'You will need to take these four times a day, and drink at least three liters of water daily. And no unprotected sex for three weeks.'
Three weeks!Margit would be thrilled to hear this – though the fact that I might have also given her a sexually transmitted disease would probably overshadow that minor detail.
'It is also advised that you do not drink alcohol during this course of antibiotics. It diminishes their efficacy.'
Better and better. Three weeks without booze. How could I get through this life of mine without booze?
'Naturally, you will also need to inform all your sexual partners of this condition.'
How do you know that I have 'partners' and not just a partner? Or is my ever-growing sleaziness that apparent?
'I would also strongly advise you to return after the course of antibiotics for another blood test – just to be certain that there is no ongoing ambiguity.'
Doctor, there is always ongoing ambiguity . . . not to mention ongoing worry, as the past few days have shown.
'Fine,' I said. 'Just fine.'
After stopping off at a late-night pharmacy on the boulevard de Sébastopol and handing over an exorbitant thirty-eight euros for the prescribed tablets, I decided to get the first bit of nasty business over with. I returned to the rue de Paradis and walked into Yanna's bar. It was a slow night. There were only three other customers there – and they were conveniently installed in a table toward the back. Yanna's eyes grew wide as I sat down at the otherwise empty bar.
'I thought I told you not to come here anymore,' she hissed.
'Did you speak to your husband?'
'He was delayed. He comes back tomorrow.'
She glanced nervously at the customers at the back table.
'Order a drink,' she whispered, 'otherwise they will get suspicious.'
'Water.'
'Water?'
'Not my idea of a good time, believe me. But I am on antibiotics.'
'For what?' she asked.
That's when I told her. She turned several shades of white.
'You fucker,' she hissed. 'You gave me—'
'I gave you that? Think again, madame. It's a female condition that's passed on to the male.' I had no idea if this was true. 'And since I haven't been sleeping around—'
'Liar.'
'I caught this from you. And who knows where you caught it. Maybe your husband—'
'Get out,' she said.
'Not before you see this,' I said, and passed her the crumpled note that Omar had left under my door. She opened it up, glanced at it, then handed it back to me.
'Cochon,' she said.
'You've got to tell your husband as soon as he arrives.'
'Believe me, I will. And I'll also tell him that Omar raped me and gave me this condition.'
'Now hang on . . .' I said, thinking if she told her husband that, it would result in an automatic death sentence for Omar.
'I hope he kills him,' she said. 'And if you don't get out now, I'll also tell him that you tried to interfere with me as well.'
I stared at her furious face – and knew that I should not pursue this discussion any further.
Some hours later, staring at the screen of my laptop, ticking off the hours until 6 a.m., I wondered, Why do I have this singular talent for making women angry at me? Or, to cut to the heart of the matter, Why do I always seem to fuck it up? But this was superseded by a larger concern: Omar. The sonofabitch was a blackmailer and a moron who wouldn't think anything of selling me down the river. Still, the scheme that Margit devised for tripping him up would now result in . . . well, a fast death might be the mildest of punishments once Yanna's husband and his collection of goons got their hands on the man who had 'raped' his wife and given her a disease (even though Yanna's husband probably picked it up from one of the whores he frequently slept with). The twisted morality of all this – do I endanger somebody who is threatening to endanger me? – preoccupied me all night. Then dawn came and I was out in the street, walking back to my chambre de bonne, a bag of pains au chocolat in hand.
I mounted the stairs to my room. When I reached my floor, my bladder felt full from all the water I had been drinking that night (doctor's orders), so I turned toward the hallway toilet.
I opened the door and suddenly jumped back in horror, a scream leaping out of my throat. There before me was Omar. He lay slumped on the toilet seat. His throat had been cut. There was blood everywhere. And a toilet brush was sticking out of his mouth.
Fifteen
INSPECTOR JEAN-MARIE COUTARD was a flabby man. He was in his fifties and short – maybe five foot six – with a double chin, a large gut and a red face that made him look self-basting. His clothes were a jumble of contrasting styles and patterns: a check sports jacket, gray trousers, a striped shirt dappled with food stains, a paisley tie. His lack of sartorial interest mirrored his general air of unhealthiness. He had a cigarette screwed into his mouth, and he seemed to be puffing away on it in an attempt to wake himself up. It was only seven fifteen in the morning, and he looked like he had been summoned directly from his bed to this crime scene.
