The Parisian Codex

12 - Terrible news

I took advantage of the cops' surprise—probably not used to getting corpses thrown in their faces—to jump out of the dumpster. I ran as fast as I could through the tunnel and down the street I'd just come from. I went up the Champs-Élysées in the middle of the roadway, whizzed under the Arc de Triomphe, and veered towards Avenue Foch and its wooded counter-alleys. I had long since lost my pursuers, but I was sure they had jumped into their cars to continue the chase. Soon I'd have the entire police force of the surrounding arrondissements hot on my heels. I still had a few hours before daybreak, but I couldn't risk being stuck outside when it happened. I had to get back to safety. But before that, an unpleasant conversation awaited, and I had no more excuses to put it off.

I pounded on the intercom until Nadine Leroy's voice answered.

"Germain Dupré," I said. "I need to talk to you right now."

"At this hour?" came Nadine's voice, distorted by the microphone.

"It's important."

Two seconds later, the door to the building unlocked.

The entrance hall had the air of a mausoleum, all white marble, mirrors, and overworked gilding. I walked quickly past the mirrors—not my thing—to the back of the hall.

The elevator was an old model, with exposed counterweights and a simple wrought-iron frame. It was obviously lovingly maintained and shone like a new penny. It started up with a jolt and rose at a leisurely pace.

A huge Persian carpet covered the white marble of the vast landing. There was only one door on this floor, as on those I'd just passed. A carved wooden double door that could have belonged to a church.

Before I could even knock, the door opened, and Nadine Leroy beckoned me in. She was still dressed, holding a glass of red wine, and didn't seem to notice the hand I held out to her.

The apartment resembled a museum, with paintings on every wall, niches, and pedestals to showcase countless precious objects. Amidst Japanese funerary pottery, I spotted two gold crucifixes adorned with gems, a silver box that looked an awful lot like a tabernacle, and three statues of saints (Saint Sebastian, riddled with arrows like a hedgehog, Saint Matthew and his tax collector's scales, and a Virgin and Child, Christ holding a miniature Earth in his chubby hands). So many sacred objects made me grind my teeth.

"Can we talk in the kitchen?" I suggested.

Nadine guided me into a vast and luxurious kitchen with a black marble floor. She gestured for me to take a seat at the table.

"How about a glass of wine?"

I declined and marveled that her perfect hospitality reflexes could override her anxiety.

She sat down opposite me, her hands knotted on the stem of her glass. "What can I do for you, Mr. Dupré?"

"I have terrible news," I said.

She said nothing, but her fingers tightened on the stem of the glass, and I feared it might break.

There was no point in dragging this out.

"Your husband's dead."

Nadine nodded slowly, and her gaze wandered to her glass of wine—which she hadn't touched since I arrived.

"I just discovered his body near the Champs-Élysées," I explained. "The police should be contacting you soon. I wanted to break the sad news to you myself."

Nadine nodded again and murmured "Thank you," without taking her eyes off her glass. Moments later, she looked up abruptly. "What happened?"

Her eyes shone a little too brightly and had been reddened by tears earlier in the night. But before me, she maintained an admirable composure. Or maybe it was shock.

"I still don't know what's happened to Robert," I lied. "But I'll do everything in my power to find his killer."

"Isn't that police work?"

"Let's just say this case has taken a personal turn. I urge you to cooperate with the authorities, but I'll continue my investigation on my own, at my own expense. There's only one thing I need from you."

"Yes?"

"Don't mention me to the police. They'd want to question me, and in the meantime, the murderer might escape."

She stared at me for a long moment, and I returned her gaze with my most innocent expression.

"And the codex?" she asked suddenly. "Was it with Robert?"

"I haven't had time to check. I think the murderer took it with him."

"They killed my husband for this book..." she murmured.

I nodded. It made so much more sense than the truth.

"What stopped you from checking?" she asked.

"The police got there."

"You fled. Why?"

"I told you: I've got no time to lose if I'm to find the killer."

She shook her head gently. "I still don't understand why."

I could have made up a story, but the truth was simpler. "My adoptive father collected ancient manuscripts. He was killed in a burglary, trying to protect his collection. No one ever found the culprit."

"And you think it's the same person?"

"Let's just say I want to check."

"I see." Her gaze lingered for long seconds on the surface of her wine. "I'll ask François not to mention your visit. I don't think he'll want to talk about the codex—I think I've convinced him that the effect would be disastrous for their ... for his reputation. I'll do my best. But I can't guarantee his silence."

I thanked her and left her, alone with her wine and grief.