Chapter Sixteen
"Ah, Chrsitine! What a very charming surprise!"
"Inspector, earlier you spoke of a Monsieur Erik. I should like to ask you about him.""
"Of course, ma cherie," the Inspector replied, sliding his stool closer to hers, "perhaps you are thinking of singing here, after all. You would be a welcome addition to the place, I dare say. May I buy you a drink?"
"No, but thank you," she said, hoping her voice would not betray her eagerness, her anxiousness, "please, what can you tell me about him?"
"There's not a great deal to say about him. He has few close friends here in Casablanca. Though I do consider myself a good acquaintence, at least. He's a very private man, though La Belle Reve is the most popular establishment in the city."
"How long has he lived here?"
"I don't quite know," Inspector Giry admitted as he accepted another brandy from Daniel, "I'm almost ashamed to say that. It is, after all, my business to know these things. I'd say eight or nine months. He opened this place about five or six months ago. It used to be called Madeleine's, but the previous owner was most inept. I don't know if Erik bought the club outright or if he won it at gambling."
Gambling...she remembered seeing Erik play cards in the club...and other games of chance in the back room of La Belle Vivre...she had never seen him lose.
"Where is he from? Do you know?"
"I believe he lived in Paris for many years. But he is not a Frenchman. He may be English...or even an American."
Erik often spoke of "returning" to New York...
"I know it must seem as if I am prying with all these questions, but what does he look like?"
"Ah, well! How exactly does one describe another man to a lovely lady? He is quite tall, very dark hair."
Dark hair...Erik's hair was thick and brown, but not so very dark...perhaps it was someone else, after all.
"Inspector, tell me...what color are his eyes?"
"His eyes, cherie? Well, some might say thay are blue. Others would call them green."
It could only be her Erik...her beloved Erik.
"He does come down into the club from time to time. He doesn't mingle with the patron very much, though. And he doesn't do it very often."
He paused and sipped at his brandy.
"I suppose it's because of the mask," he added.
"A mask," she repeated as if it were some strange and foreign word.
A mask...but why...
"I assume the poor fellow met with some misfortune. He's never spoken of it to me and I respect the man enough not to ask. The piano player's his close friend. They turned up in Casablanca together. But he's never said a word about it, either."
A mask...oh, Erik...what is it...what has happened...why did Sam tell me you were dead?
"So, why the curiousity, ma cherie? Will you be singing for us again?"
"Sing? Oh, no. I don't think so. I am sure my husband would not approve."