The Mind Man

Chapter forty three

Ted emerged from his hotel onto the Rue de Courcelles soon after breakfast and stood on the sidewalk and waited for a passing taxi. It was well before nine o'clock. The train would not have left London. He had plenty of time. 

"Le Palais D'or on the Rue de Turbigo," he informed the driver as best he could in English. The taxi driver appeared to understand and they struggled through the morning peak hour congestion. When they reached their destination Ted emerged from the taxi and entered the hotel's lobby to wait in line at the reception desk. After some time a young man in a neat red uniform became free. 

"Bonjour." 

"Bonjour Monsieur, comment allez-vous?" 

"Ah...yes...anyway I would like to know if a Mr. Adam Henderson is staying here." 

"I'm sorry sir, but it is a policy of the hotel not to disclose that sort of information." 

Ted put his hand inside his coat and pulled out his ID. "Sorry to have to do this but it's a police matter. I'm Sergeant Farrell from the Sacramento Police Department." 

The man studied the documentation without emotion and then tapped proficiently on a computer keyboard. "I'm sorry sir but he is not at this hotel." 

"Damn!" Ted thought quickly for a moment. He must not be in Paris. 

Back in Sacramento he had recalled Sally's comment about Adam's preference for a particular hotel chain. The children had pointed out the beach where their mother had spoken with this man in a travel book and from that he had deduced the name of the hotel complex behind the beach. A web search had shown that the parent company that operated that particular hotel chain was Excelsior Hotels which in turn was part of a French-based multinational conglomerate - SEP Group. He had then searched for hotels in Paris under the Excelsior Hotels umbrella and had found this one, on the Rue de Turbigo. 

"Could there be another Excelsior hotel in Paris?" 

"Yes there is another over on the Rue Froidevaux near the Fondation Cartier pour l'Art Contemporain." 

How was it possible that he missed it he wondered? Since Sally's departure he had not been able to think clearly. "What number?" 

"What, sir?" 

"What street number?" 

"Ah...let me check for you...yes...here we are...number thirty-four sir. It's a new hotel. It has only just opened." 

"Ah, I see...thanks...see ya." 

"Revoir Monsieur, it is no problem. Have a nice day."

***

At precisely 8:07 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time Lee Forrester slid the throttle lever forward on the Class 373 TransManche Super train. All one thousand, two hundred and ninety-three feet of the high tech, high speed vehicle with seven hundred and thirteen passengers aboard eased effortlessly from St Pancras station for the two hour fifteen minute run through to Gare du Nord in Paris. It wormed its way through the spaghetti of tracks leading it towards outer London until it finally shrugged off the last of industry and houses and was able to accelerate up to its service speed of one hundred and eighty-six miles per hour. The train streaked across the bleak countryside, snaking and banking through long gentle curves with the grace and ease of a ground-hugging jet fighter. In less than forty minutes it would reach the coast. The train's passengers, experiencing barely any sensation of movement, settled comfortably into their journey. Some read, some chatted and some took advantage of the onboard refreshments offered while others simply gazed out at the countryside flashing by lost in thought.