Jean Claude leaned across the table. "Tu aussi. I cannot tell you how happy I am that we have finally met."

"I am, too," Toni said softly.

The music began. Jean Claude looked at Toni. "Would you like to dance?"

"I'd love to."

Dancing was one of Toni's passions, and when she got out on the dance floor, she forgot everything else. She was a little girl dancing with her father, and her mother said, "The child is clumsy."

Jean Claude was holding her close. "You're a wonderful dancer."

"Thank you." Do you hear that, Mother?

Toni thought, I wish this could go on forever.

On the way back to the hotel, Jean Claude said, "Ch`erie, would you like to stop at my house and have a nightcap?"

Toni hesitated. "Not tonight, Jean Claude."

"Tomorrow, peut-etre?"

She squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow."

At 3:00 A.M„ Police Officer Rene Picard was in a squad car cruising down Grande Allee in the Quartier Montcalm when he noticed that the front door of a two-story redbrick house was wide open. He pulled over to the curb and stepped out to investigate. He walked to the front door and called, "Bon soir. Y a-t-il, quelqu'un?"

There was no answer. He stepped into the foyer and moved toward the large drawing room. "C'est la police. Y a-t-il, quelqu'un?"

There was no response. The house was unnaturally quiet. Unbuttoning his gun holster, Officer Picard began to go through the downstairs rooms, calling out as he moved from room to room. The only response was an eerie silence. He returned to the foyer. There was a graceful staircase leading to the floor above. "Allo!" Nothing.

Officer Picard started up the stairs. When he got to the top of the stairs, his gun was in his hand. He called out again, then started down the long hallway. Ahead, a bedroom door was ajar. He walked over to it, opened it wide and turned pale. "Mon Dieu!"

At five o'clock that morning, in the gray stone and yellow brick building on Story Boulevard, where Centrale de Police is located. Inspector Paul Cayer was asking, "What do we have?" Officer Guy Fontaine replied, "The victim's name is

Jean Claude Parent. He was stabbed at least a dozen times, and his body was castrated. The coroner says that the murder took place in the last three or four hours. We found a restaurant receipt from Pavilion in Parent's jacket pocket. He had dinner there earlier in the evening. - We got the owner of the restaurant out of bed."

"Yes?"

"Monsieur Parent was at Pavilion with a woman named Toni Prescott, a brunette, very attractive, with an English accent. The manager of Monsieur Parent's jewelry store said that earlier that day. Monsieur Parent had brought a woman answering that description into the store and introduced her as Toni Prescott. He gave her an expensive emerald ring. We also believe that Monsieur Parent had sex with someone before he died, and that the murder weapon was a steel-blade letter opener. There were fingerprints on it. We sent them on to our lab and to the FBI. We are waiting to hear."

"Have you picked up Toni Prescott?"

"Non."

"And why not?"

"We cannot find her. We have checked all the local hotels. We have checked our files and the files of the FBI. She has no birth certificate, no social security number, no driver's license."

"Impossible! Could she have gotten out of the city?"

Officer Fontaine shook his head. "I don't think so, Inspector. The airport closed at midnight. The last train out of Quebec City left at five-thirty-five last night. The first train this morning will be at six-thirty-nine. We have sent a description of her to the bus station, the two taxi companies and the limousine company."

"For God's sake, we have her name, her description and her fingerprints. She can't just have disappeared."

One hour later, a report came in from the FBI. They were unable to identify the fingerprints. There was no record of Toni Prescott.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FIVE days after Ashley returned from Quebec City, father was on the telephone. "I just got back."

"Back?" It took Ashley a moment to remember. "Oh, Your patient in Argentina. How is he?"

"He'll live."

"I'm glad."

"Can you come up to San Francisco for dinner tomorrow?"

She dreaded the thought of facing him, but she could think of no excuse. "All right."

"I'll see you at Restaurant Lulu. Eight o'clock."

Ashley was waiting at the restaurant when her father walked in. Again, she saw the admiring glances of recognition on people's faces. Her father was a famous man. Would he risk everything he had just to—?

He was at the table.

"It's good to see you, sweetheart. Sorry about our Christmas dinner."

She forced herself to say, "So am I."

She was staring at the menu, not seeing it, trying to get her thoughts together.

"What would you like?"

"I—I'm not really hungry," she said.

"You have to eat something. You're getting too thin."

"I'll have the chicken."

She watched her father as he ordered, and she wondered if she dared to bring up the subject.

"How was Quebec City?"

"It was very interesting," Ashley said. "It's a beautiful place."

"We must go there together sometime."

She made a decision and tried to keep her voice as casual as possible. "Yes. By the way... last June I went to my ten-year high school reunion in Bedford."

He nodded. "Did you enjoy it?"

"No." She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I—I found out that the day after you and I left for London, Jim Cleary's body... was found. He had been stabbed... and castrated." She sat there, watching him, waiting for a reaction.

Dr. Patterson frowned. "Cleary? Oh, yes. That boy who was panting after you. I saved you from him, didn't I?"

What did that mean? Was it a confession? Had he saved her from Jim Cleary by killing him?

Ashley took a deep breath and went on. "Dennis Tibble was murdered the same way. He was stabbed and castrated." She watched her father pick up a roll and carefully butter it.

When he spoke, he said, "I'm not surprised, Ashley. Bad people usually come to a bad end."

And this was a doctor, a man dedicated to saving lives. I'll never understand him, Ashley thought. I don't think I want to.

By the time dinner was over, Ashley was no closer to the truth.

Toni said, "I really enjoyed Quebec City, Alette. I'd like to go back someday. Did you have a good time?"

Alette said shyly, "I enjoyed the museums."

"Have you called your boyfriend in San Francisco yet?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

"I'll bet you want him to be, don't you?"

"Forse. Perhaps."

"Why don't you call him?"

"I don't think it would be proper to—"

"Call him."

They arranged to meet at the De Young Museum.

"I really missed you," Richard Melton said. "How was Quebec?"

"Va bene."

"I wish I had been there with you."

Maybe one day, Alette thought hopefully. "How is the painting coming along?"

"Not bad. I just sold one of my paintings to a really well-known collector."

"Fantastic!" She was delighted. And she could not help thinking. It's so different when I'm with him. If it were anyone else, I would have thought, Who is tasteless enough to pay money for your paintings? or Don't give up your day job or a hundred other cruel remarks. But/ don't do that with Richard.

It gave Alette an incredible feeling of freedom, as though she had found a cure for some debilitating disease.

They had lunch at the museum.

"What would you like?" Richard asked. "They have great roast beef here."

"I'm a vegetarian. I'll just have a salad. Thank you."

"Okay."

A young, attractive waitress came over to the table. "Hello, Richard."

"Hi, Bernice."

Unexpectedly, Alette felt a pang of jealousy. Her reaction surprised her.