So what the hell had happened?
Floyd’s hands were trembling. Get a grip, he told himself sternly. What Custine needed now was for Floyd to stay in control. The way to stop himself collapsing into a bundle of nerves was to act, to keep moving.
His first instinct was to drive to rue des Peupliers, but it hadn’t been his plan to go there until later in the afternoon. The one thing he didn’t want to do was anything that might suggest he’d received a communication from Custine. But there’d been no answer when he telephoned Blanchard. Perhaps that would have prompted him to fire up the Mathis and drive across town, even if he hadn’t seen the letter on his desk… or perhaps it would never have crossed his mind that there was a problem.
Do something, he told himself.
He re-read the letter. No clue as to Custine’s current whereabouts, so no need for Floyd to bluff about that if anyone asked him. Although he had a suspicion… He put it out of his mind—it would be safer for both of them if he didn’t even speculate about where Custine might be holed up.
He read it again, forcing his hands to still themselves. The reference to the typewriter: what was that about? Had something finally jogged Custine’s memory?
Do something.
Floyd went to a shelf and pulled down a commercial directory for the Paris area. He flipped through until he reached the “H” section and then ran his finger down the page until he found the entry for the Paris office of Heimsoth and Reinke, more than a little surprised to discover that the firm even existed.
Quickly he dialled the number.
“Heimsoth and Reinke,” said an efficient female voice. “May I help you?”
“I have an electric typewriter that needs repairing. Can you tell me if there is a location in the Paris area that deals with that sort of thing?”
“A typewriter?” she asked, sounding surprised, Floyd thought.
“It’s a Heimsoth and Reinke model. I found it amongst the items I inherited when my aunt passed away. It doesn’t seem to work, but it looked rather expensive and so I imagined it might be worth having it fixed to sell on.”
“There must be some mistake. This firm doesn’t make typewriters, and it certainly doesn’t repair them.”
“But the box the typewriter’s in says—”
He could hear the woman’s patience wearing thin. “Heimsoth and Reinke make enciphering equipment, not typewriters. Our most popular model is the Enigma, which might conceivably be mistaken for a typewriter.” The tone of her voice told him that only the very ignorant could possibly have made this mistake.
Floyd asked, “What would my aunt have been doing with an enciphering machine? I thought such things were meant for spies and soldiers.”
“That’s a common misconception. Over the last thirty years we’ve sold many thousands of Enigma machines to various parties, including banks and businesses that wish to protect their commercial interests. Of course, the military models are more complicated, but there’s no law that says an individual can’t own an Enigma machine. Are you still interested in having it repaired, assuming that it is indeed broken?”
“I’ll think about it,” Floyd said. “In the meantime, thank you for your assistance.”
As Floyd placed the receiver back on its cradle there was a knock at the door. But the timbre of the sound was wrong, somehow, as if someone was already inside the apartment. Floyd had no sooner arrived at this conclusion when he observed three pairs of polished shoes approaching him across the floor of the adjoining room. He looked up, taking in two uniformed officers of the Quai and a third man, alarmingly young and sleek, who was dressed in the long raincoat and heavy serge suit of a plainclothesman. The uniformed officers retained their hats, but the plainclothes inspector had already removed his bowler.
“Can I help you—” Floyd started.
The plainclothesman spoke as the three of them entered the main office. “I’m so very glad to find you at work, Monsieur Floyd. I heard you on the telephone—I hope we aren’t interrupting anything important.”
FOURTEEN
“I have no idea what this is about,” Floyd said, “but where I come from, it’s customary to knock.”
“But we did,” the young inspector said pleasantly.
“I meant knock and then wait to be invited in. As a matter of fact, you might even try calling ahead to make an appointment. It’s called common courtesy.”
The inspector smiled. “But we did. Unfortunately, the line was busy whenever we tried. Of course, that convinced us that there was someone home now, otherwise we would have paid you a visit later this afternoon.”
“And the purpose of this visit is what?”
“My apologies,” the young plainclothesman said. “I am Inspector Belliard of the Crime Squad.” He stopped in front of Floyd’s desk and picked up a black china paperweight in the shape of a horse that had been holding a ream of typed and carbon-copied documentation in check. “Nice antique,” Belliard said. “It would make a wonderful blunt instrument.” He tossed the horse to one of his partners, who fumbled the catch and let it drop to the floor, where it shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.
Floyd fought to keep a lid on his temper—the one thing they clearly wanted him to do was lose it badly. “That almost looked deliberate,” he said. “Of course, we both know it was an accident.”
“I’ll writ you a chit for it. You can claim compensation at the Quai.”
“Do they hand out chits for electrocution burns? I might need one of those as well.”
“What an odd question,” Belliard said, smiling thinly. He moved to the window, pulling back the blinds to examine the view. Floyd noticed that for a moment neither Belliard nor his men had their eyes on his desk. He used the instant to slip Custine’s letter back under the telephone, hoping that none of the men would notice the sudden movement or the slight chime as the handset resettled on its cradle.
“I guess you’re here to harass my partner,” Floyd said.
Belliard turned from the window, blowing a line of dust from his fingers. “Harass your colleague, Monsieur Floyd? Why on Earth would we want to do that?”
“Because it’s what you’ve always done?”
The young man scratched the tip of his nose. He had a very slender face, nearly hairless, like one of the dummies Floyd frequently saw in the windows of gentlemen’s outfitters. Even his eyebrows appeared to have been pencilled in. “Funny you should mention your partner,” the man said, “because it’s Custine we were hoping to have a chat with.”
“I know all about your ‘little chats,’ ” Floyd said. “They usually involve a quick trip to the bottom of the stairs.”
“You’re much too cynical,” Belliard said, chidingly. “It doesn’t become you, Monsieur Floyd.”