Woman in the Fifth

‘Lucky me, then.’

‘It’s not uncommon to feel depressed after such a close escape. But I’m certain the doctors here can give you something for that as well.’

‘I’m fine, under the circumstances.’

‘We’ve charged someone with the arson and attempted murder. I think you know him: a Monsieur Delik who works at the Internet cafe on the rue des Petites Ecuries?’

‘A guy with a beard and a less-than-sunny disposition?’

‘The very gentleman. We have reason to believe that he attempted to burn down the building on the order of Monsieur Sezer — who, as you may remember, is still in custody for ordering the murder of Monsieur Attani over a bad debt. Sezer was your landlord and your employer … though he never let on that he was the boss behind that charming establishment where you played night watchman. Delik ran the Internet cafe after his predecessor, Monsieur Kamal Fatel, was found murdered on the Peripherique. Monsieur Delik has confessed to killing Monsieur Fatel over a dispute about a kilo of heroin that seems to have gone astray while in Fatel’s possession. Delik was promised half-ownership of the cafe if he would eliminate Fatel, whom Sezer thought was also trying to muscle in on several of his enterprises.

‘Now Delik still refuses to admit responsibility for setting the fire that nearly ended your life. He also adamantly denies locking you in that room and turning on the heating fan full blast and pouring sulfur on to the fire that was started near the generator which runs the building’s ventilation system. But a bag of sulfur was found at the Internet cafe. He continues to deny knowledge of its existence. But who else would have put it there?’

I can tell you exactly who put it there.

‘The bag was three-quarters empty — and the sulfur used in the fire exactly matched that found at the cafe. So voila, we have definitive proof that he was the arsonist. You should consider yourself fortunate that some anonymous woman — a passer-by — phoned the pompiers after seeing smoke rise from the top floor of the building. That woman turned out to be your savior, monsieur.’

‘Did she say who she was?’

‘Not at all, monsieur. She simply reported the fire and hung up. Another of your phantom women, no doubt.’

No, just my one and only phantom woman.

‘We also believe that Delik was responsible for destroying your room. Quite a mess he left there.’

‘You were snooping around my room?’

‘We were alerted to the fact that your room was ripped apart—’

‘By whom?’

‘Monsieur, it was located next door to a crime scene. Our officers had to return to the place where Monsieur Omar died for assorted administrative reasons, and discovered your chambre de bonne in upheaval. Naturally we investigated … because we were curious as to why someone would want to so destroy the room of a rather poor writer. And by “poor” I am referring to your financial state, not your literary abilities … though we did commission a translation, en francais naturellement, of the first chapter of your novel, just to validate your claims that you are a novelist.’

‘Is that legal?’ I asked, my voice hoarse, barely audible.

‘You should be pleased, monsieur. You have become a translated writer. Many would kill for the chance … though that might be a wrong choice of words under the circumstances.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘Ah, this proves that you are a true writer. Always concerned about public reaction. Yes, I found it very … interesting.’

‘So you didn’t like it.’

‘How can you discern such a thing?’

‘Because, despite rumors to the contrary, Americans do understand irony.’

‘But your first chapter was … fascinating. Most fascinating. The day-to-day rhythms of American suburbia. The conservative father, the crazy mother, the sensitive son. Most original … and I do presume there are certain autobiographical elements that—’

‘You’ve made your point. Thanks.’

‘Monsieur, you take me the wrong way. I would have continued reading … but that would have meant hiring the translator to deal with the subsequent chapters and as the book is terribly long … over six hundred pages so far, and your hero is still not out of university. I presume it’s what the Germans call a Bildungsroman, ja? It certainly has the heft of a Bildungsroman—’

‘“Heft” is also a synonym for “ponderous”.’

‘Again, you misread me. But literary criticism is not the object of this conversation. Rather, it’s piecing together the narrative of your life on the rue de Paradis. So having ascertained that, yes, you were writing a book and had this very strange job — about which you initially lied to us — we were still curious as to why your room was torn apart. Given that several of your associates—’

‘They were never my associates.’

‘So you say. But given that many of the people with whom you associated — both personally and professionally — were also involved in the sale of illegal substances, we naturally wondered if you yourself were hoarding a kilo or so of—’

‘I never, never had anything to do with …’

I started to cough and sputter; the agitation causing me to suffer shortness of breath; my mouth tasting of burnt phlegm. Coutard stood up and handed me the glass of water on the table by my bed. I sipped it and struggled to keep the water down. Coutard watched me impassively. When the spluttering subsided he said, ‘There is also the question of the twenty-eight hundred euros we found in the pocket of your jacket. Wrapped up in several plastic bags. An intriguing way of carrying money.’

I tried to explain how I had saved all that money, how it was kept hidden in a hole beneath the sink in plastic bags, and how it was the only money I had in the world, so were he to ‘impound’ it …

‘You will be on the street?’ he asked.

‘I won’t be able to live. Because I have nothing. Nothing. You can run a credit check on me, search for bank accounts. You’ll find zilch. That twenty-eight hundred is my entire net worth.’

Silence. I noticed that he had a Zippo lighter in between his right finger and thumb and he was clicking it open and shut. The man was desperate for a cigarette.

‘You will get your money back … because it has no real bearing on our investigations. Your bags and clothes were clean. We found nothing in your room … though I am still intrigued as to why it was pulled apart.’

Because she’s a mad bitch, that’s why.

‘It’s a strange quartier …’ I said.

Coutard allowed himself a little smile.

‘Of this I have no doubt. Just as I also know that you are a man of remarkable naivete to have fallen into a job like that.’

‘It wasn’t naivete, Inspector. It was indifference to what happened to me.’

‘That’s another definition for “nihilism”. But in your case, the nihilism is mixed in with tendencies toward delusion.

Or have you finally accepted that Madame Kadar is dead?’

‘Yes, I know now that she is truly dead.’

‘Well, that is an improvement. Did your near-death experience somehow convince you that there is a considerable frontier between temporal life and the underworld?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘And all that extraordinary knowledge you had on Madame Kadar’s long-forgotten life? Can you now explain to me why you had amassed such detailed information?’

‘Does it matter anymore?’

Click, click, click as he opened and closed the Zippo again.