All the Devils Are Here(24)

“Of course.” Armand placed a credit card on the duty manager’s desk. “I believe he checked in two nights ago.”

“Non, monsieur,” said the manager, consulting his computer to confirm. “Monsieur Horowitz arrived ten days ago. He was supposed to leave this coming Wednesday.”

“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Positive. Should we hold the room for him?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Armand.

“The suite,” said the manager, “is three thousand five hundred euros.”

Reine-Marie and Armand exchanged a glance. They could certainly cover that.

“A night.”

Reine-Marie’s face remained composed, though she could feel her blood, and her children’s inheritance, draining away.

Two weeks … that would come to …

“It comes to forty-nine thousand euros,” said Monsieur Pannier. “So far. That is, of course, before tax and any other charges. Monsieur Horowitz often had meals in his room.”

Reine-Marie did a rough conversion in her mind. About seventy-five thousand Canadian dollars.

So far.

“Given the circumstances,” said Madame Béland, “all we’d need is a ten percent deposit.”

“Avec plaisir,” said Armand, as though they’d expected it to be more. “I understand someone else is staying there. Can you tell us who that is?”

The manager frowned. “Non. Monsieur Horowitz was alone in the suite.”

“Are you sure?” asked Reine-Marie.

“Quite sure.”

“I’d like you to cancel the old keys,” said Armand, handing back the key he had. “And have new ones issued, please.”

They did.

As they left, Reine-Marie whispered to Armand, “You’re going to have to get a paper route.”

“You’re going to have to sell a kidney.”

She smiled. “Should we at least stay here, if we’re paying?”

“Would you like to?”

She thought about it. “Non. I prefer our apartment.”

“Moi aussi.”

“Where to now?” she asked and got the answer as Armand gave the taxi driver the address.

“Cinq rue Récamier, s’il vous pla?t. It’s in the Seventh Arrondissement. Across from the H?tel Lutetia.”

Stephen’s apartment.

Armand sat back, the box on his knees, the satchel sitting on the seat between them.

The magnificent Haussmann buildings glided past, but he was lost in thought.

While he definitely liked the finer things, Stephen was notoriously careful with his money. Some might even say stingy.

There was no way he would have paid for a suite at the George V when he had a perfectly good, even luxurious apartment in Paris.

And yet it appeared that’s exactly what Stephen had done.

Now why was that?





CHAPTER 8




Armand put his arm out and stopped Reine-Marie from going any farther.

They’d let themselves into the apartment and were standing in the wide foyer. The archway into the living room was off to their left.

Reine-Marie, slightly behind her husband, couldn’t yet see the room, or the problem. But Armand could.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. She saw his body tense.

He lowered the cardboard box and shoulder bag to the floor. Leaning forward, Reine-Marie saw what he saw.

The living room was a shambles.

“Armand—” she began but stopped when he raised his hand. A clear signal for silence.

He moved slowly into the room, Reine-Marie behind him. They stepped over and around overturned chairs and side tables, lamps and paintings.

She bumped into his back when he suddenly stopped.

Armand remained completely still for a few heartbeats. He was staring behind an overturned sofa. His face grim.

When he crouched down, she saw.

There was a man on the floor. Facedown.

Dead.

She took a step back, blanching.

Armand stood and looked around quickly. What he’d seen, which Reine-Marie had not, was that the man had been shot twice, once in the back. Once in the head.

The man was cold to the touch. It must have happened a number of hours earlier. But …

“There’s a slight scent in the air. Can you smell it?” he whispered.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. Then she caught it. Hardly there. Elusive. More a suggestion than a scent.

“Try to remember it.” His voice was urgent. His eyes sharp. His whole being alert.

Slightly citrusy, she thought. And sort of muddy. Not a perfume, a cologne. Definitely masculine. Not pleasant.

It was disappearing, even as she tried to grasp it.

“Is it his?” she whispered, not looking at the man again.

“I don’t think so. And it’s not Stephen’s.”

So it was someone else’s, and Reine-Marie immediately followed Armand’s thoughts. And understood his extreme alertness.

Colognes, eaux de toilette, didn’t hang around for long. They might cling to clothes, but did not float in the air. Certainly not for hours. Which meant someone had been there recently. Very recently.

And might still be in the apartment.