Woman in the Fifth

‘Absolutely. And during the course of my further investigations into Monsieur Ricks’s background yesterday, I discovered a fascinating new twist to the extraordinary narrative that is Monsieur Ricks’s life. I typed in the name of the college at which Monsieur Ricks used to teach. What was it called again?’

‘Crewe College,’ I said.

‘That’s it. Anyway, among the many entries listed was a news report from a local paper. It seems that the Dean of this college — a Monsieur Robson — was dismissed from his job just a few days ago when it was discovered that he had an extensive child pornography library on his computer at work.’

‘What?’ I said loudly.

‘You heard me. According to the paper, it’s quite the scandale. Your ex-wife must be appalled.’

I put my head in my hands.

‘He looks upset,’ Leclerc said.

I wasn’t upset. I was suffering from a massive dose of disbelief and horror as I recalled the remnants of an exchange I had had with Margit only a few days earlier.

‘So,’ she said to me, ‘what do you think would be an appropriate payback for all the harm he perpetrated?’

‘You want me to fantasize here?’

‘Absolutely. The worst thing that could happen to the bastard.’

‘You mean, like discovering that he had a huge collection of kiddy porn on his computer?’

‘That would do nicely.’

‘Oh my God,’ I said under my breath.

‘I thought he’d be pleased to hear such news,’ Coutard said to Leclerc.

‘Yes, you would have expected him to applaud such a downfall.’

‘Unless he feels guilty about it.’

‘But why would he feel guilty?’

‘Perhaps he himself planted the pornography on the gentleman’s computer.’

‘Unlikely … unless he’s one of those highly skilled hackers who can tap into somebody’s hard drive.’

‘Maybe he asked a friend to do it for him?’ Coutard said.

‘Yes — maybe he has a very malicious friend.’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Leclerc said. ‘I mean, the man is also sleeping with a dead woman, so why shouldn’t he also have an avenging angel?’

‘I bet he also believes in Santa Claus.’

‘And the Easter Bunny.’

‘And Snow White … who was once his mistress.’

Coutard began to laugh. Leclerc joined in. I didn’t look up at either of the inspectors. I kept my head in my hands.

‘The man has no sense of humor,’ Leclerc said.

‘Don’t you find any of this funny, Monsieur Ricks?’

‘Am I free to go now?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid you are.’

Coutard pushed my passport across the desk.

‘You need help, monsieur,’ he said.

To which I felt like saying, I’ve got all the help I don’t want.

But instead I picked up my passport and gave the two inspectors a quick nod of goodbye.

‘We’ll meet here again,’ Coutard said as I turned to leave.

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘Trouble is your destiny, monsieur.’

Eighteen

I HIT THE street. I hailed a cab.

‘Rue Linne,’ I said.

As soon as I reached Margit’s address, I punched in the code and charged up the staircase to her apartment. When I reached her door I held down the buzzer. No reply. I banged on the door. No reply. I banged again and called her name. No reply.

‘Goddamnit, Margit — open the fucking door.’

Without thinking I threw my entire weight against it. There was a bit of give around the lock, but it still wouldn’t open. I stepped back and attempted another flying tackle. No further give, but my right shoulder suddenly hurt like hell. I ignored the pain and charged at the door again. There was a loud crunch as it splintered free of the lock. Gravity carried me into the apartment. I stumbled and landed on the bed, breaking my fall with my hands. I immediately began to cough, courtesy of the thick layer of dust that covered everything. I raised up my hands. They were coated with gray powder. I looked at the bed, upon which I had made love so many times with Margit. Soot enveloped the pillows, the blanket, the sheets. I stood up, dusting off my jeans. I walked into the front room. All the furniture was buried under dust. Ditto the little kitchen. The windows were opaque with grime. There were cobwebs in every corner of the room. The carpet was covered with rodent droppings. And when I opened the door of the side room — the room which Margit’s daughter called her own — I jumped back in horror. Three rats were huddled together on the floor, picking at the corpse of a dead mouse.

Then, suddenly, from behind me came a voice.

‘Get out.’

I spun around. Standing in the living room was a diminutive man of around sixty-five. He was gray, stooped, and holding a hammer in one hand. He glared at me with a mixture of anger and fear. His hand started to shake as he raised the hammer.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘Who lives here?’ I asked.

‘No one.’

‘Do you know Margit Kadar?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘That can’t be—’

‘Get out now.’

The hammer trembled again.

‘Margit Kadar lives here,’ I said.

‘She lived here. Until 1980, when she went back to Hungary and died.’

‘No one has lived here since then?’

‘Look around you. Do you actually think someone lives here?’

‘I have been coming here twice a week for months.’

‘I’ve never seen you — and I see everybody who comes through the front door.’

‘You’re lying.’

The hammer trembled again.

‘I’m calling the police,’ he said.

‘What sort of fucked-up game is going on here?’

‘You’re crazy.’

He turned around and started to walk quickly toward the door. I chased after him. When I grabbed his shoulder, he spun around and swung the hammer at me. I just managed to duck out of its path, catching the concierge by the other wrist, then yanking it up behind his back. He squealed in pain.

‘Drop the hammer,’ I said.

‘Help me,’ he yelled to no one in particular. I yanked his arm harder. He squealed again.