You Slay Me
Page 27
Jim was peering over the edge of the fire escape. There was a definite look of unease on its face.
"Scared of heights?" I asked.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a demon. The only things we're scared of are the demon princes and the dark mas-ter of them all."
"That sneer doesn't quite cut it." I grinned but took pity on Jim as I slid the ladder into place, quickly climb-ing down it. "Last step's a doozy—be careful," I said, rubbing my knees that had protested the four-foot drop.
"I don't suppose you'd eventhink of offering to catch me?" Jim asked from the top of the ladder.
"You must weigh at least a hundred and twenty pounds. The answer is no. You're a demon—you can't feel pain. Jump."
"Doesn't mean I want to ruin this nice form by break-ing my legs," Jim grumbled, but it managed to head down most of the steps before jumping to land beside me.
"Any ideas which way the demon would have gone?" I asked, looking down the shady alley that ran the width of the building. I peered into the shadows, trying to de-termine whether a demon would have been likely to run that way.
Jim didn't answer me.
"Look, I'm not asking you to be actually helpful or anything, but you could offer me a bit of advice once in a while. I don't think that would kill you." I turned around to glare at Jim and came face-to-face with the mild brown eyes of Inspector Proust. "Gah!"
"Andbonjour to you, too," Inspector Proust said. His eyebrows raised a fraction as his warm eyes considered me. "You will forgive my impertinent curiosity, Mle. Grey, but I am unable to keep from asking if you often find yourself receiving advice from dogs?"
I looked down at Jim, who was sitting with an unusu-ally smug look on its face, madly trying to come up with an excuse for being there, but it wasn't any good. My mind had evidently gone to lunch, leaving me holding the proverbial bag. And Jim's leash. Next to the fire escape that led up to the apartment of a murdered woman.
One whose death I was suspected of causing.
"Poop," I said. And meant it. 7
"Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me?" In-spector Proust asked in a voice that held a note of steel beneath the polite veneer.
"Down to the police station?" I asked miserably, falling in alongside him as he ambled toward the end of the street, where a couple of benches overlooked the Seine. Jim walked next to me, thankfully silent. I made a note to buy the biggest hamburger I could find in Paris for Jim … if I managed to keep from being thrown into jail. I couldn't help but wonder if the French still used the Bastille. Thoughts of the guillotine weren't even worth contemplating.
"I have no intention of taking you to the station. Not unless you desire me to do so," Inspector Proust an-swered. He strolled along with his hands clasped behind his back, just as if we were two old buddies taking a lunchtime walk together. "I have been looking for you this morning. I wanted to speak to you. I see you have ac-quired a dog."
I glanced quickly at Jim. "Well, it…he sort of found me. He's a stray, homeless, one no one wanted, so I thought I'd take him in until I can find someone to take him off my hands." Not entirely a lie, but not
entirely the truth, either.
"Ah. Most commendable of you." We reached the benches. He waited politely until I seated myself before sitting down next to me. "You permit?"
I nodded my head when he pulled out a package of cig-arettes, then shook it when he offered me one. "We are having very nice weather this week, yes? So nice it seems strange to me that a visitor to Paris would desire spending her time inside rather than out seeing the many pleasing sights there are to see."
I squirmed a bit until I realized what I was doing. Ei-ther he was going to arrest me, in which case squirming wasn't going to do me the least bit of good, or he was going to pump me for information, and my squirming might be interpreted as an indication that I was not telling him the truth. "You want to know why I was in Mme. Deauxville's apartment just now?"
"If you would not object to telling me."
"I kind of thought you would be curious." I thought briefly of lying, but my ex-husband once told me I was the worlds worst liar, so I figured the truth would have to do. "I wanted to look at the circle that was drawn beneath where Mme. Deauxville was hung."
"Ah, the occult circle, yes. Why did you wish to ex-amine it?"
I slid him a quick glance. "I thought if I had a good look at it, I might be able to figure out who killed her."
His eyebrows raised. "Much as I appreciate your help, I must point out that the Criminal Investigation Depart-ment has a full roster of policemen and investigators em-ployed. Your time, perhaps, would be better spent in other endeavors."
I played with the leash, avoiding meeting either Proust's or Jim's eyes. "Such as?"
"An explanation of what ties you have to a lady by the name of Amelie Merllain."
"Amelie?" I frowned at him. Why on earth was he ask-ing about Amelie'? A nasty suspicion started to form in the back part of my mind. "She owns a shop in the Latin Quarter. Other than visiting her shop, I don't have any ties to her."
"Indeed. And yet you visited the shop twice yester-day."
"That was … I was … I just needed …" I stopped, unable to tell him my last visit was to procure demon-raising supplies.
Inspector Proust looked at me with gentle sorrow, as if I'd let him down somehow. "I see. Perhaps instead of an-swering these so troublesome questions, you would care to discuss your relationship with the gentleman known as Albert Camus?"
"The Venediger?" I asked, surprised.
Proust inclined his head. "I believe that is one of his aliases."
"You've been following me!" I jumped to my feet so I could glare down at him.
He did the Gallic shrug I was starting to think I'd have to learn, it was just that expressive. "Did you think I would allow you to wander freely?"
I sat back down and thought about that for a few min-utes. "I suppose you have a point, although I don't like it. I'm not guilty of the murder—I've told you that."
Inspector Proust puffed on his cigarette for a few min-utes as we both watched a barge drift by. It was surpris-ingly pleasant sitting there, a tranquil and peaceful corner of Paris. Although we were approaching midday, the breeze from the river kept it from being too hot, and as the now-familiar cacophony of sounds that was Paris seemed a long way away, our little spot seemed almost a haven.