When he arrived, there was already a crowd of people around the tiny bathroom. Three plainclothes policemen, two forensic guys in white coats and latex gloves, a photographer, and a medical man examining the grotesque mess that was Omar. Two plainclothes inspectors then showed up, one of whom was Coutard.
The uniformed cops had been the first on the scene. They came within ten minutes of me racing downstairs and calling them from the phone kiosk at the end of rue de Paradis. Running out to phone them had been an instinctual reaction – and one made in the complete shock of the moment. As soon as I had done so, the thought struck me, They are going to ask where I was when the crime took place. As I couldn't tell them about my 'work', I raced back to my room and 'unmade' my bed, hoping that it looked like I had slept there that night. Then I started thinking fast, trying to construct the alibi I would give the cops when they arrived.
I charged downstairs again to let the police in: two young officers who followed me upstairs and tried hard not to blanch when they saw the bloody state of Omar in the toilet. Within moments they were calling for backup. One of them posted himself outside to make certain nobody left the building. The other stepped into my room with me and asked to see my papers. When I handed over the American passport, he looked at me quizzically.
'Why do you live here?' he asked.
'It's cheap.'
Then he began to ask me some basic questions. What time did I find the body? Where was I last night? ('I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a walk.') What time was that? ('Around two.') And where did I go? ('I just walked along the canal Saint-Martin, then eventually crossed the river and followed the Seine as far as Notre-Dame, then headed back here, stopping at the local pâtisserie for pains au chocolat.') Did I know the deceased? ('We were merely passing acquaintances.') Did I have any idea who might have done this? ('None at all.')
After this brief Q&A, I was told to wait here in my room until the inspector arrived. The cop held on to my passport – and left me alone to my thoughts. My alibi sounded flimsy, full of holes . . . though, at least, they'd be able to confirm with the guy at the pâtisserie that I was there around six this morning. I lay down on my bed and shut my eyes and tried to expunge every grisly detail of Omar on that toilet: the splatter-effect crimson blood, the deep oozing gorge around his throat, the fact that his trousers were down and he must have been in mid-bowel movement when the attack happened. Two people must have killed him: one held him down while his partner shoved the toilet brush in his mouth to stifle his screams before slitting his throat. Had Yanna somehow managed to call her husband that night in Turkey to tell him about the 'rape', and then he phoned some friends who . . . ?
No, that was completely implausible – as Yanna told me he was on the night flight back to Paris yesterday. Which meant he would have been out of contact. So rule out Yanna's husband. But knowing Omar – and how h
e pissed off everyone who ventured into his path – he must have had a lot of enemies.
That was Inspector Coutard's first question to me.
'Did the deceased have any ongoing disputes with anyone?'
I had figured this question would arise and decided to play dumb.
'I didn't know the man.'
'Even though he lived next door to you?'
'We didn't speak.'
'You shared the same floor, the same toilet.'
'You can share a communal toilet and still not speak with someone.'
Coutard reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out my passport. I tried not to look surprised. He flicked through its pages, stopping at the two sole entry stamps.
'You entered France on December 28 of last year, via Canada.'
'That's right. My connecting flight was from Montreal.'
'From where?'
'Chicago.'
'That is where you last lived in the United States?'
'No, I lived in . . .'
And I named the town in Ohio.
'And what made you come to France on December 28 of last year?'
I was prepared for this.
'My marriage had fallen apart and I had lost my job at the college where I taught, and I decided to flee my problems, so . . .'
'There are no direct flights from Chicago to Paris?' he asked, and I could see the subtext behind that question: If you flew here via another country, perhaps you weren't just fleeing a failed marriage.
'The Air Canada flight via Montreal was the cheapest option.'
'What sort of work do you do, Monsieur Ricks?'
'Novelist.'
'What is the name of your publisher?'
'I don't have one.'
'Ah, so you are an aspiring novelist.'
'That's right.'
'And you have lived on the rue de Paradis since . . . ?'
'Early January.'
'An intriguing place for an American to live – but I'm certain you have been asked this question already today.'
'Yes, I have.'
'And your neighbor, the late Monsieur Omar Tariq. He was a good neighbor?'
'We had little contact.'
'Do you know anything about him?'
'Nothing at all.'
He nodded, taking this in. Then, 'No sense whatsoever of who might have done this to him?'
