Adele frowned. “Hang on, were you eavesdropping?”
“Just standing by in case you needed anything,” he said, unperturbed by her hostile tone.
John, though, didn’t seem to care and instead said, “What about Mr. Rodin?”
“Ah, yes. I’d been waiting to tell you until you were finished in here. But about an hour ago, I received a call from Mr. Granet—the conductor.”
Adele frowned now, crossing her arms and facing off across the small, dank room. “And?” she prompted.
“He said Mr. Rodin went missing about an hour ago, after we left the station.”
“Missing?” John said. “Did he mention he was leaving to anyone?”
“Not according to the conductor. He vanished. They don’t know where he is.”
Adele shared a long look with John. “Well,” she said. “It’s looking worse and worse for our friendly barkeep, isn’t it?”
John sighed, rubbing a hand through his slicked hair. “He couldn’t have gotten far, could he? He doesn’t have his own vehicle.”
“Maybe he called a cab,” said Adele. “Or maybe he took another train.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s still at the station. We’d best start looking unless we want Mr. Rodin to get another shot at some unwitting passenger.”
Adele nodded and marched out of the room, speaking over her shoulder, “Let’s check any train that’s left in the last hour. See if any of the nearby taxi companies were dispatched to the area. And barring that, we search the station, from the top to the basement. No stone unturned. Wherever Mr. Rodin is hiding, we need to find him now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adele and John stood before the stationary Normandie Express, glancing at the four other police officers Allard had procured to search for the missing bartender. John’s hand braced against the rail of the small balcony at the front of the locomotive as he eyed the police. “Everyone have a picture of the suspect?” he said, his voice booming in the broad station.
The police all regard Allard, who was flashing a printout of Mr. Rodin’s face.
“No new trains left in the last hour,” John continued, “and a cursory look at the security cameras displayed no one matching Rodin’s description leaving the station. Which means he slipped away undetected, or he’s still here, hiding inside the station.”
The police all nodded in response. Allard then broke them off into groups of two and directed them toward portions of the station for a grid-search pattern. John hopped down from where he’d been standing on the small balcony and approached Adele. “Where do you want to start?” he said.
She thought for a moment. “Maybe the restrooms? Though he might be wanting to blend in.”
“Perhaps,” said John. “Think he’s armed?”
Adele winced. She didn’t want to imagine a shootout in a train station full of commuters. “Let’s hope not,” she murmured.
Then, together, John and Adele moved through the side door which Allard had brought them through and down a tunnel, stepping out into the main portion of the station. This particular train station wasn’t the busiest Adele had ever seen. A few people moved about the platforms, some of them clutching bags or tickets, waiting for their rides to arrive.
As she moved along with John, walking briskly to keep up with his long stride, she glanced at the faces of the passengers. A large woman sat on a bench, munching on a sesame bun. A red-haired man leaned against a glass partition advertising a perfume. A family of five gathered around a ticket collector who was standing in front of the compartment to a more modest train when compared to the Normandie Express.
Adele and John passed a small restaurant, with a few customers sitting out on faux patio seating. She scanned the customers, but didn’t spot Mr. Rodin.
Her eyes did land on a small pile of books near one of the customers. Her own mind shifted, thinking back to red leather seating in front of a small fireplace. She considered her old friend Robert Henry, and his penchant for books and all things literature. As she thought of him, she closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she’d been able to contact him back at DGSI. She’d need to make another effort soon. Days were passing quickly, where Robert was concerned, and while his health still seemed a bit improved, eventually, if the doctors were to be believed, his case was terminal.
Adele sighed, ripping her gaze away from the small stack of books likely purchased from one of the station stores.
They continued on, still in silence, moving toward a cafe at the back of the station. Adele spotted two of Allard’s officers also meandering in the same direction. She watched as one of the officers drew near the cafe, peered through the glass window, and then went stiff.
The officer nudged her partner and pointed. The second officer frowned, his hand darting to his hip holster.
“John,” Adele said, slowly. “I think they found something.”
John followed her glance and just then, Adele heard shouting. The first officer who’d looked through the glass raised her voice and shouted, “Martin Rodin, hands where I can see them!”
Two firearms leapt into the police officers’ hands, now pointing through the reflective glass. Adele cursed and broke into a sprint, with John racing behind her. Adele watched, still racing, as the two officers entered the small cafe.
She gritted her teeth, darting around a family of five, while John bellowed, “Move out of my way!”
She reached the cafe’s glass windows a few moments later, her own hand pressed against her holster. Through the smudged glass, she spotted a single customer sitting at a round table, his hands jutting into the air, while the two officers pointed their weapons at his head, shouting instructions.
Adele jostled into the cafe, pushing the glass door with her shoulder and, breathing heavily, coming to a halt inside the room. He was stammering, while the first officer shouted, “Get on the ground! On the ground!”
“What is this?” the man gasped. He had ferret-like features, with an angled face that all seemed to come to a point at the end of a large noise. “Please,” he said, “I was just here to speak to a friend—a friend!”
The cafe attendant was leaning over a counter, past the cash register, and shouting, “What are you doing to him! He didn’t do anything!”
Adele moved quickly over. She glanced toward the attendant. “Do you know this man?”
The middle-aged woman, who was wearing a green uniform and pinstriped apron, nodded quickly. “Martin. He’s a friend. He said he was being sequestered nearby and came by to say hello! What is this?”
Adele looked back toward where Martin was still trying to protest, flustered. She paused, though, watching as one of his hands darted into his pocket. Her eyes narrowed. And then suddenly, Rodin’s hand reemerged. He yelled and pulled out a pepper spray, spraying it into the eyes of the two officers.
“Run, Martin!” shouted the woman behind the counter.
Rodin actually paused long enough to blow the older lady a kiss before leaping over the table, slamming his shoulder into John and sprinting out the door.
Adele’s stomach twisted as she watched, her own cry of protest dying on her lips as John reeled back, sent tumbling over the nearest table. The woman behind the counter screamed. “Don’t touch him! He didn’t do anything!”