Century Rain

by Alastair Reynolds

  “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.”

  “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 glasses, 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 circumstantial 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 constitute 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.

  “Hello?” 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, scraping 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 assume 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 Montparnasse at such short notice.

  Even as he hesitated, a plan began to assemble 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 nothing at all. Then he paged through his telephone directory until he found the number for Maurice Didot, the elevator engineer.

  “It’s not broken down again, has it, Monsieur Floyd?”

  “Not exactly,” Floyd said, “but I’m hoping you might be able to arrange something for me.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Can you be here at half-past eight tomorrow morning?”

  “Half-past eight, on a Saturday?”

  “I’ll explain everything,” Floyd said. “I’ll also make it worth your while.”

  An hour later, he found Greta in the kitchen in Montparnasse, leafing through a movie magazine while she finished a cigarette. On the cover was a publicity photograph from the latest gloomy policier. She looked up, her eyes tired and her make-up smudged.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  Floyd closed the door behind him. “There’s been a development. A real serious development.”

  “Sit down.” She closed the magazine and slid it across the table.

  “It’s Custine,” Floyd said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s on the run.”

  “This had better not be some kind—”

  “Do I sound as if I’m joking?” he said sharply. “Monsieur Blanchard is dead.”

  “Monsieur who?”

  “The landlord of the building on rue des Peupliers—the man Susan White entrusted with that box of papers. The man who employed Custine and me to prove she was murdered. They found him dead on the sidewalk this morning.” Floyd pulled up a chair and sat across the table from her.

  “No,” she said softly.

  “Yes. And Custine happened to be in the building carrying out the investigation at the time.”

  “Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with it.”

  Floyd buried his head in his hands. “I want to believe he didn’t. Everything I thought I knew about the man says he couldn’t have done this.”

  “Well, then.”

  “But he was supposed to talk to the landlord about the possibility that he might have killed Susan White. Not by confronting him directly… but just nose around the question, to rule it out.”

  “Did you seriously think—”

  “We had to exclude the possibility. Just because he seemed like a kindly old man with a plausible story—”

  “But you told me the police weren’t even interested in investigating the girl’s death. Why would the old man risk the finger of suspicion pointing his way?”

  “Custine and I wondered if he really wanted to be found out. If he killed her for attention and didn’t get it, of course he’d want to hire us.”

  “You need nasty, suspicious minds in your line of work.”

  “It was just a hypothesis,” Floyd said defensively. “The point is that I authorised Custine to turn up the heat on Blanchard. And a few hours later they find Blanchard face down on the sidewalk.”

  “You think Custine may have probed too deeply?”

  “We’re talking about a man who used to work interrogation duty at the Quai, a man who specialised in the application of fear and pain to get a result.”

  “Someone’s been putting doubts in your mind.”

  Floyd gazed at her through his fingers. “Today I heard something about Custine that I didn’t know before.”

  “Let me guess. One of Custine’s former colleagues had a little word with you?”

  “He said that an innocent man died in his custody, under questioning.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I have no reason not to believe it.”

  “Custine’s your friend, Floyd.”

  “I know, and I feel lousy for even thinking that he might have had something to do with Blanchard’s death. But I can’t help the way my mind works.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “People saw Custine fleeing the scene. That may or may not have been before the body hit the street. Someone else saw a strange little boy.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean something?”

  “Strange little children keep turning up in this case like bad pennies.”

  “You think a child might have done this?”

  “I think a child might be involved, but I don’t know how, I don’t know why.”

  Greta ground out the cigarette on her ashtray, then tapped the edge with coal-black fingernails. “Forget the children for a moment. Have you had any contact with Custine?”

  “Not in person, but he left a note in my office. He must have gone there straight away, as soon as he realised how much trouble he was in.” Floyd sat back in his chair and picked his shirt away from his chest. It was sodden with sweat, as if he had been running around on a hot summer day. Forcing some semblance of calm into his voice, he said, “I’d only just had time to read the message when I got a visit from one of the boys from the Big House—lovely fellow by the name of Belliard—and two of his henchmen.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Hope you never do. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about Custine, and I think he’d like to take me down at the same time.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know if I’d had any contact with Custine. I lied, of course, but they know Custine’s bound to get in touch with me sooner or later.”

  She scrutinised him long and hard before framing her next question. “And what does Custine want from you?”

  “Nothing. He says he can take care of himself.”

  “But he’s your friend,” she said again. “My friend, too. We have to help him.”

  Floyd studied her face, trying to read her mood. “How is Marguerite?”

  “Do you really want to know, or are you just changing the subject?”

  “I really want to know,” he said. “Do you think the situation in Paris is getting as bad as she says?”

  “It’s clearly not getting any better.”

  “Maillol said more or less the
same thing when I ran into him at Blanchard’s place. It’s frightening that such a change could creep up on us unnoticed.”

  “I’m sure people said the same thing twenty years ago.”

  “You’re thinking of Marguerite’s comment about the weeds coming back?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  “Maybe she’s right. Maybe it takes an old person’s perspective to see things so clearly.”

  “All the more reason to leave,” Greta said.

  “Unless people do something about it here, now, before it’s too late.”

  “People like you, Floyd?” She had difficulty hiding her amusement.

  “People like us,” he said.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard from Susan White’s sister. She telephoned the office just before I drove over.”

  “It’s quite the day for developments. What did she want?”

  “The tin.”

  “Are you going to let her have it?”

  “I want her to have it. But I also want to tail her when she leaves the office. For that I’m going to need a little bit of help.”

  “I see.”

  “Will you do it? If not for me, then for Custine?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Floyd.”

  “I mean it. Maillol said he could get Custine off the hook if I could come up with something tangible.”

  “Like what?”

  “Another suspect. I know it’s a long shot, but the girl’s my only lead. If I don’t follow her, Custine’s finished.”

  Floyd and Greta pushed through the doors into Le Perroquet Pourpre and followed the line of framed jazz photographs that led downstairs into the basement. At eight on a Friday evening a few regulars had already arrived, but otherwise the place was quiet, with most of the tables still unoccupied. A young kid in a striped shirt was playing “East St. Louis Toodle-Oo” solo on the house piano, trying to match Duke’s moves but not quite getting there. Michel nodded coolly at Floyd and Greta, served them drinks without saying a word and went back to polishing the zinc-topped bar. Every now and then he’d raise an eye to the door at the top of the stairs leading down into the room, as if expecting someone else.

  Floyd and Greta sipped their drinks without speaking. Five minutes passed, then ten.