A Blood Red Morning by Mark Pryor

Author:Mark Pryor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Go inside,” the SS man said. Then, when we started to move, to Natalia: “You live here too?”

“Oh, now you care who she is,” I muttered in French, and instantly wished I hadn’t.

“Was hast du gesagt?” he snapped at me.

“Sorry, I was saying that she does live here, on the ground floor.”

Natalia flashed me a look that could have been amusement at my wit, admiration for my quick thinking, or annoyance at me being an idiot. I was pretty sure it was the third. The Nazi narrowed his eyes and watched as we went past him into the lobby, then followed us in.

“Wait,” he said, then shouted something in German I didn’t catch up the open stairwell to someone I couldn’t see. Then I heard footsteps clattering down toward us.

“Can I go?” Natalia said to the SS man, in her sweetest baby-girl voice. “I have to go pee-pee.”

“Yes.” He waved her away as if she were a bad smell. “We don’t need you.”

“Thank you.” Natalia glanced at me and, along with her precious cargo, turned and walked away to her apartment. When I turned to see who was coming down the stairs to greet me, my stomach decided to clamp a little tighter. The man who stood before me, flanked by two more of his minions in black uniforms, was the dead man from the cells, the half-human, half-corpse-like Nazi I’d so freely insulted to his lifeless face. The very same man who’d taken what I assumed was a letter giving Remillon written permission to investigate … something.

And now here this mec was, standing in front of me, investigating … something.

Looking at his gaunt face and beady eyes I was not exactly feeling warm and fuzzy, but maybe this was a chance to find out what that piece of paper said exactly, find out what Remillon was investigating that might have got him killed.

“We meet again,” I said, as cheerily as I could muster.

“You are Henri Lefort.”

“I am.”

“Not what I expected.” His French was better than he’d let on at the Préfecture. Sneaky bastard.

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“I was told you are a clever man, a good policeman.”

“Well, that’s very nice to hear. Sorry if I disappoint.”

“You most certainly do.”

“Again, apologies.”

“Clever, they said. So have you solved the murder of that Frenchman?”

“Still working on that. And, as it happens, I have a question for you, the answer to which might help me.”

“Unsolved still, eh?” He pointed straight up toward the top floor, which was a relief, because for a split second I thought he was throwing a spontaneous salute to his Führer, which I most certainly would not have returned. “And here I am, in the very building that houses this supposedly clever detective, investigating crimes he apparently has absolutely no knowledge of.” He smirked toward his underling. “Can you imagine being so clueless and unaware?”

I was on high alert by now. He was wrong in thinking I was unaware of criminal activity in my building, but absolutely right that I was clueless as to which one he was there for.

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