She was all business now.
    “Does that make you a
barbouze
like Hercule?”
    “Do people really use that old slang these days?” She laughed. “No, I’m still part of the Police Nationale. Mostly, I do liaison, which means keeping an eye on what other police and security forces are doing so that our minister avoids the embarrassment of being surprised. You’d be amazed how much politicians hate to be surprised.”
    “So what’s happening in Bordeaux?”
    “Can’t tell you,” she said, and then grinned. His heartwarmed to see it, the first genuine expression her face had worn since their meeting. They’d been dancing around each other, too aware of the history between them to lower their guard. That grin was the first sign that it was the same Isabelle he’d fallen in love with. “It’s all straightforward stuff. Liaison with customs and the military and Europol, and our neighbors across the Channel,” she went on.
    “The British?”
    She nodded. “I just did six weeks in London, seconded to their counterterrorism unit, and they sent one of theirs to Paris. We work closely together on radical Muslims, but this latest operation is about illegal immigration, which is why the navies are involved, ours and theirs. It’s all run by organized crime.”
    “The brigadier thought Hercule’s death was more important than that?”
    “Well, perhaps more urgent. And it’s not his death that matters, it’s his files. He ran a big section of the old SDECE so it’s routine to check over his papers. And then his being murdered makes it a real problem. No surprises, remember?”
    “What’s your role in all of that?”
    “I just babysit the house until the archives team gets down from Paris, which should be later today. They were taking a high-speed train to Bordeaux. But if you found anything interesting while poking around …”
    “I know he was reading about the Algerian War and about British intelligence in World War II. He was writing something that looked like memoirs. It’s that folder on the desk, but it’s a long way from being done. And I found a copy of his will in that central drawer, but I didn’t open it.”
    “Show me,” she said, pulling a pair of surgical gloves from her shoulder bag. She opened the drawer and took out theenvelope. It was unsealed, so she removed a thick wad of papers, unfolded them and sat down on an easy chair to read.
    “I presume I can go, now that you’re here to look after the premises.”
    “What?” She looked up. “Just hold on a second, Bruno. There’s something interesting here about you. He says you and the baron are the only real friends he’s made since his retirement. He’s left the baron his wine cellar. Some journal that he kept on truffles goes to you, along with his old Land Rover.”
    “What did you say? His journal? And his Land Rover?” He sat down. He felt overwhelmed with a mixture of surprise and affection for Hercule. He had never been bequeathed anything before. The pleasure faded as he thought of Hercule, so animated when last they met.
    “He’s also left you some books. A lot of books, it sounds like. He must have been really attached to you.” She looked up and smiled widely at him. “You’re thinking of the Land Rover, I can tell.” She laughed. “Oh Bruno, I do like you.”
    He felt himself blushing, but also profoundly moved. He’d respected the old man deeply, but he’d never suspected that Hercule thought of him as anything more than a casual hunting companion and as an amateur truffle cultivator. To bequeath his journal, a master’s guide to the truffles of the region and of the secret sites where they might be found, was a mark of real affection. But had there been no family?
    “Who is his main heir?” he asked. “Is that Asian woman mentioned?”
    “I’m still reading. I can’t see anything about the woman in the photo, but there is a reference to his late wife. There’s nothing specific about the young girl in the photo. The main beneficiary is a scholarship trust fund he seems to have establishedmore than twenty years ago, for the education of Vietnamese who fought for France. There’s more that goes to the Daughters of St. Paul, an order of teaching nuns. And there’s a codicil. The house and contents, less the books, go to a woman called Gioan Linh