"Scared of heights?" I asked.
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a demon. The only things we're scared of are the demon princes and the dark mas-ter of them all."
"That sneer doesn't quite cut it." I grinned but took pity on Jim as I slid the ladder into place, quickly climb-ing down it. "Last step's a doozy—be careful," I said, rubbing my knees that had protested the four-foot drop.
"I don't suppose you'd eventhink of offering to catch me?" Jim asked from the top of the ladder.
"You must weigh at least a hundred and twenty pounds. The answer is no. You're a demon—you can't feel pain. Jump."
"Doesn't mean I want to ruin this nice form by break-ing my legs," Jim grumbled, but it managed to head down most of the steps before jumping to land beside me.
"Any ideas which way the demon would have gone?" I asked, looking down the shady alley that ran the width of the building. I peered into the shadows, trying to de-termine whether a demon would have been likely to run that way.
Jim didn't answer me.
"Look, I'm not asking you to be actually helpful or anything, but you could offer me a bit of advice once in a while. I don't think that would kill you." I turned around to glare at Jim and came face-to-face with the mild brown eyes of Inspector Proust. "Gah!"
"Andbonjour to you, too," Inspector Proust said. His eyebrows raised a fraction as his warm eyes considered me. "You will forgive my impertinent curiosity, Mle. Grey, but I am unable to keep from asking if you often find yourself receiving advice from dogs?"
I looked down at Jim, who was sitting with an unusu-ally smug look on its face, madly trying to come up with an excuse for being there, but it wasn't any good. My mind had evidently gone to lunch, leaving me holding the proverbial bag. And Jim's leash. Next to the fire escape that led up to the apartment of a murdered woman.
One whose death I was suspected of causing.
"Poop," I said. And meant it. 7
"Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me?" In-spector Proust asked in a voice that held a note of steel beneath the polite veneer.
"Down to the police station?" I asked miserably, falling in alongside him as he ambled toward the end of the street, where a couple of benches overlooked the Seine. Jim walked next to me, thankfully silent. I made a note to buy the biggest hamburger I could find in Paris for Jim … if I managed to keep from being thrown into jail. I couldn't help but wonder if the French still used the Bastille. Thoughts of the guillotine weren't even worth contemplating.
"I have no intention of taking you to the station. Not unless you desire me to do so," Inspector Proust an-swered. He strolled along with his hands clasped behind his back, just as if we were two old buddies taking a lunchtime walk together. "I have been looking for you this morning. I wanted to speak to you. I see you have ac-quired a dog."
I glanced quickly at Jim. "Well, it…he sort of found me. He's a stray, homeless, one no one wanted, so I thought I'd take him in until I can find someone to take him off my hands." Not entirely a lie, but not
entirely the truth, either.
"Ah. Most commendable of you." We reached the benches. He waited politely until I seated myself before sitting down next to me. "You permit?"
I nodded my head when he pulled out a package of cig-arettes, then shook it when he offered me one. "We are having very nice weather this week, yes? So nice it seems strange to me that a visitor to Paris would desire spending her time inside rather than out seeing the many pleasing sights there are to see."
I squirmed a bit until I realized what I was doing. Ei-ther he was going to arrest me, in which case squirming wasn't going to do me the least bit of good, or he was going to pump me for information, and my squirming might be interpreted as an indication that I was not telling him the truth. "You want to know why I was in Mme. Deauxville's apartment just now?"
"If you would not object to telling me."
"I kind of thought you would be curious." I thought briefly of lying, but my ex-husband once told me I was the worlds worst liar, so I figured the truth would have to do. "I wanted to look at the circle that was drawn beneath where Mme. Deauxville was hung."
"Ah, the occult circle, yes. Why did you wish to ex-amine it?"
I slid him a quick glance. "I thought if I had a good look at it, I might be able to figure out who killed her."
His eyebrows raised. "Much as I appreciate your help, I must point out that the Criminal Investigation Depart-ment has a full roster of policemen and investigators em-ployed. Your time, perhaps, would be better spent in other endeavors."
I played with the leash, avoiding meeting either Proust's or Jim's eyes. "Such as?"
"An explanation of what ties you have to a lady by the name of Amelie Merllain."
"Amelie?" I frowned at him. Why on earth was he ask-ing about Amelie'? A nasty suspicion started to form in the back part of my mind. "She owns a shop in the Latin Quarter. Other than visiting her shop, I don't have any ties to her."
"Indeed. And yet you visited the shop twice yester-day."
"That was … I was … I just needed …" I stopped, unable to tell him my last visit was to procure demon-raising supplies.
Inspector Proust looked at me with gentle sorrow, as if I'd let him down somehow. "I see. Perhaps instead of an-swering these so troublesome questions, you would care to discuss your relationship with the gentleman known as Albert Camus?"
"The Venediger?" I asked, surprised.
Proust inclined his head. "I believe that is one of his aliases."
"You've been following me!" I jumped to my feet so I could glare down at him.
He did the Gallic shrug I was starting to think I'd have to learn, it was just that expressive. "Did you think I would allow you to wander freely?"
I sat back down and thought about that for a few min-utes. "I suppose you have a point, although I don't like it. I'm not guilty of the murder—I've told you that."
Inspector Proust puffed on his cigarette for a few min-utes as we both watched a barge drift by. It was surpris-ingly pleasant sitting there, a tranquil and peaceful corner of Paris. Although we were approaching midday, the breeze from the river kept it from being too hot, and as the now-familiar cacophony of sounds that was Paris seemed a long way away, our little spot seemed almost a haven.
