Century Rain Part 35

Floyd snapped out of his reverie and checked the time: three-thirty in the afternoon. Forcing himself into the role of a man who had had no contact with his partner, he decided that his most likely course of action would be to visit the scene of the crime and get the full story for himself. Floyd splashed some water down his throat, then grabbed his hat and coat. He was about to leave Susan White's tin of doc.u.ments where it was on his desk when a thought flashed into his mind: whoever had murdered Blanchard had probably been after the tin. First Susan White had been murdered, and now the landlord. Presumably whoever had committed the second homicide must now know that the tin was elsewhere. And with all those business cards lying around, it wouldn't take them long to make the connection with Floyd.

He picked up the tin. From now on, wherever he went, the tin was coming with him.

Floyd turned the Mathis into rue des Peupliers, slowing as he noticed a trio of police cars gathered near number twenty-three. In his rear-view mirror he saw the dark sedan he had noticed on rue du Dragon glide past him towards the junction with rue de Tolbiac, slowing as the driver noted Floyd's location. The kid pursuing Floyd was an amateur, and Floyd had made no effort to elude him on the drive across town to Blanchard's street. There was almost certainly someone more experienced on the same surveillance detail.

Floyd parked halfway up the street, stopped the engine and observed the scene in silence for a few moments. Although the death had happened at least five hours earlier, and probably more like six, there was still a large crowd of onlookers gathered on the sidewalk beneath the balcony. Their shadows were beginning to lengthen in the afternoon light. For a morbid instant, Floyd wondered if the body was still there, crushed and disfigured by the fall. That seemed unlikely, though, and the more Floyd looked, the more obvious it became that the spectators were only gathered around the entrance to the building because they were hoping to s.n.a.t.c.h a t.i.tbit of forensic gossip from the Quai officials-police and scientists-who were presumably still coming and going from the crime scene.

Floyd smoothed his hair, slipped his hat on and left the car. He walked up to the gathering of onlookers, recognising none of them. Two uniformed officers were standing guard at the door, bantering with the crowd. Gently, Floyd pushed his way through the people until he was in plain sight of the policemen.

"Can I help you, monsieur?" asked the older of the two officers.

Floyd showed the man his ident.i.ty papers and business card. "I'm a private detective," he said. "Monsieur Blanchard-the late Monsieur Blanchard-happened to be my client."

"Bit late then, aren't you?" the officer replied, to a chuckle of approval from his colleague.

Floyd tried to sound as breezily unconcerned as the police officer. "Monsieur Blanchard had me investigating an earlier incident that occurred in this building. Now that something's happened to him, I can't help wondering if there's a connection."

"Your client's dead," the older officer said. He had bad breath and a shaving problem. "Doesn't that mean no one's paying your wages?"

"He gave me a generous retainer," Floyd said. "Anyway, I still have a personal involvement with this case. My a.s.sociate appears to be the prime suspect."

"How would you know that?" the officer asked.

"I had a visit from Inspector Belliard. He filled me in." Floyd lowered his voice. "Have you talked to these people yet?"

"These aren't the residents. Interviews with the residents are taking place inside."

"All the same, they might have seen something."

"They didn't. They'd have said so otherwise."

Floyd turned to the people around him; by now he was the focus of attention, rather than the ominous dark smear on the pavement. "This is my case as much as theirs," he said, addressing the gathering, making eye contact with as many of them as possible. "A woman was murdered here three weeks ago and these bright young things from the Quai didn't bother taking it seriously. Now there's been another suspicious death."

Floyd reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of business cards. "If any of you people care about preventing a third homicide, now's the chance to do something about it. Think back over the last few days, perhaps the last few weeks, if you like, and try to remember anything that struck you as unusual. Maybe it was someone hanging about that you didn't recognise. Maybe even a child. My guess is that whoever was responsible for the first killing had something to do with the second."

A middle-aged woman in a droopy hat reached out and took one of the cards from his hand. "I saw something," she said. "I tried to tell these men, but they weren't interested."

"Call me and we'll talk about it," Floyd said.

"I can tell you now. There was a big man, like a wrestler. Very well dressed, but all sweaty and out of breath. He came running out into the street and tried to flag down a taxi. There was an argument: someone else was already waiting for the cab and the big man didn't like it. They almost came to blows."

"You saw this?" Floyd asked.

"I heard it."

"When?"

The woman looked across the gathering to a male friend. "What time was that commotion?"

