lids. She raised them to the three of us and realized, too late, that she had placed herself at a disadvantage. Standing, we had the benefit of height. She craned up at us, shifting the larvae from one of us to the other. Her mood seemed to change from belligerent to cautious.
“You are . . . ?” began Claudel.
“Marie-Eve Rochon. What is this all about? Is Jean-Marc in trouble?”
“You are the concierge?”
“I collect the rent for the owner,” she answered. Though there wasn’t much room, she shifted in the chair. Its protest was audible.
“Know him?” asked Claudel, gesturing at the photo.
“Yes and no. He’s staying here but I don’t know him.”
“Where?”
“Number 6. First entrance, room on the ground level,” she said, making a wide gesture with her arm. The loose, lumpy flesh jiggled like tapioca.
“What’s his name?”
She thought for a moment, fidgeting absently with a scarf tip. I watched a bead of sweat reach its hydrostatic maximum, burst, and trickle down her face. “St. Jacques. Course, they don’t usually use their real names.”
Charbonneau was taking notes.
“How long has he been here?”
“Maybe a year. That’s a long time for here. Most are vagrants. Course, I don’t see him much. Maybe he comes and goes. I don’t pay attention.” She flicked her eyes down and crimped her lips at the obviousness of her lie. “I don’t ask.”
“You get any references?”
Her lips fluttered with a loud puff of air, and she shook her head slowly.
“He have any visitors?”
“I told you, I don’t see him much.” For a time she was silent. Her fidgeting had pulled the scarf to the right, and the ears were now off center on her head. “Seems like he’s always alone.”
Charbonneau looked around. “The other apartments like this?”
“Mine’s the biggest.” The corners of her mouth tightened and there was an almost imperceptible lift to her chin. Even in shabbiness there was room for pride. “The others are broken up. Some are just rooms with hot plates and toilets.”
“He here now?”
The woman shrugged.
Charbonneau closed his notebook. “We need to talk to him. Let’s go.”
She looked surprised. “Moi?”
“We may need to get into the flat.”
She leaned forward in the chair and rubbed both hands on her thighs. Her eyes widened and her nostrils seemed to dilate. “I can’t do that. That would be a violation of privacy. You need a warrant or something.”
Charbonneau fixed her with a level stare and did not answer. Claudel sighed loudly, as though bored and disappointed. I watched a rivulet of condensed water run down the Pepsi can and join a ring at its base. No one spoke or moved.
“Okay, okay, but this is your idea.”
Shifting her weight from ham to ham, she scooted forward in diagonal thrusts, like a sailboat on a series of short tacks. The housedress crept higher and higher, exposing enormous stretches of marbleized flesh. When she had maneuvered her center of gravity to the chair’s edge, she placed both hands on the arms and levered herself up.
She crossed to a desk on the far side of the room and gophered around in a drawer. Shortly, she withdrew a key and checked its tag. Satisfied, she held it out to Charbonneau.
“Thank you, madame. We will be happy to check your property for irregularities.”
As we turned to leave, her curiosity overcame her. “Hey, what’s this guy done?”
“We’ll return the key on our way out,” said Claudel. Once again, we left with eyes fixed on our backs.
The corridor inside the first entrance was identical to the one we’d just left. Doors opened to the left and right, and, at the rear, a steep staircase led to an upper floor. Number 6 was the first on the left. The building was stifling and eerily quiet.
Charbonneau stood to the left, Claudel and I to the right. Both their jackets hung loose, and Claudel rested his palm on the butt of his .357. He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked a second time. Same response.
The two detectives exchanged glances, and Claudel nodded. The corners of his mouth were tucked in tightly, beaking his face even more then usual. Charbonneau fitted the key into the lock and swung the door in. We waited, rigid, listening to dust motes settle back into place. Nothing.
“St. Jacques?”
Silence.
“Monsieur St. Jacques?”
Same answer.
Charbonneau raised a palm in my direction. I waited while the detectives entered, then followed, my heart pounding in my chest.
The room held little furniture. In the left-rear corner a pink plastic curtain hung by rusted rings from a semicircular