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 Sat.u.r.day?"

"I'll explain everything," Floyd said. "I'll also make it worth your while."

An hour later, he found Greta in the kitchen in Montparna.s.se, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"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."