“No,” he said. “You’re wrong. You’d always be worth it.”
A hand suddenly grasped her sleeve, turning her away from Floyd. Floyd looked up, startled, as he felt another hand grab his arm. The man restraining Auger wore a bowler hat and a long raincoat over a heavy serge suit. Another plainclothesman detained Floyd.
“Inspector Belliard,” Floyd said.
“Glad to see that I made an impression,” said the young policeman holding Auger’s arm. “Did you ever get reimbursed for that damaged ornament?”
“I decided I could live without it. Who tipped you off? Maillol?”
Behind him, another voice rumbled, “Actually, Floyd, I did everything in my power to help you. Unfortunately, I didn’t count on being bugged by my own department. As soon as you called from Gare du Nord, they put a squad on to you.”
Belliard glared at Maillol. “I warned you not to follow us here. I also warned you against taking an interest in the Blanchard case.”
“Floyd is a peripheral witness in my own investigation,” Maillol said sweetly. “I had every right to question him.”
“You know he is withholding information about the whereabouts of André Custine.”
“I’m only interested in the Montrouge affair. Custine is no business of mine, as you’ve made abundantly clear.”
Belliard barked an order at his own man, then snarled at Maillol, “We’ll continue this discussion at the Quai, where you can explain why you attempted to sabotage a Crime Squad investigation. In the meantime, let’s find somewhere discreet to deal with these two.”
That was when Auger made her move, slipping free of Belliard’s grasp and darting into the swarm of passengers still milling around on the platform. Floyd lost sight of her just before the carriage doors hissed shut. Belliard pulled out his gun and badge and barged towards the train, shouting at people to get out of his way. He arrived at the side of the train just in time to hammer his gun against a window. But the train was already moving, picking up speed until the last carriage hurtled into the tunnel.
Belliard turned back to his man. “I want every station on this line sealed off. She isn’t getting out of the Métro.”
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t get far,” the man said, letting go of Floyd and walking quickly towards a puzzled-looking Métro official.
“You don’t even know who she is,” Floyd said.
“She seemed unwilling to talk to us,” Belliard answered. “That’s reason enough for suspicion.”
“And me?”
“How does harbouring a fugitive sound?”
Maillol leaned in and spoke urgently. “Floyd—you can’t win this one. They’ll find the American girl, and they’ll find Custine. Don’t make it any worse for yourself than it already is.”
Floyd looked at the other plainclothesman, who was still engaged in discussion with the Métro official. It was now or never. He ducked away from Belliard and Maillol, losing himself as quickly as possible amongst the assembled commuters. Belliard shouted something and started coming after him: Floyd could see his bobbing bowler hat two or three heads behind him. Floyd lowered his own head and ploughed on, oblivious to the disgruntled shouts of the people around him.
“Floyd!” he heard Maillol cry out. “Don’t do anything stupid!”
Another train rattled into the station, spilling more passengers on to the platform. The surging, barging mass was exactly what Floyd needed. A gap was opening up between him and Belliard, giving him just enough time to fumble the automatic out of his jacket pocket. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but he felt better with it in his hand.
He reached the limit of the platform and risked a glance back over his shoulder. Belliard’s bobbing hat was still worryingly close. Worse than that, the policeman still had his own gun drawn, held at head-height with the barrel pointed towards the ceiling.
The rushing passengers formed a temporary screen, most of them unaware of the drama that was playing out. The distraction gave Floyd time to position himself at the edge of the platform just as the train accelerated past him, exiting the station. With a steely roar, the last carriage plunged into the tunnel. He watched its rear red light dwindle and wondered if he had the courage to follow it.
“Stop!” Belliard shouted.
Floyd turned around, raising his own weapon and pointing the muzzle straight at the policeman. Maillol was a few paces behind Belliard, shaking his head in dismay. By now the spectacle had begun to register with the commuters, who had cleared a space around the three men.
“Get back,” Floyd said. “Get back and keep walking.”
“You won’t get anywhere,” Belliard said. “In a few minutes I’ll have men covering every possible exit from the entire Métro system.”
“In which case, you might as well have a little fun catching me.”
“Drop the gun,” Maillol said, his tone pleading.
“I said walk away. That goes for you too, monsieur.” Floyd aimed a little high and squeezed off a single round, just to make his point. “I will use this, so don’t make me.”
“You’re a dead man,” Belliard said. But he was walking backwards, his hands raised and his own gun dangling from a single finger.
“Then I’ll see you in the bone yard,” Floyd replied.
He moved quickly, lowering himself to the level of the rails and slipping into the darkness of the tunnel. Behind, on the platform, he heard excited voices shouting. He heard someone blowing sharp blasts on a whistle. A train arrived in the station, slowing to a halt with its cab just beyond the mouth of the tunnel. Men were already assembling on the platform near the front of the train, some of them in uniform. One of them dropped to his knees and shone the beam of a torch into the maw of the tunnel, swinging it around. Floyd pressed himself against the brickwork, mere centimetres beyond the limit of the beam.
After a moment, the headlamps of the train dimmed to burnt-out embers.
They’d cut the power.
Floyd ran into a thickening, congealing darkness, stone chippings crunching beneath his feet. He kept his left hand against the wall, feeling his way forwards with his right hand in front of him. With every step he had to fight the fear that he was about to step over the edge of a precipice. Somewhere ahead there was another discharge of gunfire. Behind him, moving silhouettes were already clotting his view of the station. Multiple torch beams sliced the air, scissoring the darkness like anti-aircraft searchlights.
He heard Maillol shout, “Floyd! Give yourself up while you still can!”
Floyd plunged deeper into the tunnel. He dared not shout out Auger’s name while Belliard still thought she’d made her escape on the train.
He heard a single gunshot and a single inhuman shriek. The sound had come from deeper in the tunnel.
He could no longer resist calling her name. “Auger!”
He might have been imagining it, but he thought he heard someone call his in return. His right hand tightened on the automatic and he forced himself to walk towards the sound, even though every muscle in his body wanted to turn back to the light, back into the safety of custody. Maybe they wouldn’t hurt him, especially if he threw away the gun. In his present state, with his head bandaged, they might even treat him with kindness and understanding. He had just become a little confused, that was all. A bang on the head, a bit of disorientation: they’d sympathise, wouldn’t they? Now that he was feeling sharper, he knew he had no business down in this tunnel, and all he could do was offer his embarrassed apologies. As reasonable men, they’d see things his way, wouldn’t they?
“Floyd?” a voice hissed. “Floyd—is that you?”
Her voice sounded pitifully weak. It was difficult even to guess how far away she was, especially with the commotion behind him.