The Double Eagle (20 page)

PORTE DE CLIGNANCOURT
, 18
TH ARRONDISSEMENT, PARIS
4:17
P.M.

T
hey stopped the car and looked around warily before getting out. The trees that had once lined the handsome street had long since gone, strangled by the thick air and stale light. The graffiti, loud markings of despair and hate, had been sprayed up to head height across the high ashen walls like the inside of a prison cell. The washing hanging at half-mast out of the windows above them flapped limply in the breeze.

They approached number seventeen and pressed the buzzer. A few seconds later a torrent of indecipherable French crackled out from the intercom.

Tom said just one word.

“Police.”

There was a pause and then the door buzzed open. Tom gave Jennifer a smile but she just pushed past him with an angry shake of her head.

“Impersonating a police officer?”

“Got us in, didn’t it?”

They made their way inside, their footsteps echoing in the smooth vaulted passage that had once sheltered horse-drawn carriages but now housed instead two large green wheelie-bins that gave off the sickly-sweet smell of rotting food. The concierge was standing at the foot of the stairs to meet them, a white-haired old woman, her face aged into deep vertical furrows, the game show on her TV flickering through the open door behind her.

“We would like to look around Father Ranieri’s apartment,” said Tom, his French faultless.

“You the police?” Her voice was frail and brittle.

“That’s right.”

“Got a badge?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see it?” Her hands were clasped together, her thin wrists swollen by arthritis, each gnarled finger buckled and deformed into two sets of rigid claws.

“Don’t give me any trouble, old woman.”

The concierge paused and looked Tom and then Jennifer up and down, mumbling under her breath about procedure and bullying.

“What floor?”

“Top. Room B.”

“Is there an elevator?”

“No.” The concierge jerked her thumb behind her into the courtyard. “Stairs.”

Tom nodded and led Jennifer past the concierge, into the courtyard, to the stairs. Five minutes later, their footsteps began to echo back down toward them off the domed glass roof that covered the top of the staircase. They reached the landing and saw that six pallid doors all led off a long, cheerless corridor.

“This must be it,” Jennifer said.

The door on the left was sealed with blue-and-white police tape and an official-looking sign had been stapled to the door. Tom nodded.

“I’ll get us in.”

“No need,” said Jennifer, producing a small lock pick from her bag and bending down. “I can manage.” She fiddled quietly with the lock before gently turning the handle and pushing the door open. The tape ripped away.

They stepped into a small room, the only light coming from a smeared and curtainless window. A narrow bed was placed against one wall, its mattress propped up on the wall next to it. A small refrigerator hummed, the door open but the light clearly broken. Clothes had been pulled out of the dresser and wardrobe and lay strewn across the bed and the floor.

A chipped white sink stood in the far left-hand corner, while next to it a single gas ring, connected to a bright blue gas bottle, had been balanced on a cheap laminate table. Tom tried the light switch, but the bulb was missing. Cobwebs weaved across the ceiling.

“What a shithole!” she exclaimed.

“What were you expecting?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know…more than this, anyway.”

“This was your idea, don’t forget.”

“Well, we’re here now, so we might as well take a look around.”

Tom shrugged and began to work his way round the room, tapping the walls and examining the floor. Jennifer did the same, looking behind the wardrobe and moving the bed out from the wall. It wasn’t long before they had covered the whole room and met back in the middle.

“So much for that,” said Tom, glaring reproachfully at the room around him. “There’s nothing here.”

“It was worth a try.”

“Was it?”

“Maybe the French police aren’t as careless as I thought. Maybe—”

“Hold on,” Tom interrupted her. “There really
is
nothing here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there are some clothes, a bed, a stove, even some books.” He kicked one across the floor and it buried itself under a bright red shirt. “But I can’t believe he was living like this. No food, no pictures. I mean, there’s not even a curtain.”

“No curtain?” Jennifer gave a short laugh. “So what?”

“Have you ever tried sleeping in a room without a curtain? It’s hard unless you want to wake up at four in the morning. You would have expected him to fix something up, even if it was just a sheet or a towel or something.”

She shrugged, silently conceding that he had a point. It was definitely unusual. Meanwhile, Tom had approached the window and was staring through the filthy glass at the jumble of roofs, TV aerials, windows, and chimney pots that stretched out before him. He shook his head and looked down. A chair was on the floor that had presumably been overturned during the police search.

He righted it, pushing it back to what he guessed was its regular spot under the window, judging from the dirty line where its back had rubbed against the paintwork over the years. Then, just as he was about to turn away, he caught sight of the brown material that covered the chair’s seat. It was covered in dusty footprints.

“That’s strange.” He crouched down next to it for a closer look.

