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Madeleine Poirier knew very little about him except that he was an acquaintance of Rafael Girarde and in a governmental capacity, which automatically classified him as a person of some prominence. His name was Julian Forrest and he was a civilian Inspector of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police from Ottawa, undoubtedly in Montreal on official business. For all of his fifty-odd years, he was not unhandsome, and Madeleine was not offended when he approached her. He had brought it off rather smoothly the night before at the Salle de Venus-Apollon where she served as hostess for M. Girarde, the club owner–and in some respects, her benefactor these past bitter months–carefully choosing an appropriate time when Rafael would not overhear.
She had appreciated that. Rafael Girarde had been good to her and she wanted in no way to offend him, but by the same token, business was business, and she had her own goals that neither Rafael nor her income as club hostess was going to make attainable. As matters stood, she still kept Tuesday and Friday nights generously open to her employer at her place, and she felt quite certain that he had no idea of her private and selective circle of gentlemen friends upon whom she graciously bestowed her voluptuous charms for a substantial fee at tightly scheduled, pre-arranged tete-a-tetes. She was no prostitute, per se, and resented being approached as one. Julian Forrest must have assumed this, she thought, as she taxied toward his hotel that warm September afternoon.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.