"Don't let me down, monsieur. I'm trying to retain some lingering shred of respect for the authority in

this city."

"I can't keep Belliard off your case indefinitely," Maillol said. "He's already following every lead that stands a chance of throwing up Custine. That bar you frequent? Le Perroquet Pourpre?"

"Yes?" Floyd asked, worriedly.

"There's a nice burnt-out sh.e.l.l where it used to be."

"Michel, the owner-is he all right?"

"There were no deaths, but witnesses saw a couple of men in greatcoats with petrol cans fleeing the

scene in a black Citroen. They were last seen heading in the general direction of the Quai des Orfevres." Maillol paused to let that sink in, then added, "If Custine was hiding there, then you can be sure Belliard is closing on him."

"Custine can take care of himself."

"Perhaps, Floyd. The question is: can you? Belliard won't stop at one fish."

"I just need more time," Floyd said.

"If-and I repeat if-you hand one of these mock children over to me, alive and in a state amenable to

interrogation...then I might, conceivably, be able to do something. Though how I'll explain matters to

the examining magistrate, I don't know. Paris terrorised by a gang of feral children? He'll laugh me out of the Palais de Justice."

"Show him the child, sir, and I don't think he'll be laughing for long."

"I'll do what I can."

"I'm glad to know we still have some common ground," Floyd said.

"Common ground that is dwindling by the moment, mon ami. In return, I'll want your a.s.sistance to close off the Rivaud connection."

"Understood," Floyd said. He put down the receiver, then dug into his pockets for another coin for the next call.

The car slowed down, pulled out of the flow of traffic and sc.r.a.ped its right wheels against the kerb with a hiss of rubber. The rear pa.s.senger-side door was flung open and a hand-belonging to a large man lost in shadow in the front pa.s.senger seat-directed them into the back of the car. Auger climbed in first, then Floyd. He slammed the rear door shut just as the driver gunned the engine and pulled back on to rue La Fayette, his abrupt entry into the procession of vehicles greeted by a symphony of angry horns.

Custine turned around in the front pa.s.senger seat, while the driver-who turned out to be Michel- nosed the car on to rue Magenta.

"It's good to see you back, Floyd," Custine said warmly. "We were beginning to worry."

"Nice to know I'm appreciated."

Custine touched the brim of his hat in Auger's direction. "You too, mademoiselle. Are you all right?"

"She's been shot," Floyd said. "I'd say that makes her pretty far from all right. Only problem is, she won't let me take her to a hospital."

"I not needing hospital," Auger said. "I only needing station of the train."

Custine looked at Floyd. "Is it me, or did she speak perfect French the last time I saw her?"

"She had a b.u.mp on the head."

"Must have been a bad one."

"That's nothing. You should hear what's happened to her English."

"What happened to you, Floyd?" Custine asked, noticing Floyd's bandaged head for the first time.

Floyd's hat, which had rolled off his head in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Kaspar Metals building when Auger pulled him to safety, had never been retrieved.

"Never mind me. How are you? How is Greta? Is Marguerite still...?"

"I spoke to Greta yesterday. She was-naturally enough-more than a little agitated at your sudden departure."

"I didn't have time for a debate. You were there. You know what it was like."

"Well, I'm sure she'll forgive you-given time. As for Marguerite...well, she's still holding on."

Custine slid his hat over one side of his face, masking himself as a police car droned past in the opposite

direction. He waited until the car had turned on to a different street before allowing himself to relax again. "I don't think anyone has much hope of her lasting the week, though."

"Poor Greta," Floyd said. "She must be going through h.e.l.l."

"All this isn't exactly helping." Custine looked uncomfortably at Auger, perhaps wondering how much

had taken place between them while they were in Berlin. "She's still expecting an answer from you," he said delicately. "That little dilemma hasn't gone away in your absence."

"I know," Floyd said heavily.

"You have to make a decision sooner or later. It's only fair."

"I can't think straight until we get out of this mess," Floyd said. "And that means clearing your name.

Not much point in handing over the investigation business to you if you're going to be running it from prison, is there?"

Custine shook his head. "Leave it, Floyd. They will always find a way to take me down. I can be out of Paris by the middle of the week. I have friends in Toulouse...a man who can create a new ident.i.ty for me."

"I just spoke to Maillol again. He still thinks he can get you off the hook if I turn up another suspect." "Put it like that, it almost sounds easy."

"It won't be. But before I can help you, I have to help Mademoiselle Auger."

"Then take her to a hospital, irrespective of her wishes."

"She made it pretty clear, Custine-there's something down in that station that can help her. That's why we're going to Cardinal Lemoine."

"When was she shot?"

"Yesterday-nearly twenty-four hours ago."

"Then she is more than likely delirious. In this instance, Floyd, the patient is very much not to be trusted."

"I trust her. She's been saying the same thing since she was shot. She knows what's best for her."

"Who is she?"

"I don't know," Floyd said. "But after all I've seen, I'm beginning to have my doubts about the Dakota story."

Custine and Michel dropped them at the entrance to Cardinal Lemoine, then sped away into the traffic. It was nine in the morning, in the thick of the rush-hour, and no one paid much heed to either Floyd or Auger. Floyd's injury was obvious to anyone, even more so now that he had lost his hat. But a man with a bandaged head only attracted so much attention. An argument in a bar, an altercation with a lover or rival...there were infinite possibilities, and an equally infinite number of reasons not to ask. As for Auger, Floyd had cleaned, sterilised and dressed her wounds before they left Berlin, using pieces of cloth torn from his jacket as bandages, and once again before the train arrived in Paris. With a few layers of clothes on, the makeshift dressing wasn't obvious, and the only thing that marked her out as unwell was a stiffness on her right side and a paleness about her face. Floyd tucked her good arm around his and guided her into the tiled depths of the station, moving with the flow of the other commuters.

If the bullet or bullets had done serious harm, she would be dead by now. Internal bleeding killed you a lot sooner than this. But sepsis was a different matter. He wasn't sure exactly know how long it took to set in, but he knew it could be a slow and unpleasant way to go.

"I hope you're right about this," he said, pressing his mouth to her ear and speaking English.

"I am right. Trust me, OK?"

"I take it there are other people down there who can help you?"

"Yes."

"I need some proof," Floyd insisted. "I can't just let you stroll into the tunnel and hope for the best."

"I'm sorry, but that's exactly what you've got to do."

He stopped on the stairs, letting the other pa.s.sengers find their way past them.

"You'll let me know where I can find you later, won't you? I have to see you again, to know you're

going to be OK."

"I'll be fine, Floyd."

"I still want to see you."

"Just to know I'm well?"

"More than that. You know how I feel. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think I know how you feel as well."

"It couldn't ever work out between us," she said.

"We could at least try."

"No," she said firmly. "Because that would only put off the inevitable. It won't work. It couldn't ever

work."

"But if you wanted it to-"

"Floyd, listen to me. I like you a lot. I meant everything I said in Berlin. Maybe I even love you. But that

doesn't change the fact that we can't ever be together."

"Why? We're not so very different."

"We're more different than you realise. By now you've probably figured out a thing or two about me.