The lock on the door clicked open, and Cyril let himself in and up the twisting staircase. The list of names on the buzzer panel had given Finn as the third floor. On the tiny landing, Cyril dodged a bicycle and an empty coal scuttle to knock softly on the door.
After a second, slightly louder knock, the door cracked and Finn blinked out from behind the chain lock. “Cyril?”
“Shh. Let me in.”
The door closed, then reopened to admit him. Finn’s dressing gown was hastily tied over rumpled pyjamas. “What are you—wait a minute. That was you, wasn’t it? Who rang the bell?”
“Of course it was.” He made sure of the lock, then ushered Finn into the kitchen and turned on the light. There were linen creases in the accountant’s cheeks. “Listen, there’s not a lot of time to get everything straight.”
“What? Wait, how did you get here?” The sleepy squint dropped from Finn’s face. “Pesteration, you weren’t followed, were you? Did anyone see you come in?”
“Oh, now you care who sees us?” Cyril rolled his eyes. “No, I wasn’t followed. Give me a little credit.”
“Why are you here?”
Cyril flipped his jacket open and started unbuttoning his waistcoat. Finn looked doubtful, until Cyril produced the folder full of papers.
“For you,” he said, slapping them onto the counter. “Cross passed them on. From an anonymous benefactor. I think we both know who.”
“When was this?”
“After our … meeting the other day. You were right. I was wrong. Don’t let it go to your head.” He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.
Finn picked up the folder and flipped it open, examining the documents. “Why didn’t she just give them to me?”
“For a number of reasons,” said Cyril, “none of which we have time to discuss.”
Finn’s eyes raked him with suspicion, like jagged bits of stone. Cyril made himself give a little shrug. Finn dropped his gaze. When he turned the first page, a wrinkle seamed his forehead.
“This … um…” He tapped the paper with his forefinger. “This doesn’t match my description.”
“Don’t blame me,” said Cyril. His fingers itched for a straight, but he hadn’t brought any. “This is what Cross gave me. Anyway, you’re about the right height, if you don’t slouch.”
Finn put his shoulders back and lifted his chin. It brought his eyes nearly level with Cyril’s, where they lingered for a moment before flicking up and down. He tilted his head and pursed his lips, and Cyril knew he’d been caught out. But before he’d even had a chance to breathe—to apologize, explain—a worse realization struck him.
There was one crucial detail he had missed. One thing that ruined his entire rotten plan.
He had seen the name on those false papers.
He wanted to be sick. Horror and bile crept up the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. He’d been so careful with Aristide’s instructions, not to read them, not to let Finn tell him where Aristide had gone. He’d meant to save Finn, and doing so, save Aristide.
But he’d read through those papers—thrilled like some giddy schoolboy to see his own description, to see the silly wordplay work name: Paul Darling. DePaul, darling. He could almost hear Ari purring it out.
He’d been so worried about Finn breaking under torture, so keen to send him out of the city. He’d never thought about the possibility he himself might break—he hadn’t thought he had anything to sing about. But if he gave them that name, they could trace every move Finn made on his journey north, and it would be as good as if Cyril had led them to Aristide himself.
Once, he would have been confident he could keep the secret, no matter what they did to him. Before Tatié, when this was all a game. But he no longer held those illusions.
“Cyril?”
He blinked. Finn was staring at him, still holding the damned papers. “What?”
“I said, these were meant for you, weren’t they?”
“I’m … I’m sorry?” He marshaled his thoughts around a single, unpleasant certainty. He knew how to solve this problem.
“Ari meant these papers for you. So you could come to him. I—I knew you’d been lovers but I never thought … Why are you giving them to me?”
“Because you need them,” said Cyril, knowing very shortly, Finn would not. “I know about the memos. And someone’s going to figure it out, sooner or later. You know where Aristide is, and if they question you, you’ll give him up.” Finn opened his mouth to protest, but Cyril cut him off. “No, it’s true. Whatever novels you’ve read, or whatever the pictures have you thinking, people don’t hold up under torture.”
“Not even Central’s foxes?”
“Sometimes not even them.”
“So you’re taking the fall for me?”
Cyril didn’t say yes, didn’t nod, but Finn seemed to have answered his own question.
“Holy stones, Cyril, I don’t … I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything.” He set the paper sack on the counter. “Peroxide. It’s not perfect, but it’ll get you on a train.”
“To where?”
“You know where.” He handed Finn the bottle of bleach and didn’t look him in the eye. “Get started.”
*