Murder in the Sentier

Thursday Night

“MONSIEUR … ARE YOU WELL? ” the flic asked Stefan.

His legs paralyzed, Stefan realized he was panting, his lungs about to burst.

“Fine, merci,” he managed and tried to wave the flic off. And wave off his own terror.

But the flic, his eyebrows rising in the flashing red lights from the patrol car, stared at him.

Stefan wanted to control his breathing. He tried but he couldn’t, and he clutched the door frame.

“No problem, please,” Stefan said.

Another flic alighted from the driver’s seat. His badge shone in the streetlight, his mouth was set in a thin line.

“This your place of residence, Monsieur?”

“Stopped for a nightcap at my friends’, Officer,” Stefan said, his breathing more under control now.

“Aaaah,” the flic nodded. “So you live in the quartier?”Stefan thought of his ID; he couldn’t lie.

“Visiting friends who do, Officer,” he said, shifting his leg and keeping his head down.

“Bon. You seem very social,” the flic said. “We’d appreciate your help in our inquiries.”

“Inquiries?” Stefan’s heart thumped. He thought it would leap out of his chest. “Like I said, I don’t live in Paris.”

“Actually, you didn’t say, Monsieur,” said the flic with the hard mouth. “If you don’t mind, we’d like you to accompany us to the Commissariat.”

“But I’m a visitor here….”

“And probably with a sharper eye than we who take the scenery for granted, eh?”

Stefan wondered if someone had been shot in the building.

“Has something happened?”

The flic took his arm as if concerned for his health.

“A homicide, Monsieur,” he said, escorting him to the car.