Chapter Twelve
Christine rose from the table, keeping herself as calm as she could with her pulse pounding like thunder in her veins.
"Raoul, Inspector Giry," she said, "will you please excuse me for a moment."
She caught Raoul's questioning look and smiled at the two men.
"I've just recognized an old friend. Someone I haven't seen in some time. I won't be long."
She took a deep breath as she made her way through the maze of tables, the mingled voices of the club's patrons seemed to swarm around her as she approached the piano.
She leaned toward the man, laid a haid on his arm...
Startled by her unexpected gesture, he looked up from the sheets of music.
"My God! Christine! I never...I never expected to see you here!"
She smiled down at him.
"Good evening, Sam."
He looked over his shoulder at the stage where the band was still playing, then he stood and took both her hands.
"Christine, it is so good to see you again. You look lovelier than ever!"
"Thank you, Sam. It's good to see you looking well."
He took his place at the piano before speaking again.
"Christine, did my note reach you in Marseille?"
He was almost sorry he'd asked her for he saw her eyes shimmers as if with tears. But he could see that she would not let herself cry then and there.
"Yes. I received. Sam, tell me...please. How did he...how did Erik die?"
Sam Reyer let his thin fingers rest on the keys and said nothing.
"Please, tell me," she repeated, "I can bear it."
The old pianist looked at his reflection in the massive mirror across from him. How much could he tell her?
"I don't know, Christine. I simply don't know. A friend...a friend found him...found his body in Pere Lachaise."
Christine closed her eyes as if that could prevent her from picturing Erik...poor Erik lying dead in among the tombs. She had heard accounts...overheard Raoul speaking of the terrible deaths caused by the Nazis...she felt her heart shattering anew at the thought.
"Perhaps I was wrong, Sam. I don't think I could bear to know more."
He reached up and gave her hand a friendly squeeze.
"It's just as well you weren't there, Christine. He wouldn't have wanted you to endure that."
She looked at the songs arranged on the piano.
"Do you ever play any of his songs?"
"No," Sam said, shaking his head, "not since Paris. And they were such fine songs, too."
"Do you remember any of them?"
"Remember any? My dear girl, I remember all of them."
"Then play one for me now, Sam. Please."
She looked around the club, towards the bar, towards a door that no doubt let to a gambling room for select patrons.
"That is, if your boss would not mind."
Sam shrugged. He knew his boss would mind, that the evening's music had been selected and no change was allowed. But he could not refuse Christine...not when so many of those songs were written for her. Besides, it would be good to hear her voice again.
As the band ceased to play, he tried a few notes from memory.
"Do you recall this one, Christine?"
See a bird, simply flying above the rooftop out of London, flying, simply flying in the sky. Not a word, but imploring me follow, follow I can hear him crying as his sings his last words..
And you thought the man at the piano was...
Oh, the song at the end...it's "Simply Flying," one of the final recordings made by the late, wonderful Steve Barton.