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Page 39.
 Going down a long, darkly glowing corridor that echoed with voices and footsteps from passing students and faculty, they came to one in a row of doors marked (on wavy, milky glass, in gilded lettering) Recherches. On a small plaque on the wall next to the door was printed information, in black lettering on white plastic, indicating that the matters researched within were of modern sensitivity, perhaps an understatement referring to the deportations of Jews and intellectuals by the Nazis during World War Two.
Inside, they stepped up to a high podium-like counter and waited until a middle-aged man in a dark suit greeted them. He introduced himself as Monsieur Pierre Bondie, manager of the archives for something or other. He was slim, small, and balding with thin gray hair combed back over a sun-browned and spotted scalp. His gray plastic-rimmed glasses looked outsized for his dimensions, and kept threatening to slip down his long nose. His English was impeccable, to Hannah’s joy.
“Madame Tournesol called, and I have your information ready.” He graciously showed them to a table behind the counter. There, under a wall sconce, augmented by the light of an antique brass table lamp, Hannah and Yves sat side by side as he opened what looked like a shoebox. He lifted out a file binder tied with a string (resembling a shoe string) and peeled the marbled-looking brownish cardboard stock covers aside to reveal a thick stack of yellowing, aging papers written thickly in fountain pen long ago. He sat with them for a few minutes, zealously guarding his documents while Yves carefully leaved through them a page at a time.
After Monsieur Bondie was satisfied that they were not going to destroy or steal the records, and went to other rooms to do other business, Yves remarked under his breath: “This is odd.”
Hannah noticed the name Leonardo da Vinci as Yves spoke. “Yes, dear?”
Yves pointed his fingertips at some crude but orderly, neat looking drawings done in the same fading bluish fountain pen. “Looks like a moon, doesn’t it?”
“Hah,” she said. “Well, Leonardo was a world-class scientist. A jack of all trades, but most importantly a thinker. Maybe this was some astronomical work.”
“I am trying to follow Professor Wandrous’ notes. It’s difficult, because he seems to write backwards, in code, and abbreviates a lot.”
She offered: “So these were his private notes, intended for him to review at his leisure.”
Yves shook his head. “These are notes and drawings made by Professor Brouillard.” He flipped down into the middle of the stack of papers. The papers were of different dimensions, and types, and even cuts. Some pages were thick enough to be blotters with frayed, pulpy edges. Others were sharp enough to cut skin. “Look here.” He pointed. “Wandrous’ handwriting was blockier, and mostly written in pencil.”
Hannah tapped her fingernail on a line of writing. “He’s using a Number One lead. How odd. That’s how the entry for Claudette Vervain was written in Daddy’s journal.”
“So there is a connection,” Yves said.
“Yes, except Wandrous was at least thirty years dead when that entry was made by my Dad.”
“So Wandrous didn’t come back and write in your Dad’s journal.”
“Nope. So who did?”
Yves stared at her. “You know something I don’t?”
“Just a guess.” She pointed to her heart. “My gut. My heart.”
He thought about it for a few minutes. “Let’s make copies of all this if we can.”
They consulted with Monsieur Bondie, who told them: “There will be a slight charge, just nominal. And I estimate it will take at least three days, but yes, we can provide you with copies. Madame Tournesol has already vouched for you, so your credentials are good.” He escorted them back to the recéption. “You may call me in about two or three days and I will be glad to update you. You can pick up the copy or we can ship it to you.”
“We’ll pick it up,” Hannah said. “Can’t wait.”
Outside on the sidewalk, they stood uncertainly for a moment. “What do you want to do?” Yves asked as he shuffled his feet and had his hands in his pockets.
She gave him a friendly rap with the back of her fist. “We’re not far from that address, the Rue de la Belle Ferronière. I have a feeling if we go back there and poke around, we might learn something.”
He shook his head in affectionate amazement. “Being with you is an adventure. Come on, let’s go. Maybe we can stop for a beer in the Bercy Village.”
They linked arms and strode toward the nearest Métro station. “Wine, not beer. Sacrilege.” She meant of course that Bercy was a wine warehousing district, now converted to a modern tourist attraction called Bercy Village. He laughed and gave her arm a slight tug. “So call me a heretic.”
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