Polar Quest

57

‘Gloves on, everyone,’ Duroc commanded.

The men donned latex gloves and then pulled Kilkenny out of the van. They followed Duroc and Martineau into the lower level of an ancient brick apartment building in a seedier block of the Montmartre section of Paris. Low-wattage lightbulbs barely illuminated the battered hallway. A mangy cat hissed and scampered away as they moved farther into the building. The place smelled of rotting food, sweat, and urine.

‘Place him on the bed,’ Duroc ordered as he unlocked the door to a studio apartment.

A layer of grimy filth coated the surfaces of the windowless single-room apartment. Rooms such as this were illegal since they were a health hazard, but then so was the occupation of the people who rented them for business purposes. Flakes of paint that had peeled from the walls and ceiling like festering scabs littered the floor with other bits of trash and debris.

A double bed dominated the tiny room, a simple wooden frame now battered and scarred with cigarette burns and carved initials. Soiled sheets covered a decaying mattress whose center had long ago collapsed into an oblong crater. The men carrying Kilkenny dumped his body into the bowl and the mattress sank a little farther. Several cockroaches scampered into the shadows.

In a corner near the bed, a woman sat lifelessly on the floor, her head leaned back against the wall, her vacant eyes aimed up at the disintegrating plaster ceiling. A mop of matted stringy hair hung like a liquid film from her head and garish makeup accented her face in a way so as to overcompensate for the pallor of her skin. What little clothing she wore — a gold tube top and a black elastic miniskirt — was wadded and rolled onto her abdomen, exposing her breasts and genitalia. Needle tracks scarred her limbs, and a small trickle of blood oozed from a hole in her arm — the site of her final dose. A syringe lay on the floor nearby.

‘Strip him and bind his hands and feet to the frame,’ Martineau ordered.

As the men removed Kilkenny’s clothes, Duroc pulled out his pistol and switched off the safety.

‘Nervous?’ Martineau asked.

‘Cautious,’ Duroc corrected her. ‘Several of my men are dead or injured because of him. He is not to be underestimated.’

‘He told Lafitte about your stock transaction,’ Martineau said softly.

‘Merde. How did he take it?’ Duroc asked.

‘He was not pleased.’

Martineau and Duroc watched as the two men removed Kilkenny’s clothing. Martineau enjoyed the unveiling of each new section of skin while Duroc looked for any sign of consciousness. She draped Kilkenny’s clothing over a wooden chair as if he had carefully disrobed there himself, then placed a wallet containing cash, credit cards, and Kilkenny’s driver’s license into the prostitute’s handbag.

The two men handcuffed Kilkenny’s wrists around the center spindle of the headboard, then tied ropes around his ankles and lashed the ends to the footboard. Duroc checked the restraints and, satisfied, holstered his pistol.

‘I think I can handle the rest,’ Martineau said, eyeing Kilkenny’s chiseled body.

‘Are you certain?’ Duroc asked.

‘You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ Martineau laughed. ‘Sumner, my dear, you have nothing to fear from a dead man. Go on back to the estate and leave me to my work. Just as I did in Ann Arbor, there are things I need to do to make this scene believable for the police. Anyway, don’t you have to deal with that Asian woman?’

‘Yes, though in her case the body will never be found.’

‘Then go. I’ll meet you at the château in a few hours. I’ll be fine.’