The bartender came out from behind the bar and halfheartedly wiped down the other tables with the dirty tea towel. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Sooner or later I’d have to start asking him questions, but I couldn’t make him suspicious right away. Especially not after Nick had started the whole husband-and-wife charade.
My phone bleeped from my pocket, and I cursed inwardly. I hadn’t charged it last night and the battery was almost flat.
‘What exactly do you plan to do here?’ Nick still looked pissed off.
‘I’m going to ask that guy a few questions.’ I stood up and returned to the bar where the bartender was polishing more glasses with the same tea towel. He gave me a questioning look.
‘Would you like another drink, madame?’
‘No, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m really interested in the history of these old bars, and I was hoping to find out a bit more about this one. Is the owner around?’
‘I am the owner.’ The man looked affronted, as if I’d offended his honour.
‘Oh, I thought it belonged to a British man… a man who works in the music industry?’
‘I do not know any British man.’ His face was expressionless.
‘I must have the wrong place,’ I said. ‘I was sure this person said Le Chat Masqué. But I must be mistaken.’
He gave me a thin-lipped smile. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said again.
I returned to the table, downcast. I suspected the bartender was feigning his ignorance, but I couldn’t very well get him to talk against his will.
‘That was great investigative journalism, Burrowes,’ Nick said.
‘Shut up.’
‘And so witty too!’
I ignored him, partly because I didn’t want to speak to him and partly because I couldn’t think of a decent comeback. My phone bleeped again, reminding me of its depleted battery. I took it out of my pocket, flipped it open and switched it off. Before I knew it, Nick had snatched it from my hand and was studying it with mock interest. ‘I didn’t know they still made dumb phones like this.’
‘I didn’t know they still made dumbarses like you. I don’t need a so-called smartphone, thank you very much. They just make the user more stupid, if you ask me.’
‘Oh wait! It’s ringing.’ He made a ridiculous impersonation of a ringtone and held my phone up to his ear. ‘Hello? Just a minute.’ He held it out to me. ‘It’s for you. It’s 1999. They need another brick to complete their wall of obsolete shit.’
‘Give me that.’ I snatched it back and stood up.
‘Now what are you doing?’
‘I’m going to the loo, if that’s OK with you?’
A gloomy hallway led off down the side of the bar with two doors on the right side and two at the end. I could vaguely see the word Toilette on one of the doors at the end. When I got closer, I noticed the other door was smaller and older and covered in peeling deep red paint. A small image of a black cat was the only symbol that adorned it. The thrill of discovery zinged through me. In my research, I’d learnt that le chat masqué meant ‘the hidden cat’, so I had a feeling that whatever was behind this door was significant. But when I tried the door, I found it was locked. Disappointed, I turned to the bathroom and pushed open the door.
After my lack of success with the belligerent bartender and the locked cat door, I felt the need to do some snooping, so once I was done in the bathroom I decided to try the other doors. The first was unlocked, so I opened it and peered inside. Brooms, mops, buckets, cleaning products. Nothing but a janitor’s room.
The next appeared to be a small office. I checked behind me to make sure no one was watching, then slipped inside and closed the door before switching on the light.
The naked light bulb revealed a tiny room with a desk in one corner and a filing cabinet in the other. An old, lumpy office chair was wedged between the desk and the wall. A hole in the seat cushion spewed stuffing. No pictures decorated the wall, no plants filtered the carbon dioxide in the air. There wasn’t even a computer.
This place could indeed be owned by the bartender. This could be his office, and I could’ve been mistaken about what I’d overheard in Rome. But he could also have been lying, and this opportunity was too good to let go. I started with the desk, rifling through the pile of papers that covered it. But naturally they were all in French, and as I was no Babel fish, they were less than illuminating.
Next I moved on to the filing cabinet, which was filled with suspension files. They appeared to be accounting records, but I went through each one just to be sure. No luck.
It was then that I heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Panic flared inside me. What if it was the bartender? What if he came in here and caught me going through his office? How could I talk my way out of that? The footsteps drew closer. I switched off the light and scooted under the desk in the darkness.
The door swung open and a faint light filtered into the room. I held my breath. For the first time since I’d taken on this story I became aware of the real danger of what I was getting into. This wasn’t going to be a matter of simply talking my way out. Sweat prickled under my arms.
Then the door closed again and the footsteps retreated in the direction of the bar.
I sighed in relief, got out from under the desk and flicked on the light again. I’d better be quick before Nick started wondering where I was. Trying to resist the impulse to rush back to the bar, I went through everything on the desk again. I even picked up the phone
