Questions at the Café

Irene sat at a small round table outside Café Laurent, sketching the busy street in her notebook. The morning sun painted golden stripes across the cobblestones, and the sweet smell of fresh bread drifted from nearby bakeries.

"Another café au lait, mademoiselle?" asked Henri, the elderly waiter with kind brown eyes and silver hair combed neatly back.

"Please," Irene said, looking up from her drawing. "Henri, have you noticed anything strange about the bakeries lately? Some of my favorite croissants taste different."

Henri's smile faded slightly. He glanced around nervously before leaning closer. "You ask too many questions, little detective. Some things in Paris are better left alone."

Before Irene could respond, Henri hurried away. She frowned and made a note in her book: "Henri knows something about the bakeries."

A shadow fell across her table. She looked up to see a tall man in a dark coat watching her from across the street.

The Woman in Black Boots

Irene closed her notebook and stood up. The man in the dark coat hadn't moved. She decided to walk around the block to see if he would follow her.

As she turned the corner onto Rue des Martyrs, she bumped into a woman carrying several shopping bags. The bags scattered across the sidewalk, spilling fresh croissants and baguettes everywhere.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Irene said, kneeling to help gather the bread.

The woman had short black hair and wore practical black boots. She moved quickly, snatching up the pastries. "No harm done, little one," she said with a nervous smile. "Just be more careful."

Irene noticed something odd. The croissants looked exactly like the strange ones Henri had mentioned—too perfect, almost artificial.

"Where did you buy these?" Irene asked.

The woman's smile disappeared. "I must go," she said, grabbing the last bag and hurrying away.

Irene looked back toward the café. The man in the dark coat was gone, but now she spotted a black van parked where he had been standing. Its engine was running.