“What is it? What have you found?” Jennifer stepped forward.

“I wonder if…” He opened the window and stood on the chair, before stepping up and out onto the roof into a wide gully and heading to his right.

Jennifer jumped up after him and followed him along the gully as it traced the perimeter of the building, stepping up slightly as she crossed over onto the roof of the adjacent building.

Here a swirling wind was whistling in and out of the chimney pots and she soon found herself wishing that she was wearing flat shoes as she negotiated the cables and lengths of electric cord that had been untidily laid across the roof like trip wires, carefully lifting her feet over each one.

But then, just as she was stepping over the last set of cables, a particularly vicious gust threw her slightly off balance. Instinctively she put her foot down, only for her long heel to catch on one of the wires. Almost as if it were in slow motion, she felt herself falling, her hands grabbing at the air, her feet disappearing from under her, until she fell hard against the roof and began to slide down the slope toward the courtyard.

“Tom!” she screamed, somehow grabbing onto a piece of cord that brought her to a shuddering halt, although the way the wire had cracked and frayed suggested it would only provide a temporary reprieve.

“Tom!” she called again, scrabbling with her knees and feet to stop herself from sliding any further down the steep roof. Her left shoe came off and cartwheeled down the slope, stopping inches from the edge.

Tom suddenly appeared and threw himself to his stomach, straining with his hand to get to her. She reached up, her fingers desperately trying to grab his hand but remaining, agonizingly, inches apart.

“Put your foot there,” Tom called out urgently. “Now push up.” She found the small ridge that Tom was pointing at and set her foot against it, but still she couldn’t reach him. “Don’t move.”

Jennifer nodded dumbly, too terrified to speak, the cord increasingly slippery in her perspiring palms. Tom disappeared. The seconds ticked agonizingly by.

“Where are you?” she called as a cramp began to set into her hand where she was gripping the cord. “Tom?”

Silence.

Slowly a terrifying possibility dawned on her. She screwed her eyes tight and tried not to think about it, but it just wouldn’t go away. The possibility that Tom had deliberately lured her up onto this roof. Had he left her there, taking the opportunity to make his escape once and for all?

Then, just as the cramp was spreading to her legs and she thought she couldn’t hold on any longer, a thick black cable, its end freshly cut, slid down the roof next to her.

“Grab onto that.” Tom had reappeared just over the crest of the roofline. Gratefully, she reached across and gripped the cable. Tom hauled her up until she was able to bring her knee up over the ridge and roll over onto her back, her chest heaving.

“Shit.” She gasped with relief.

“You’re welcome.”

“I thought you were going to leave me there.”

“You really don’t have much faith in people, do you?” said Tom, who sat down next to her, rubbing his arm where he seemed to have strained it pulling her clear.

“My shoe,” she suddenly exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. “I need to get it.”

“Well, I’m not going down there.” Tom stood up and brushed his trousers down.

“I can’t leave it. They cost me five hundred bucks.”

“Five hundred. Jesus.”

“Shoes is sort of what I do for fun,” she said defensively.

“Fine. Give me the other one.”

“What?”

“Do you want it back or not?”

“Yes.” She slipped the other shoe off her foot and handed it to him, a suspicious look on her face. Without saying a word Tom aimed and then threw it, catching the trapped shoe full on and sending them both tailspinning off the roof down to the courtyard. Jennifer could barely believe it. He’d just played marbles with a pair of five-hundred-buck shoes.

“You bastard!” she shouted.

“You can pick them up when we’ve finished,” said Tom, and she was certain that he turned away from her just in time to conceal a smile.

Still fuming, she followed him along the gully for another few yards, treading carefully through the bird mess that pockmarked the silvery roof now that she was barefoot. It eventually ended at another window, this one covered with dark red curtains. Tom pushed against it, but it seemed to be locked firmly shut from the inside.

“What are we doing up here anyhow?” Jennifer asked, now wishing that she hadn’t suggested they visit Ranieri’s place at all.

“Clutching at straws,” said Tom, examining the smooth slope of the roof around the window before turning his attention to the window frame itself. He ran his fingers slowly around its flaking edges until, underneath the sill, he felt the outline of a small button. He pressed it and although it made no noise, this time when he tried the windows, they opened easily into the room, pushing the red curtains aside. Jennifer stood wide-eyed behind him, her anger suddenly forgotten.

“Okay. I forgive you for the shoes.”

“A dummy entrance is a fairly common trick if you’re trying to avoid people dropping in on you unannounced. From what you’ve told me of Ranieri, he wasn’t exactly short of people who might have liked a quick word. Anyway”—he lowered himself into the dark room—“let’s see what we find before you forgive me.”