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beciles mouthing his praise。
Now he waited in the darkening apartment； watching the steady flow of cars across the Pont Louis…Phillipe； as tired Parisians began the trek home through the snow。 Their horns blared； their engines coughed and growled； their yellow fog lamps made a ribbon of light across the bridge。
Still Catherine didn't e。
The snow； which had held off for most of the day； was beginning to fall again； whispering against the window。 The traffic flowed across the Seine； the Seine flowed under the traffic。 Night fell。 At last； he heard footsteps in the hail； exchanged whispers with the housekeeper。
It was Catherine。 At last； it was Catherine。
He stood up and stared at the door； imagining it opening before it opened； imagining her in the doorway。
'Lewis； my darling …'
She smiled at him； a pale smile on a paler face。 She looked older than he'd expected。 How long was it since he'd seen her？ Four years or five？ Her fragrance was the same as she always wore： and it reassured Lewis with its permanence。 He kissed her cold cheeks lightly。
'You look well；' he lied。
'No I don't；' she said。 'If I look well it's an insult to Phillipe。 How can I be well when he's in such trouble？'
Her manner was brisk； and forbidding； as always。
She was three years his senior； but she treated him as a teacher would a recalcitrant child。 She always had： it was her way of being fond。
Greetings over； she sat down beside the window； staring out over the Seine。 Small grey ice…floes floated under the bridge； rocking and revolving in the current。 The water looked deadly； as though its bitterness could crush the breath out of you。
'What trouble is Phillipe in？'
'He's accused of…'
A tiny hesitation。 A flicker of an eyelid。
'… murder。'
Lewis wanted to laugh； the very thought was prepos…terous。 Phillipe was sixty…nine years old； and as mild…mannered as a lamb。
'It's true； Lewis。 I couldn't tell you by telegram； you understand。 I had to say it myself。 Murder。 He's accused of murder。'
'Who？'
'A girl； of course。 One of his fancy women。'
'He still gets around； does he？'
'We used to joke he'd die on a woman； remember？'
Lewis half…nodded。
'She was nineteen。 Natalie Perec。 Quite an educated girl； apparently。 And lovely。 Long red hair。 You remember how Phillipe loved redheads？'
'Nineteen？ He has nineteen year olds？'
She didn't reply。 Lewis sat down； knowing his pacing of the room irritated her。 In profile she was still beautiful； and the wash of yellow…blue through the window softened the lines on her face； magically erasing fifty years of living。
'Where is he？'
'They locked him up。 They say he's dangerous。 They say he could kill again。'
Lewis shook his head。 There was a pain at his temples； which might go if he could only close his eyes。
'He needs to see you。 Very badly。'
But maybe sleep was just an escape。 Here was something even he couldn't be a spectator to。
Phillipe Laborteaux stared at Lewis across the bare； scored table； his face weary and lost。 They had greeted each other only with handshakes； all other physical contact was strictly forbidden。
'I am in despair；' he said。 'She's dead。 My Natalie is dead。'
'Tell me what happened。'
'I have a little apartment in Montmartre。 In the Rue des Martyrs。 Just a room really； to entertain friends。 Catherine always keeps number 11 SO neat； you know； a man can't spread himself out。 Natalie used to spend a lot of time with me there： everyone in the house knew her。 She was so good natured； so beautiful。 She was studying to go into Medical School。 Bright。 And she loved me。'
Phillipe was still handsome。 In fact； as the fashion in looks came full circle his elegance； his almost dashing face； his unhurried charm were the order of the day。 A breath of a lost age； perhaps。
'I went out on Sunday morning： to the patisserie。 And when I came back。 。 。'
The words failed him for a moment。
'Lewis。。。'
His eyes filled with tears of frustration。 This was so difficult for him his mouth refused to make the necessary sounds。
'Don't …' Lewis began。
'I want to tell you； Lewis。 I want you to know； I want you to see her as I saw her … so you know what there is。
there is 。 。 。 what there is in the world。'
The tears ran down his face in two graceful rivulets。 He gripped Lewis' hand in his； so tightly it ached。
'She was covered in blood。 In wounds。 Skin torn off hair torn out。 Her tongue was on the pillow； Lewis。
Imagine that。 She'd bitten it off in her terror。 It was just lying on the pillow。 And her eyes； all swimming in blood； like she'd wept blood。 She was the dearest thing in all creation； Lewis。 She was beautiful。'
'No more。'
'I want to die； Lewis。'
'No。'
'I don't want to live now。 There's no point。'
'They won't find you guilty。'
'I don't care； Lewis。 You must look after Catherine now。 I read about the exhibition …'
He almost smiled。
'… Wonderful for you。 We always said； didn't we？ before the war； you'd be the one to be famous； I'd be …'
The smile had gone。
'… notorious。 They say terrible things about me now； in the newspapers。 An old man going with young girls； you see； that doesn't make me very wholesome。 They probably think I lost my temper because I couldn't perform with her。 That's what they think； I'm certain。' He lost his way； halted； began again。 'You must look after Catherine。 She's got money； but no friends。 She's too cool； you see。 Too hurt inside； and that makes people wary of her。 You have to stay with her。'
'I shall。'
'I know。 I know。 That's why I feel happy； really； to just。。：
'No； Phillipe。'
'Just die。 There's nothing left for us； Lewis。 The world's too hard。'
Lewis thought of the snow； and the ice…floes； and saw the sense in dying。
The officer in charge of the investigation was less than helpful； though Lewis introduced himself as a relative of the esteemed Detective Dupin。 Lewis's contempt for the shoddily…dressed weasel； sitting in his cluttered hole of an office； made the interview crackle with suppressed anger。
'Your friend；' the Inspector said； picking at the raw cuticle of his thumb； 'is a murderer； Monsieur Fox。 It is as simple as that。 The evidence is overwhelming。'
'I can't believe that。'
'Believe what you like to believe； that's your prerogative。 We have all the evidence we need to convict Phillipe Laborteaux of murder in the first degree。 It was a cold…blooded killing and he will be punished to the full extent of the law。 This is my promise。'
'What evidence do you have against him？'
'Monsieur Fox； I am not beholden to you。 What evidence we have is our business。 Suffice it to say that no other person was seen in the house during the time that the accused claims he was at some fictional patisserie； and as access to the room in which the deceased was found is only possible by the stairs …'
'What about a window？'
'A plain wall： three flights up。 Maybe an acrobat： an acrobat might do it。'
'And the state of the body？'
The Inspector made a face。 Disgust。
'Horrible。 Skin and muscle stripped from the bone。 All the spine exposed。 Blood； much blood。'
'Phillipe is seventy。'
'So？'
'An old man would n