Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saturday, 7 P.M.

RENÉ SMOOTHED MEIZI’S black hair on the pillow. Her soft breaths of sleep ruffled the duvet. He could watch her for hours.

She shivered in her sleep, a cry catching in her throat. A bad dream? He stroked her flushed cheek until her shoulders relaxed and she turned over.

At peace.

He straightened the duvet, tucked it under her chin. To keep her warm. Safe.

He wrote her a note. Call me at the office when you wake up. Stay here and order anything you want. Bises, René

René dressed and checked the window. The usual early-evening hum—buses, pedestrians, the lingerie shops open late. He surveyed the street, for a watcher at the corner, for Tso or one of his men.

Only shoppers, resto-goers catching the bus or hurrying to the Métro. A waiter wearing a long white apron stood on the pavement under an awning smoking a cigarette.

Satisfied Meizi was safe, he leaned down, inhaled her warm, sleepy scent. Kissed her. She stirred slightly, a smile on her face.

René hung a Do Not Disturb sign from the hotel room door handle, put ten francs on the room service tray with their dirty dishes, and padded down the hall.