'Like I said, I stayed out of his way.'
He tapped my passport against his hand, looking directly at me. Then he slipped the passport in his pocket.
'You will be required to make a statement about all this – so if you wouldn't mind, I ask that you present yourself at the commissariat de police for the Tenth arrondissement at two this afternoon.'
'Fine. I'll be there. And what about my passport?'
'I'll keep it until then.'
He left my room. I sat down on the bed and suddenly felt very tired and just a little worried that I was playing it a bit too dumb about having had no contact with Omar. But if I told the truth, I might put myself under suspicion, and they also might start demanding to know what I did with my nights. And if they found out I was working illegally . . .
My guess was that Omar owed somebody money or had done something grievous enough to be bumped off in such an unpleasant manner. No doubt, the cops would question everyone in the building. No doubt, someone would tip them off as to who was the assailant.
My lack of sleep – it was now 9 a.m. – somehow managed to override the nightmarish image of Omar in death. I nodded off for a few hours, waking with a jolt when I heard something bang against my door. I jumped up from the bed, opened the door, and found four ambulance attendants trying to maneuver a stretcher with the now bagged body of Omar down the stairs. The ambulance guys looked up at me as I stood, half-awake in the doorway. Then, with several audible groans, they continued attempting to inch this bier containing a very overweight dead man down the narrow, circular stairs.
I went back inside and checked the time: 12.48 p.m. I showered and shaved and dressed, choosing conservative clothes for my interview with the police. When I went out into the hallway, there were several technical guys still working on the toilet and Omar's room, picking up every microfiber in the vicinity. Downstairs, a uniformed cop was still posted outside the door.
'No one is allowed to leave the building,' he said.
'But Inspector Coutard asked to see me at the commissariat de police at two p.m.'
'Your name?' he asked me. I gave it to him. He picked up his walkie-talkie and spoke into it. I heard him mention 'Monsieur Harry Ricks'. There was a static-filled pause, then a voice filled the speaker. The cop lifted it to his ear, then said, 'D'accord,' and turned to me.
'Yes, you are expected at the commissariat de police at two p.m. sharp. Do not be late, monsieur.'
I nodded and hurried off to the Internet café. Once inside, Mr Beard immediately shut the front door, locking it behind him.
'What have you told the police?' he asked.
'News travels fast.'
'What have you told the police?'
'I've said nothing.'
'Nothing? '
'I told them Omar was my neighbor, I didn't know him, I had no idea who might kill him, and that's all.'
'They ask you about your work?'
'Not yet.'
'Not yet? '
'I have to go to the commissariat de police now and make a statement.'
'You must tell them nothing about your work.'
'Believe me, I won't.'
'You must tell them nothing about what you saw the other night.'
'As I told you at the time, I saw nothing.'
'If they ask you what you do—'
'I will continue to tell them I am a writer. That's it.
Happy now?'
'If you say anything else, we will find out. And then—'
'There is no need to threaten me. I certainly don't want to be exposed as someone working illegally here. So don't worry. I'm not going to give the game away.'
'I don't trust you.'
'You have no choice but to. Just as I have no choice but to trust you . . . even though I don't either. Now may I have my money, please?'
He reached into his jacket and handed me the usual envelope.
'You say nothing, life will continue as before,' he told me.
'That sounds good to me.'
'Omar was a pig. He deserved his death.'
I felt like saying, No one – not even gross-out Omar – deserved that sort of gruesome finale. But I held myself in check.
'See you tomorrow,' I said.
'Yeah,' Mr Beard said, 'tomorrow.'
The commissariat de police for the Tenth arrondissement was located on the rue du Louis Blanc. It was an ordinary squat building – three stories high – which didn't stand out amid the other squat shabby buildings along this street. There was a man behind the reception desk as I came in. I told him I was here to see Inspector Coutard and gave him my name. He told me to take a seat. The chairs were cheap plastic ones. The walls of the reception area were painted an institutional beige. There were ceiling tiles gone yellow from extended exposure to cigarette smoke, and fluorescent tubes, and posters taped to the walls, exhorting all citizens to be vigilant about bags left on the métro, and to not drink and drive. A framed photo of Chirac hung in a discreet corner of the room. After a few minutes, a youngish man in shirtsleeves – his gun and holster exposed for all to see – popped his head through the door.
The Woman In The Fifth Page 25
