Woman in the Fifth

‘Drop the hammer now or I’ll break your fucking arm.’

The hammer fell from his hand. The concierge began to whimper.

‘There’s forty euros in my wallet, if that’s what you’re after.’

‘All I’m after is the truth,’ I said. ‘Who lives here?’

‘Nobody.’

‘When did you last see Margit Kadar?’

‘In 1980.’

‘Liar.’

‘You have to believe me—’

‘The apartment is always clean, always—’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Why haven’t you seen me before? Why?’

‘Because I never have. Now will you please let me go.’

‘Did you know about the murder she committed?’

‘Of course. It was in all the papers. The man who ran over Zoltan and Judit.’

‘You know their names.’

‘Naturally I know their names. They lived here.’

‘With Margit?’

‘I don’t know why you are asking these mad questions.

This was Margit’s apartment. When she lost her husband and daughter, she went crazy and killed the driver of the car that killed her family. Then she fled back to Hungary, and the next thing I heard she was dead.’

‘And since then … ?’

‘Since then? Nothing. The apartment remains unused. The bills get paid, but no one has ever come in here. Until this afternoon. Please, monsieur …’

I suddenly felt as if the world was spinning in front of me. I was in a reality that might not be a reality that still might be real. Dust and cobwebs and mouse shit and rats. And yet, just a few days ago when I was here …

‘I don’t understand,’ I heard myself saying.

‘Please, monsieur, you’re hurting me.’

‘I just want the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth. You must believe me.’

I can’t believe anything right now.

‘If I let you go, do you promise not to start yelling for help or reaching for the hammer?’ I asked.

‘I promise.’

I pulled my hand away from his arm.

‘I’m leaving now,’ I said, taking one last bewildered glance around the room. ‘If you do anything …’

‘You have my word, monsieur. Just go now. Please.’

‘I’m sorry if I hurt your arm. I’m just …’

‘Go, monsieur, go …’

‘… lost.’

I raced down the stairs and out into the street, wondering, What now? I saw a cab. I flagged it down. I climbed inside.

‘Where are you going, monsieur ?’ the cabbie asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Monsieur, this is a taxi. I need a destination.’

One suddenly arrived in my head.

‘The Pantheon. Rue Soufflot.’

‘Tres bien, monsieur.’

He dropped me in front of Lorraine L’Herbert’s apartment building. There was no intercom speaker on the front door, but I got lucky. An elderly woman with a small dog was going inside as I approached. After she punched in the code, I held the door open for her and followed her inside. She thanked me, though I could see her looking over my bedraggled state and wondering if she did the right thing by letting me in.

‘Are you visiting someone, monsieur?’

‘Madame L’Herbert.’

That reassured her. I excused myself and headed up the stairs. When I reached L’Herbert’s apartment, I rang the bell. No answer. I rang it again, holding it down a long time. From inside, I heard L’Herbert shouting, ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ After a minute, the door opened. She was in a long silk bathrobe. Her face was covered in some black substance — a makeup mask — which she was attempting to rub off with a handful of tissues.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘My name is Harry Ricks and I was at your salon a couple of months ago.’

‘You were?’ she said, staring at my unkempt state.

‘I met somebody here — a woman named Margit Kadar …’

‘And you came by to get her phone number? Hon, we’re not a dating service. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

I put my foot in the door as she tried to close it.

‘I just need to ask you—’

‘How’d you get in here?’

I told her.

‘Well, the salon’s on Sunday night, and you know the rules: you have to call up and reserve your place. Coming by like this, unannounced …’

‘You have to help me. Please.’

She looked me over with care.

‘You’re American, right?’

‘You don’t remember me?’

‘We have fifty to one hundred people every week, so, no, I don’t remember everyone. Something wrong, hon? You look like you’ve been sleeping in the park.’

‘Margit Kadar. The name doesn’t ring a bell?’ She shook her head.

‘You sure?’ I asked, then described her. Again L’Herbert shook her head.

‘Why is this so important? You in love or something?’

‘I just need to verify that she was here the night I was here.’

‘Well, if you met her here, then she was here.’

‘Please, could you get your assistant to check your records?’

‘He’s out right now. If you phone him in about two hours—’

‘I don’t have two hours. Don’t you have a database or something where you could look her up?’

She stared down at my foot in her door.

‘You’re not going to go away until I do this, are you?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘If you agree to let me shut the door, I’ll see if I can help you.’

‘You will come back?’

‘Fear not,’ she said with an ironic smile. ”Cause if I don’t, y’all are going stand here, beating on my door till I do come back. Am I right, hon?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Back in a jiffy.’

I removed my foot. She closed the door. I sat down on the stairs and rubbed my eyes, and tried to get that image of Margit’s apartment under dust out of my brain. I failed. No doubt the concierge had called the cops by now. No doubt they were probably searching for me. If they couldn’t pin two murders on me, they could still have me arrested for assault and general lunacy. By the end of the day I could be locked up in some madhouse, awaiting deportation back home. Imagine what will happen if word gets out that I was thrown out for insisting that I was romantically involved with a dead woman. Then again, compared with the scandal which had engulfed Robson …