Why Pick On ME?

  They said nothing and were still glowering when he made his way up the gangway to the boat. He turned to wave to them but they didn’t wave back. They knew somehow he had fooled them, and they knew he would also fool the French police who were waiting patiently at Dieppe in answer to Rawlins’ telephone message.

  It wasn’t until the Paris train steamed out of the station that Corridon felt reasonably certain he had got away with it. The crossing had been a little tense. The French police at Dieppe had been extremely discourteous. It was still possible more policemen would meet him at the barrier when he arrived in Paris. Rawlins was nothing if not thorough. So when Lorene Feydak passed his compartment, he studiously avoided looking at her, and she passed without giving him a glance.

  Detectives were waiting at the station barrier. As they closed in on him, he saw Lorene making her way unmolested through the barrier, and he greeted the detectives with such an expansive and jeering smile that they knew at once they were wasting their time.

  An hour and a half later, Corridon paid off a taxi outside a modest hotel in Rue de Balzac. He inquired at the desk for Mademoiselle Feydak, pleased to discover his French wasn’t as rusty as he had expected. Mademoiselle Feydak was expecting him, he was told, would he go up.

  Lorene opened the door leading into a big, airy suite, consisting of a bedroom, sitting-room and bathroom.

  “No trouble?” he asked, tossing his hat and coat on a chair and then going over to take her hands in his.

  “They were far too occupied worrying about you to worry about me,” she said, and laughed. “If you’ll give me five minutes I’ll hand them over. I’ve stitched them in my suspender belt.”

  “There’s no immediate hurry,” Corridon said, thinking how beautiful she was. “There’s seven thousand coming to you. It should give you a new start.”

  “Thank you, darling. I was afraid you would say that. I suppose you want to go on from here – alone?”

  “Yes,” Corridon said and put his hands each side of her waist. “But cheer up. You won’t be alone for long. You should be a big success in Paris.”

  She looked up at him.

  “Couldn’t we have a week together?” she asked, her hands on his. “Then I’ll try to be satisfied. You see, I’m utterly shameless.”

  “You once said I wasn’t the kind of man a girl should fall in love with,” Corridon reminded her. “You said the girl was bound to get hurt. Be sensible, Lorene. As soon as I’ve sold the diamonds, we part. You know as well as I do it wouldn’t work.”

  “I believe you’re in love with Marian Howard,” she said, not looking at him. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Corridon said, frowning. “Anyway, she’s in London and I’m in Paris. Let me have the diamonds. We’ll go out and celebrate.”

  He pushed her to the bedroom door.

  “A week,” she said. “Then we part. I won’t make a scene.”

  “Go and get the diamonds,” Corridon said.

  While he waited, he looked down at the bustling street, golden with sunshine. It was still spring, and the women, he thought, looked very gay. Perhaps, after all, a week with Lorene might be fun. Paris could be as lonely as London when you were on your own. It wouldn’t be permanent. She knew that. Firmly he put Marian out of his mind, and after hesitating, he went into the inner room where Lorene was hopefully waiting for him.

  The End