Woman in the Fifth

‘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 cafe. 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 metro, 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.

‘Monsieur Ricks?’

I stood up. The cop introduced himself as Inspector Leclerc. He ushered me inside and down a flight of steps. We came into an open area, where two men sat shackled to a bench. (I quickly noticed there were two other empty shackles at the far end of this long bench awaiting new customers, as well as a man locked into a small cell adjacent to the bench.)

‘Busy afternoon?’ I asked the inspector.

‘It’s always busy here,’ he said.

I followed him down a corridor and into a cramped office with two desks. Leclerc took a seat at the first one, pushed aside some papers, lit up a cigarette and explained that he would take my statement from me. He then talked me, point by point, through everything that had happened when I discovered Omar, and also asked me (as Coutard had done) about my relationship with my neighbor.

‘I saw him from time to time in the corridor of our building,’ I dictated to Leclerc. ‘I saw him from time to time in the street and around the quartier. Beyond that, we had no additional contact.’

When Leclerc finished typing, he reread the statement to me and asked if I agreed with it. When I nodded yes, he hit a button on his keyboard and a copy whizzed out of an adjoining printer.

‘Please read it, then sign and date it.’

After I had done so, he said, ‘Now we need to fingerprint you.’

‘I thought I was just being called in to make a statement.’

‘You must be fingerprinted as well.’

Am I a suspect here? I felt like asking. But I knew the answer to that question, just as I also knew that if I refused to be fingerprinted, I would be acting guilty.

‘Lead the way,’ I said.