Description:
Inspector Morel begins to trace the origin of the mysterious red-sealed letter. A forgotten war contact, a hidden dossier, and the first signs of surveillance suggest that Émile Vasseur may not just be missing — he may be hunted.
Chapter 3: Red Wax and Silent Strings
Morel leaned against the wall of the alley behind the opera house, his coat dripping under the steady drizzle. The city was quieter here — the kind of quiet that carried sound too far. He lit a cigarette with a match that flared orange against the wet dark, then tucked his hand back into his pocket where a folded telegram burned against his palm.
He’d sent the message thirty minutes earlier from the café on the corner. A code only one man would understand:
“VIOLET SEAL. MISSING MUSICIAN. NEED FILE 8-R. – L.M.”
The response would come fast if it came at all. In this city, friends in intelligence had short memories and shorter loyalties. Especially ones who’d served under Morel during the occupation.
As he exhaled, headlights splashed across the alley. A black Peugeot rolled to a stop, engine purring like a predator. The passenger door opened.
A man stepped out. Étienne Clerval. Tall, neat, precise — the kind of man who looked like he could kill you with a tie pin and still make it look like an accident.
“You’re not supposed to contact me,” Étienne said. His voice was low, dry, and irritated. “Not since Berlin.”
“I didn’t,” Morel replied. “I contacted your paranoia.”
Étienne smirked. “What’s this about a violinist?”
Morel flicked ash. “Émile Vasseur. Disappeared last night. No note, no sign. Just a letter. Red wax seal. No sender.”
That wiped the smirk off his face.
Étienne nodded slowly. “Then you’re in deep. Red wax isn’t French. That’s Moscow. Or what’s left of it.”
“Was Vasseur working for them?”
“Doubtful. But someone thought he had something. Or someone.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin envelope. “File 8-R,” he said, tossing it to Morel. “You didn’t get it from me.”
Morel caught it. Inside, a single name had been underlined in blue pencil:
Sophie Lemoine — concert pianist. Last seen with Vasseur two nights ago.
Dead since 1944. Or so the records claimed.
Morel didn’t like ghosts in his cases.
He dropped his cigarette, crushed it underfoot, and walked back into the night — violin strings tightening in his mind.