It’s evening and I’m back in the apartment. Gazing out into the courtyard, looking up and down at the illuminated squares of my neighbors’ windows, trying to catch a glimpse of one of them moving around.
I’ve texted Nick a couple of times to ask if he’s heard anything from the police but I haven’t had anything back yet. I know it’s way too soon, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m grateful for his help earlier. It’s good to feel I have an ally in this. But I still don’t trust the police to do anything. And I’m starting to feel itchy again. I can’t just sit around waiting to hear.
I shrug on my jacket and step out of the apartment onto the landing, not knowing what I’m going to do but knowing I need to do something. As I pause, trying to decide what that is, I realize I can hear raised voices somewhere above me, echoing down the stairwell. I can’t resist following the sound upward. I start to climb the stairs, up past Mimi’s on the fourth floor, listening for a moment to the silence behind the door. The voices must be coming from the penthouse. I can hear a man speaking over the others, louder than the rest. But I can hear other voices now, too, they all seem to be talking at once. I can’t make out any of the words, though. Another flight of stairs and I’m on the top landing, with the door to the penthouse apartment in front of me and to my left that wooden stepladder leading up to the old maids’ quarters.
I creep toward the door of the penthouse apartment, wincing at every creak in the floorboards. Hopefully the people inside are too distracted by the sounds of their own voices to pay attention to anything outside. I get right up close to the door, then drop down and put my ear to the keyhole.
The man starts to speak again, louder than before. Crap—it’s all in French, of course it is. I think I hear Ben’s name and I go tense, craning to hear more. But I can’t make out a single—
“Elle est dangereuse.”
Wait. Even I can guess what that means: She is dangerous. I press my ear closer to the keyhole, listening hard for anything else I might understand.
Suddenly there’s the sound of barking, right up close to my ear. I stumble away from the keyhole, half-fall backward, try and scrabble my way to standing. Shit, I need to get out of here. I can’t let them see—
“You.”
Too late. I turn back. She stands there in the doorway, Sophie Meunier, wearing a cream silk shirt and black trousers, crazily sparkling diamonds at her earlobes—her expression so frosty that they might be tiny icicles she just sprouted there. There’s a small gray dog at her feet—a whippet?—looking at me with gleaming black eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard voices, I . . .” I trail off, realizing that hearing voices behind someone else’s apartment door isn’t exactly a good excuse to go and eavesdrop. Silver-tongued Ben might be able to, but I can’t find a way of talking myself out of this one.
She looks like she’s trying to decide what to do with me. Finally, she speaks. “Well. As you are here, perhaps you will come in and join us for a drink?”
“Er—”
She’s watching me, waiting for an answer. Every instinct is telling me that going inside this apartment would be a very bad idea.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.” I look down at my outfit—Converse, shabby jacket, jeans with a rip at the knee. “Am I dressed OK?”
Her expression says she thinks there’s nothing remotely OK about anything I’m wearing. But she says, “You’re fine as you are. Please, come with me.”
I follow her into the apartment. I can smell the perfume she’s wearing, something rich and floral—although really it just smells like money.
Inside, I stare. The apartment is at least double the size of Ben’s, perhaps bigger. A brightly lit, open-plan space bisected by a giant bookcase. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the rooftops and buildings of Paris. In the darkness the illuminated windows of all the apartment buildings surrounding us make a kind of tapestry of light.
How much would an apartment like this cost? Lots, that’s all I can guess. Millions? Probably. Fancy rugs on the floor, huge works of modern art on the walls: bright splashes and streaks of color, big bold shapes. There’s one small painting, nearest to me, a woman holding some kind of pot, a window behind her. I spot the signature in the bottom-right corner: Matisse. OK. Holy shit. I don’t know much about art but even I’ve heard of Matisse. And everywhere, displayed on side tables, are little figurines, delicate glass vases. I bet even the smallest would fetch me more than I earned in a whole year in that shitty bar. It would be so easy to slip one—
I’m suddenly aware of feeling watched. I look up and meet a pair of eyes. Painted, not real. A huge portrait: a man sitting in an armchair. Strong jaw and nose, gray at the temples. Kind of handsome, if a little cruel-looking. It’s the mouth, maybe, the curl to it. The funny thing is, he seems familiar. I feel like I’ve seen his face before but I can’t for the life of me think where. Could he be someone a bit famous? A politician, something like that? But I’m not sure why I’d recognize some random politician, let alone a French one: I don’t know anything about that stuff. So it must be from somewhere else. But where on earth—
“My husband, Jacques,” Sophie says, behind me. “He’s away on business at the moment but I’m sure will be . . .” a small hesitation, “eager to meet you.”
He looks powerful. Rich. Obviously rich, just frigging look at the place. “What does he do?”
“He’s in wine,” she says.
So that explains the thousands of bottles of wine in the cellar. The cave must also belong to her and her husband.
Next my eye travels to a strange display on the opposite wall. At first I think it’s some kind of abstract art installation. But on second glance I see it’s a display of old guns. Each with a sharp, knife-like protrusion attached to the end.
Sophie follows my gaze. “From the First World War. Jacques likes to collect antiques.”
“One’s missing,” I say.
“Yes. It’s gone for a repair. They require more upkeep than you might think. Bon,” she says, curtly. “Come through and meet the others.”
We walk toward the bookcase. It’s only now that I become aware of the presence of people behind it. As we skirt round it I see them facing each other on two cream-colored sofas. Mimi, from the fourth floor, and—oh no—Antoine from the first floor. He’s staring at me as though he is exactly as pleased to see me as I am him. Surely he’s the sort of neighbor you just give a wide berth and leave to their own devices? When I look back he’s still staring at me. It feels like something’s crawling down my spine.