You're late, Martha, my husband Julian said, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin without even looking up from his lobster shell. "Pay the bill, would you? We're done."
Julian watched, a bewildered expression creeping onto his face as I pulled out the folder. His smile wavered.
Before he could speak, Genevieve Ross, the journalist from the Washington Daily News, stepped forward, her notebook already open in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the crumpled ration coupons still stapled to the restaurant bill.
She wore a sensible tweed suit, her hair pulled back tightly, giving her a no-nonsense air. There was a quiet intensity about her.
She didn’t just look at the coupons; she *studied* them, her brow furrowing slightly.
“May I see those, Monsieur Moreau?” she asked Henri, her voice calm but authoritative. Her gaze met his, and a silent understanding seemed to pass between them.
Henri, caught between Julian’s mounting irritation and the journalist’s professional assertiveness, reluctantly handed her the bill.
Genevieve took it, her fingers delicate as she carefully detached one of the coupons. She held it up to the light, then pulled a small magnifying glass from her pocket.
Julian stiffened, his jaw tightening. “My dear woman,” he began, “this is a private family matter. There’s really nothing of public interest here.”
Genevieve ignored him. Her eyes scanned the coupon’s serial number, then she quickly jotted something down in her notebook.
She looked up, her gaze now piercing, directed squarely at Julian. “These are from the District Procurement Office,” she stated, her voice devoid of emotion. “Serial batch 7G-44-B.”
Julian’s face went white. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“I’ve been investigating a ring of black-market profiteers for the past three weeks,” Genevieve continued, her voice gaining a sharp edge. “They’ve been illegally siphoning off federal ration stamps and selling them for exorbitant prices, primarily to high-end establishments like this one, to buy luxury goods.”
She held up the coupon. “This batch, specifically, was reported stolen from a federal warehouse. The theft was attributed to an inside job.”
A gasp rippled from a nearby table. Heads turned.
Julian’s eyes darted around the dining room, suddenly aware of the dozens of eyes now fixed on our table. His carefully constructed facade was crumbling.
He tried to laugh, a desperate, forced sound. “Stolen? Impossible! These were… acquired through perfectly legitimate channels, I assure you.”
Genevieve raised an eyebrow, a sardonic twist to her lips. “Legitimate channels that just happen to involve forged signatures and federal property theft?”
She turned to Henri Moreau. “Monsieur Moreau, I believe your establishment is now implicated in receiving stolen federal property.”
Henri blanched, his hands fluttering nervously. The reputation of the Carlton Hotel was his lifeblood.
The revelation of the stolen serial batch wasn’t just a simple detail; it transformed a local black-market infraction into a federal criminal investigation. And Genevieve Ross wasn’t just a nosy reporter. She was a journalist who had already done her homework, actively chasing this exact story.
Julian’s carefully laid trap had just been sprung, not on me, but on him, by a woman who knew exactly what she was looking for.
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