CHAPTER 19Robert Lemaire had a solid five-floor house with recently sandblasted granite walls and large bay windows. Incised in the wall near the top of the polished oak entrance door was the name of an architect I’d never heard of and the date the house was built: 1865. A massive housekeeper in an apron opened the door. She had cynical eyes in a fat, motherly face.
I gave her my calling card. “I believe Monsieur Lemaire will be expecting me. If he’s up.”
“They’re both up,” she told me. “She’s more up than he is, I’d say.” She let me step into the entry hall and then shut the door firmly. It locked automatically. Only one lock. People who live on this side of the Parc Monceau don’t worry much about robbery. The area has an abnormal number of cops and private cops to ensure that they don’