"I looked at my watch," the other bystander said, taking the burnt-down stub of a cigarette from between

his lips. He wore a chequered flat cap and a pencil moustache. "It happened at exactly-"

"I didn't ask you, I asked the lady." Floyd turned back to the woman. "Did you actually see this happen?"

"I said I heard it," she repeated. "A commotion in the street, cars honking their horns, voices raised."

"But you didn't actually see the big man yourself?" he persisted.

"Not with my own eyes, no," she said, as if this was only a subtle distinction. "But he did"-she pointed

at the man again-"and what with the commotion I heard-"

"This is a street in the middle of Paris," Floyd said. "You'd be hard pressed to find a single half-hour when there wasn't some sort of commotion."

"I know what I saw," the spivvy man said, before pus.h.i.+ng the exhausted stub of his cigarette back

between his lips.

"That argument over the taxi," Floyd asked him, "did you notice anything else happening at the same time?"

The man looked around at his fellow watchers, wary of a trap. "No," he said, after due deliberation.

"Well, that's funny," Floyd said, "because by rights there should have been a body on the sidewalk."

"Well, there was..." the middle-aged woman said, but on a falling note.

"Before the fight over the taxi? Or just afterwards? Think about it carefully, because rather a lot depends

on it." While he was speaking, Floyd noticed a younger woman looking at him from the back of the crowd. She kept opening her mouth, as if on the point of saying something, but other people kept interrupting.

A man in a butcher's ap.r.o.n raised his hand. "Why did you ask about a child just now?"

"Just covering all the bases."

"I did see a child. A little boy. A very nasty-looking one, hanging around here."

Before Floyd could pursue that information, a new voice emerged from the doorway leading into

Blanchard's apartment building. "Send him inside. We need to talk to him." Floyd quickly handed out the rest of his business cards, urging the witnesses to contact him if they remembered anything else. He watched as someone pa.s.sed a card to the woman at the back of the crowd. Then he slipped past the two policemen into the dark, mildewed hallway of the apartment building. "h.e.l.lo, Floyd. I notice you've been scattering cards around like confetti lately," the newcomer said, still standing in the shadows.

"The last time I checked, there wasn't a law against it."

"You're right to phrase it that way," the man replied. "These days, one can't be too careful about

anything, including the law. Shut the door behind you."

Floyd found himself doing as he was told. The man's voice was simultaneously both commanding and

rea.s.suring. It was also a voice Floyd had heard before.

"Inspector Maillol?"

"It's been a while, hasn't it? How long ago was the Monceau stabbing-five, six years?"

"At least."

"An ugly business all round. I'm still not convinced we caught the right man."

Floyd's involvement with the case had been tangential-one of his then clients had been linked to the

victim-but it had still been enough to bring him into contact with the men from the Big House. Politely enough, Maillol had told him to stop treading on their steel-capped toes. Floyd had taken the hint.

"I a.s.sume you've already had a nice chat with my colleague Belliard?"

"He got his point across," Floyd said.

"Belliard has his methods; I have mine." Maillol looked every bit the evil interrogator: he had a thin, drum-tight face through which the bones of his skull seemed about to burst, a cruel little mouth and crueller little eyes behind rimless gla.s.ses. The last five or six years had done nothing to soften that countenance. He took off his homburg and scratched at the shaven egg of his scalp.

"I hope your methods are an improvement," Floyd replied.

"Your friend is in a great deal of trouble," Maillol said, without prevarication. "All the more so now that Belliard has taken an interest in the case."

"I got the impression I wasn't exactly off the hook either."

"Belliard is one of the bright young things. The right suit, the right hat, the right wife. He even has the

right political connections."

"Chatelier?"

"Who else?"

Something in the man's tone of voice eased Floyd. "I take it you're not exactly singing from the same

hymn sheet."

"Times are changing," Maillol said. "This is not the same city it was a few years ago."

"Funny-that's exactly what Belliard said."

"But he undoubtedly said it as if it was a good thing." Maillol slipped his hat back on, pressing it down

firmly. It made a scratching sound against the stiff stubble above his ears. "I am serious about Belliard: he is not a man of whom you wish to make an enemy."

"You're his superior."

"In theory," Maillol said. "Sadly, I lack both his ambition and his connections. Do you read the papers, Floyd?"

"I keep up with the funny pages."

"I shouldn't be working this case. Officially I'm not even here. I'm supposed to be working anti- bootlegging investigations in Montrouge."