Peter stared into the camera, his eyes gleaming, and he permitted himself the tiniest of self-satisfied smiles, the merest crinkle lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Well, we think we know. You see, we’ve found a way into one of the spheres that the Slashers know nothing about. And you, Verity, are going to take a little trip inside.”
SEVEN
Floyd’s telephone dredged him from sleep just after eight in the morning. It hadn’t stopped raining since he had returned from Montparnasse. It lashed against the window in hard diagonal lines, the wind chivvying the glass in its loose-fitting metal frame. Somewhere else in the apartment he heard Custine whistling cheerily, pottering around with washing-up. Floyd grimaced. There were two things he hated early in the morning: telephone calls and excessively cheerful people.
Still half-dressed from the night before, he stumbled out of bed and picked up the telephone. “Floyd,” he said, his voice thick from what little sleep he had managed. “And how are you, Monsieur Blanchard?”
This seemed to impress his caller. “How did you know it was me?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“It’s not too early for you, is it?”
Floyd scraped grit from the corners of his eyes. “Not at all, monsieur. Been up for hours, working on the case.”
“Is that so? Then perhaps you have something to tell me.”
“Early days, yet,” Floyd said. “Still collating the information we gathered last night.” He stifled a yawn.
“Then I presume you have a few leads already?”
“One or two,” he said.
Custine bustled in, pushing a mug of black coffee into Floyd’s free hand. “Who is it?” Custine asked in a stage whisper.
“Guess,” Floyd mouthed back.
“And these leads?” persisted Blanchard.
“Bit too soon to say how they’ll pan out.” Floyd hesitated, then decided to try his luck. “Actually, I’ve already got a specialist working on the documents in the tin.”
“A specialist? You mean someone who can read German?”
“Yes,” Floyd admitted feebly. He sipped at the viciously strong coffee and willed Blanchard—and the world in general—to leave him alone until later in the day. Custine sat down on the edge of Floyd’s fold-out bed, hands in his lap, his flowered apron still around his waist.
“Very well,” said Blanchard. “I suppose it would be naïve to expect concrete progress so soon in the investigation.”
“Unwise, certainly,” Floyd said.
“I’ll be in touch later, then. I shall be most interested to hear what your specialist has to say about Mademoiselle White’s papers.”
“I’m waiting with bated breath myself.”
“Good day to you, then.”
Floyd heard the gratifying click as Blanchard terminated the connection. He looked at Custine. “I hope you turned up something useful last night after I left.”
“Probably less than you’re hoping for. How did it go with Greta?”
“Less well than I was hoping.”
Custine looked sympathetic. “I guess from that conversation with Blanchard that you’ll be seeing her again?”
“Later today.”
“At least one more chance, then.” Custine stood up and began untying his apron. “I’m going downstairs to buy some bread. Smarten yourself up and we can discuss our respective experiences over breakfast.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t turned anything up.”
“I’m not sure that I have. At least, nothing I’d stake money on. But there was something—an observation made by Mademoiselle White’s neighbour.”
“What sort of observation?” Floyd asked.
“I’ll tell you over breakfast. And you can tell me how you got on with Greta.”
Floyd leafed through the morning newspaper while Custine fetched the bread. He skimmed the headlines—something about a murder on the first page—until a familiar name jumped out at him on the third page. There was a reference to Maillol, the same inspector who had given Blanchard Floyd’s name. Maillol was a good apple in an increasingly rotten barrel who had chosen to be sidelined rather than pursue the political agenda that Chatelier was forcing upon the police. Once a rising star of the Crime Squad—which was how Floyd had met him—Maillol’s days of high-profile cases and headline arrests were long over. Now he was working scraps from the table, unglamorous assignments like anti-bootlegging operations. According to the article, Maillol had uncovered an illegal record-pressing scam in the Montrouge quartier. The article described the investigation as “ongoing,” with the police following up a number of additional leads concerning other criminal activities taking place in the same complex of abandoned buildings. The news depressed Floyd. As glad as he was that he might now be able to scour the record markets without worrying that some apparently priceless piece of jazz history—say, a Gennett recording of Louis Armstrong from 1923—might actually have been pressed about a week ago, it was dispiriting to think of a good man like Maillol reduced to such meagre fare when suspicious deaths were going uninvestigated.
He went into the bathroom and showered in lukewarm water stained with rust from the apartment’s ancient plumbing. There was a bad taste in his mouth and it wasn’t the shower water or the memory of the orange brandy he had shared with Greta. Drying himself, he heard Custine coming back into the apartment. Floyd put on a vest and braces and a clean white shirt, leaving the choice of tie until he had to face the outside world. He padded into the tiny little kitchen in his socks. A warm-bread smell filled the room and Custine was already spreading butter and jelly on to a slice.
“Here,” the Frenchman said, “eat this and stop looking so miserable.”
“I could do without him ringing us at eight in the morning.” Floyd scraped back a seat and slumped down opposite Custine. “I’m in two minds about this whole business, André. I’m beginning to think we should call it off before it goes much further.”
Custine poured some more coffee for them both. His jacket was dark with rain, but otherwise he looked impeccably bright-eyed and well presented: cheeks and chin clean-shaven, his moustache neatly trimmed and oiled. “There was a time yesterday when I would have agreed with you.”
“And now?”
“Now I have my suspicions that there might be something to this after all. It’s what that neighbour told me. Something was going on, that’s for sure.”
Floyd started on his bread. “So what did the neighbour have to say?”
Custine tucked a napkin into his collar. “I spoke to all the tenants who were present last night. Blanchard thought they would all be home, but two were absent, or had at least left the building by the time we began our investigations. We can catch up with them later; at the very least it’ll give us another reason to drag things out.”
“The neighbour,” Floyd persisted.
“A young man, law student.” Custine bit into his jellied bread and dabbed delicately around his mouth with the napkin. “Helpful enough chap. In fact they were all helpful once they realised that they weren’t dealing with the Quai. And a murder—well…” He waved the bread for emphasis. “You can’t shut ’em up once they get it into their heads that they might be material witnesses in a murder case.”
“What did the law student have to say for himself?”
“He didn’t really know her at all, said he kept very odd hours as well and that their paths didn’t cross very often. Nodding acquaintances, that sort of thing.”