Menard didn’t reply.
“Or we could do this at headquarters.” Ryan’s tone was tempered steel.
The door closed. A chain rattled, then the door reopened.
Ryan entered and I followed. The floor was linoleum, the walls a color way too dark for the windowless room. The air smelled of mothballs, old wallpaper, and musty fabric.
The tiny foyer was lit by one small china lamp. Menard stood shadowed by the door, one hand on the knob, the other pressing a brass letter opener flat to his chest.
When Menard closed the door and turned to us, I got my first look at him.
Stephen Menard had to be six foot four. With his freckled face and bald, toad-shaped head, he was one of the most peculiar men I’d ever laid eyes on. He could have been a worn forty or a well-preserved sixty.
“May we sit down?” Ryan unzipped his jacket.
A shrug.
Menard led us into a parlor as dim as the foyer. Heavy red drapes, mahogany secretary, coffee and end tables. Dark floral wallpaper. Deep cranberry upholstered pieces.
Laying the letter opener on the secretary, Menard dropped onto the sofa and crossed his legs. I removed my jacket and took the armchair to his right.
Ryan circled the room, turning on the overhead chandelier and a pair of crystal and brass lamps flanking the couch. The improved lighting allowed a better evaluation of the man of the house.
Stephen Menard was not just bald, he was totally hairless. No whiskers. No eyelashes. No body or head hair. The trait made him look smooth and oddly pale. I wondered if Menard’s lack of hair was a genetic condition, or some bizarre fashion statement intentionally created.
Ryan lifted a Windsor chair from beside the secretary and parked it in front of Menard with body language clearly not intended to calm. Sitting, he placed elbows on knees, and leaned forward to within a yard of Menard’s face.
Our reluctant host wore slippers, jeans, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed above the elbows. Drawing back from Ryan, Menard tugged the sleeves to his wrists, shoved them back up, adjusted his glasses, and waited.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Menard. You’ve caught our interest.”
“My understanding is that you’re American, so English shouldn’t be any problem for you, right?”
Menard’s chin tucked in a bit, but he said nothing.
“Richard Cyr tells us you ran a pawnshop out of his property on rue Ste-Catherine a few years back.”
Menard’s lips went needle thin, and a wrinkle formed above the place his brows should have been.
“You got a problem with my asking about that?”
Menard ran a hand across his jaw, readjusted his glasses.
“Pretty successful operation. Lasted, what? Nine years? You’re a young man. What made you decide to call the pawn business quits?”
“I was not a mere pawnbroker. I traded in collectibles.”
“Please explain that to me.”
“I helped collectors locate hard-to-find items. Stamps. Coins. Toy soldiers.”
I’d seen Ryan interrogate suspects in the past. He was good with silence. The person being interrogated would complete an answer, but instead of putting another question Ryan would look up expectantly and wait. He did so now.
Menard swallowed.
Ryan waited.
“It was a legitimate business,” Menard mumbled.
Somewhere in the house I thought I heard a door open and close.
“Things grew complicated. Business was dropping off. The lease came up. I decided not to renew.”
“Complicated how?”
“Just complicated. Look, I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights.”
“I’m just asking a few questions, Mr. Menard.”
Eye contact had become noticeably difficult for Menard. His gaze kept shifting from his hands to Ryan, then darting back down.
Ryan allowed another long pause. Then, “Why the switch from archaeology?”
“What are you talking about?”
