Nancy walked down the front stairs, biting her lip with a puzzled frown. It hardly seemed possible that a blackmailer—any blackmailer—would run the risk of discovery over such small amounts of money. And was it only hysteria, or did Monique have reason to believe that she had narrowly escaped being a murder victim?

The chauffeur was waiting outside the hospital to drive Nancy back to the Cherbourg Building. She was silent most of the way, thinking through what she had learned so far. Monique’s story seemed convincing. Nancy was sure she honestly thought she hadn’t taken enough of the sedative to cause any harm. Had someone slipped something else into the bottle?

“I have one more question,” she said, leaning forward to talk to the chauffeur as they wove through the heavy late-afternoon traffic on Université Avenue. “Do you have any idea how the blackmailer could have learned about your drug use?”

Jacques shook his head. “No,” he replied, “but I did spend two years in prison, so I suppose it is a matter of public record.” He hesitated, glancing nervously at Nancy. “I even changed my name from Xavier to Olivier on my application for this job—just to make sure my past was not found out. I don’t know how the blackmailer has managed to trace me.”

“Merci,” Nancy replied. “Oh, and one more thing, Jacques. Please be careful.”

“But why?”

“Because at least one person,” Nancy said slowly, “believes that our blackmailer may also be trying his hand at murder.”

In the lunchroom at the Cherbourg Building, Nancy met with the file clerk, Becky Evans. Becky was a nervous little blonde with large frightened eyes. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody was listening.

“I’ve heard about Monique,” Becky whispered. “Is—is she going to be all right?”

Nancy nodded. “She’s still a little groggy, but she’ll be fine in a day or two. I must tell you, though, that Monique suspects that the medication she took was poisoned,” Nancy said, stirring her coffee.