Century Rain Part 36

"I read about that. I also heard that you dropped my name when Blanchard was looking for a private

eye."

"You were the obvious choice. I was concerned about the death of the American girl: something about it

didn't add up. But the director of prosecutions was satisfied with the accidental-death verdict, so there was nothing I could do."

"But now the police must take both cases seriously, surely."

"That depends on whether they want either of them solved or not."

"Belliard seemed pretty keen to get results."

"Ah, but what kind of results? He was wrong to ignore the earlier killing: he missed a perfect

opportunity to blame her death on some handy minority. But now he has Custine in the frame, he will more than make up for that oversight."

"He hates Custine that much?"

"They all do."

"And you?" Floyd asked. "I knew Custine. We worked together ten years ago, in the seventeenth." Maillol reached inside his jacket and removed a slim metal cigarette case embossed with a mermaid. He offered a cigarette to Floyd, who declined, before lighting one for himself with a small lighter inlaid with ivory. "He was a good detective. A hard man, but always one you could trust."

"Then you'll know he isn't capable of this."

"Why did he run, in that case?"

"He may have left the scene of the crime," Floyd said, "but only because he was smart enough not to

hang around. He didn't push Blanchard off his balcony."

"Someone must have done it," Maillol said, tapping ash on to the floor. "Your friend is the perfect suspect."

"It seems that Custine was already in a taxi when the body hit the street."

"Which still doesn't let him off the hook. We won't know until the coroner's report comes in, but it's

still entirely possible that he killed Blanchard."

"I don't see how." "He might have stabbed or shot the old man, without killing him instantly. He leaves Blanchard in a weakened condition, knowing he won't last long, and rushes downstairs to hail a taxi. Upstairs, meanwhile, Blanchard finds enough strength to stumble around, which unfortunately leads him to fall out of his window." Before Floyd could frame an objection, Maillol raised a hand and said, "Merely a scenario, of course. There are others. The point is simply that the observed sequence of events is not necessarily inconsistent with your friend having committed murder. Believe me, I've investigated far stranger cases." "Then maybe you've developed an overactive imagination," Floyd said. "How's this for an alternative scenario: Custine was up there with the old man, either in the same room or nearby. He had every right to be up there-after all, we'd been invited into the building to work the White case."

"And the trifling matter of Blanchard's death?"

"Someone else did it. Custine witnessed it, or came in too late to do anything about it. Of course he fled.

In his position, any sane man would have done the same thing."

"The law will still take a dim view of it."

"But you understand, surely," Floyd said, "knowing what you do about Custine, about his relationship with his former colleagues...what else could he have done?"

Maillol conceded the point with a downward stab of his cigarette. "The fact that I know Custine's

history or might have done the same thing in his shoes changes nothing."

"He's innocent," Floyd insisted.

"But you can't prove it."

"What if I could?"

Behind his gla.s.ses, Maillol widened his cruel, pale eyes the merest fraction. "You have something

tangible?"

"Not yet. But I'm sure I can put together enough-"

"It will take more than circ.u.mstantial evidence to protect him from Belliard."

"Then I'll find what it takes."

"You're a reasonable man, Floyd." Maillol took a lengthy drag on the cigarette before continuing. "I realised as much when our paths crossed over the Monceau case. I told you to back off then and you did. I appreciated that. And I know you mean well by your partner. For what it's worth, I doubt that Custine did this. But the only thing that will get him off the hook is another suspect."

"Then I'll find you another suspect."

"Just like that?"

"Like I said, whatever it takes."

"Do you have anyone in the frame? If you do, you should tell me immediately. Not doing so could

const.i.tute the withholding of evidence."

"There's no one else in the frame," Floyd said.

"I wish you were lying, for Custine's sake." Maillol flicked his spent cigarette to the floor, where he

crushed it underfoot. His shoes, Floyd observed, were very scuffed and old. "Unfortunately, I rather suspect you are telling the truth."

"I've only been on the case a couple of days."

"But now there is no case," Maillol said. "The man who was employing you is dead."

"What are you saying?"

"You care about Custine. You may even know where he is. But this is a battle neither of you can win. If Custine has a chance, now is the time for him to leave Paris. That's what I would do."

"It's only men like Custine who are standing between this city and the wolves."

"Then perhaps we should all give some thought to leaving," Maillol replied.

FIFTEEN.

The telephone was ringing when Floyd unlocked the door to his office on rue du Dragon. He picked it up with a tingle of trepidation, thinking it might be Custine, but hoping that his partner had more sense than to call him on a number that was more than likely being monitored by the Quai.

"h.e.l.lo?" he said, sitting down behind his desk.

"Is that Floyd Investigations?" The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a woman speaking French, but with an accent he couldn't quite place. "My name is Verity Auger. I'm calling about my sister."

Floyd sat upright and tore a clean sheet from his pad, sc.r.a.ping the nib of his fountain pen against it until ink blurted out. "Your sister?" he asked.

"Susan White. I believe you're investigating her murder."

"I am indeed," Floyd replied. "You can speak English, too, if it's easier. Your French sounds pretty good to my ears, but if we're both Americans..."

"I had a good idea that you were American," she said, switching to English, "but it seemed a bit rude to a.s.sume too much."

"How did you hear of me?"

"I was in the crowd on rue des Peupliers when you handed out those cards. By then I'd also spoken to some of the other tenants, and they'd mentioned that you were asking questions about Susan. I should have spoken to you then, but it's a delicate matter and I didn't want to bring it up in front of all those people."

"And what delicate matter would that be?"

"I'm calling about my sister's belongings. I understand that poor Mister Blanchard gave them to you before he..."

"I have them," Floyd said. "It's just a box containing some papers, but you're welcome to them. You have my address on that card, right?"

"Rue du Dragon, yes."

"Do you need directions?"

"No. I'm sure I'll find my way. I can be there within the hour. Will that be all right? Or we can make it later today if that suits you better."

Floyd was about to agree to meet her in an hour, but something held him back. He was going to give her the box, no doubt about it, but he also wanted to find out what she did with it when she left his office. With Custine out of action, putting a tail on her was going to be complicated. Greta couldn't take care of it on her own, even if she could be dragged away from Montparna.s.se at such short notice.

Even as he hesitated, a plan began to a.s.semble in his head, but it was not the sort of thing he could throw

together in an hour or two. "Look," he said quickly, before she grew suspicious, "today is a bit of a problem. I have to leave the office on another case."

"You're a busy man, Mister Floyd."

He couldn't tell if she was mocking him, or quietly impressed. "It's nothing too exciting. It would just

make things easier if we could make an appointment for first thing tomorrow morning."

"That sounds perfectly acceptable."

"Nine o'clock it is, then."

"See you there, Mister Floyd." She put down the telephone.

Floyd hung up at his end and stared down at the blotted sheet of paper, upon which he had written