“Of course we can,” Maillol said. “As a matter of fact, you’re just the man I wanted to speak to. Where have you been, Floyd? No one seemed to know where you’d gone.”
“Germany, monsieur. I’m back in Paris now. But I don’t have much money and I’m calling from a public telephone.”
“Why not use the telephone in your office?”
“I figured it might not be safe.”
“Sensible boy,” Maillol said approvingly. “Well, shall I start? I’ll be quick about it. You’re aware of my anti-bootlegging operation in Montrouge, aren’t you? As it happens, we’ve turned up something interesting: a floater.”
“A floater, monsieur?”
“A body, Floyd, floating face-down in a flooded basement in the same warehouse complex where we found the illegal pressing plant. Identification revealed the individual to be a Monsieur Rivaud. Forensics say he can’t have been in the water for more than three or four days.”
“It’s early, monsieur, and I haven’t had much sleep, but I don’t think I know that name.”
“That’s odd, Floyd, because you seem to have met the gentleman. He had one of your business cards on him.”
“Still doesn’t mean I know him.”
“He also had a key that we traced back to Monsieur Blanchard’s building on rue des Peupliers. Rivaud was one of his tenants.”
“Wait,” Floyd said. “He wouldn’t be one of the tenants on the second floor, would he?”
“So you do remember him.”
“I never met him. Custine interviewed him: that’s how he came by the business card. When I went round to make follow-up enquiries, no one was home.”
“Probably because the young man was dead.”
Floyd closed his eyes. Just what the case needed: another death, no matter how peripheral it might be. “Cause of death?”
“Drowning. It could be accidentaclass="underline" he might have stumbled and fallen into the flooded basement. On the other hand, Forensics turned up some curious abrasions on the man’s neck. They look like finger marks, as if someone had held his head underwater.”
“Open and shut, in that case—homicide by drowning.”
“Except,” Maillol said, “the finger marks were very small.”
“Let me guess: they were the right size for a child.”
“A child with long fingernails, yes. Which of course doesn’t make any sense—”
“Except I already told you there are some bad children associated with this case.”
“And we have that stabbing in Gare du Nord, of course. We still haven’t turned up the boy the witnesses saw.”
“You probably won’t,” Floyd said.
“Do you know something about that incident?”
Floyd pulled a fresh toothpick from his shirt pocket and slipped it into his mouth. “Of course not, monsieur,” he said. “I just meant to say… the child’s probably well away by now.”
Maillol said nothing for ten or twenty seconds. Floyd heard his breathing above the muted background chatter of typewriters and barked orders.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Maillol said. “But you see the problem from my point of view. I had no interest in the rue des Peupliers case beyond my desire to do what I could for Custine. But there was no connection between those two deaths and the goings-on in Montrouge.”
“And now?”
“Now I have a connection, and it doesn’t make any sense. What was your man Rivaud doing nosing around in Montrouge?”
“I have no idea,” Floyd said.
“This is a loose end,” Maillol said. “I don’t like loose ends.”
“I don’t like them either, monsieur, but I still have no idea what Rivaud was doing there. As I said, I never even spoke to the man.”
“Then perhaps if I had a word with Custine?”
“Actually,” Floyd said, “Custine’s the reason I’m calling.”
“Has he been in touch again?”
“Of course we’ve been in touch. What else would you expect? He’s my friend and I know he’s innocent.”
“Very good, Floyd. I’d be disappointed if you said anything different.”
“I can’t tell you where to reach Custine. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“But I think I’m close to finding your suspect. You’re just not going to like it very much when I hand one of them over.”
“One of them?”
Floyd pushed coinage into the iron belly of the payphone. “Custine didn’t kill Blanchard. One of those children did. You spoke to the witnesses in Gare du Nord. You know how they described that boy.”
“Including one witness who spoke French with a pronounced American accent.”
“The child was real, monsieur. There are several of them, boys and girls, but up close they don’t look like children at all. If I can deliver one of these monsters to you, I’ll have kept my end of the deal, won’t I?”
“We didn’t have a deal, Floyd.”
“Don’t let me down, monsieur. I’m trying to retain some lingering shred of respect for the authority in this city.”
“I can’t keep Belliard off your case indefinitely,” Maillol said. “He’s already following every lead that stands a chance of throwing up Custine. That bar you frequent? Le Perroquet Pourpre?”
“Yes?” Floyd asked, worriedly.
“There’s a nice burnt-out shell where it used to be.”
“Michel, the owner—is he all right?”
“There were no deaths, but witnesses saw a couple of men in greatcoats with petrol cans fleeing the scene in a black Citroën. They were last seen heading in the general direction of the Quai des Orfèvres.” Maillol paused to let that sink in, then added, “If Custine was hiding there, then you can be sure Belliard is closing on him.”
“Custine can take care of himself.”
“Perhaps, Floyd. The question is: can you? Belliard won’t stop at one fish.”
“I just need more time,” Floyd said.
“If—and I repeat if—you hand one of these mock children over to me, alive and in a state amenable to interrogation… then I might, conceivably, be able to do something. Though how I’ll explain matters to the examining magistrate, I don’t know. Paris terrorised by a gang of feral children? He’ll laugh me out of the Palais de Justice.”
“Show him the child, sir, and I don’t think he’ll be laughing for long.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m glad to know we still have some common ground,” Floyd said.
“Common ground that is dwindling by the moment, mon ami. In return, I’ll want your assistance to close off the Rivaud connection.”
“Understood,” Floyd said. He put down the receiver, then dug into his pockets for another coin for the next call.
The car slowed down, pulled out of the flow of traffic and scraped its right wheels against the kerb with a hiss of rubber. The rear passenger-side door was flung open and a hand—belonging to a large man lost in shadow in the front passenger seat—directed them into the back of the car. Auger climbed in first, then Floyd. He slammed the rear door shut just as the driver gunned the engine and pulled back on to rue La Fayette, his abrupt entry into the procession of vehicles greeted by a symphony of angry horns.
Custine turned around in the front passenger seat, while the driver—who turned out to be Michel—nosed the car on to rue Magenta.
“It’s good to see you back, Floyd,” Custine said warmly. “We were beginning to worry.”
“Nice to know I’m appreciated.”
Custine touched the brim of his hat in Auger’s direction. “You too, mademoiselle. Are you all right?”
“She’s been shot,” Floyd said. “I’d say that makes her pretty far from all right. Only problem is, she won’t let me take her to a hospital.”