The Red Notebook Read Online Free PDF Page A

Laurent must have dropped it as he was hurriedly putting everything back in the bag.
    ‘You’re not going to tell me it’s your daughter’s.’
    ‘No, it’s not my daughter’s. I can explain, if you wait a moment.’ He fetched the bag from his wardrobe and set it on the coffee table.
    ‘It just gets better,’ murmured Dominique, amazed by Laurent’s brazen gesture. ‘She actually leaves her things here.’
    ‘No, it’s not that at all! You’ll laugh when I tell you the truth.’
    ‘Go on then, Laurent, make me laugh.’
    ‘I found the bag in the street.’
    ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ Dominique’s face was suddenly impassive and Laurent experienced the vertigo of the falsely accused who finds that absolutely no one believes him, not even his own lawyer.
    ‘No,’ stammered Laurent, ‘I don’t think you’re an idiot. I found it yesterday in the street. In Rue du Passe-Musette to be precise.’
    Dominique nodded slowly, but her expression was getting colder and colder.
    ‘A full bag, in the street …’
    ‘Yes, a stolen bag; it had been stolen,’ replied Laurent.
    ‘And what was it doing in your cupboard, this stolen bag?’
    Laurent opened his mouth to reply but he didn’t get the chance.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me this fanciful tale last night?’
    ‘Well, because—’
    ‘Because I wasn’t supposed to find the hairgrip on the carpet!’ Dominique cut him off heatedly.
    Laurent was speechless.
    ‘The first thing I could smell here was her perfume,’ went on Dominique, walking unseeingly round the room. ‘I should have suspected something, you were being weird …’
    ‘It wasn’t her perfume. Well, yes, it was, but it was me who sprayed it,’ he said, rummaging around in the bag. ‘Where’s thebottle got to? I’ll show you; it’s here somewhere. Why can you never find anything in a handbag?’ Laurent was getting annoyed. ‘Here it is,’ he exclaimed triumphantly. He pressed the nozzle and a light spray fanned out in the morning light.
    ‘I’m impressed,’ commented Dominique soberly. ‘You can tell her that I don’t like her perfume.’
    Laurent heard the door slam. He was left standing stock still in the middle of the sitting room, the black bottle of Habanita in his hand.
    He hastily pulled on his clothes so that he could run after her, but Dominique had already found a taxi, which was disappearing round a corner of the square. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Laurent didn’t bother to leave a message. Instead he sank down onto a stool at the counter of the Jean-Bart, where Jean Martel had just returned from some early morning antique hunting. The antique dealer had laid out several snuff boxes and was examining them with a pocket magnifying glass.
    ‘It’s like an investigation,’ said the old trader; ‘you have to choose a clue and see where it leads.’
    ‘And what is the clue?’ Laurent asked him wearily.
    ‘There’s a partially erased coat of arms on this one – I think it’s a count’s. If I can identify him, perhaps I can find out where it came from.’
    Laurent nodded, paid for his coffee then went back up to his flat. The bag was on the table beside the note. Perhaps we can discuss it one day. Or perhaps not. That’s up to you . He would call her later in the day. It was very unfair – it certainly looked as if he had done something wrong, but he had the right to defend himself, to explain properly. Although that was what he had done and Dominique hadn’t believed him.
    After another cup of coffee, he looked at his emails. More spam including the dog umbrellas – they were certainly persistent.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Meeting with ME!
     
    Hey Brainy Bookwhizz
    Are we still on for Monday evening? Meet me at Chez François at exactly six o’clock. It’s that café with the tables outside near the lycée, up on the left in front of the big tree and the statue, the one we had lunch at last