The French Killing by James Cody

Author:James Cody [Cody, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brash Books
Published: 2024-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

* * *

It was shortly after nine in the morning, Paris time, when I passed through the passport-control gate.

I had no trouble with the customs people. When they asked if I had anything to declare, I said no. And, when I told them I was a tourist, they didn’t even bother to open my suitcase with the .38 in it. They merely stamped it and let me go through.

I hailed a taxi outside the airport and settled back in the cab for the ride into the city. There were a number of trucks on the road, and we passed a horse-drawn wagon loaded with hay, its driver perched imperturbably on the dray seat, French peasant cap pulled low on his forehead, a pipe clenched between his teeth. The traffic increased as we reached the outskirts of Paris, the early-morning flow of a city starting the new business day—some delivery trucks, the rush of commuters, and a bevy of those small European cars that darted in and out of lanes with astonishing velocity. I directed the driver to take me to a small hotel where I usually stayed on the Boulevard Malesherbes near the Madeleine. It was inexpensive, centrally located, and did not cater to the American tourist crowd. The clerk behind the desk recognized me immediately, his face breaking into a broad grin, but he frowned when I told him I needed a room. Ah, but why did not Monsieur Petersen let us know he was coming? There are no reservations available. Monsieur Petersen did not know he was coming until last evening. An emergency trip. The desk clerk thought for a moment, and then the grin returned. He would find a room for me, a good one. Some Germans were scheduled to check in later this morning (he said the word German with evident disdain), and he would juggle things around and give them some other room.

My room faced the boulevard and it had a small balcony, and while I was showering and shaving, the desk clerk sent up a continental breakfast, which I ate on the balcony after I had changed into fresh clothing. Sipping my coffee, I watched the street scene below me, and memories of other days in Paris came flooding in on me. I sat there awhile, caught in my reverie, thinking of how life had been for me in that halcyon time, and then—inevitably—my mind moved forward in recollection, and I began to think of Marge. But I broke that off, and drained the last of my coffee. On the sidewalk across the boulevard, two young French girls in their early twenties were walking along, talking animatedly, and I watched them, their firm young bodies moving gracefully beneath their sheath dresses, until they disappeared around a corner at the end of the block.

A short while later I went down to the boulevard and hailed a cab, directing the driver to take me over to the Sûreté. The taxi drove down the Rue Royal

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