The Confession

68

Emil asked where I had been the previous day, but didn’t wait for the answer I didn’t want to give. “You should’ve come out with me. I had a grand time talking to old women who didn’t want to say a thing.”

“In Stefan’s building?”

“Yeah. And Antonin’s. Nothing of use. But then,” he said, sitting on the corner of my desk, “I started thinking about this Frenchman. This Louis Rostek.”

“Did you?”

He looked at me.

“Go on.”

“There’s a French school over on Yalta Boulevard.”

“The one I’m going to send Agnes to.”

“Exactly. The head didn’t know anything about Louis, but he suggested I check with their consulate. They host parties for French nationals.”

I sat up. He’d actually been working while I moped in the Canal District. “And?”

“And I haven’t been there yet. Want to come?”

It was west of Victory Square, along the tree-lined streets of the diplomatic area. Three identical Mercedes were parked behind the gate, and the guard, a local boy, picked up the telephone in his little guardhouse for permission to let us enter. Then he opened the gate and watched us walk up the stone path to the front door, where another guard stood waiting. This one was French. He took us into a large marble entryway with a board covered by posters for upcoming events and a front desk where we signed in. Another man arrived: thin, white hair, an eye that twitched. His name was Jean-Paul Garamond. He shook our hands. “Good to meet you, Inspectors. Please, please.”

He waved us down a marble corridor to his office, then waited until we were inside before entering and closing the door. The chairs opposite his desk were old and comfortable, and he held out an open box of cigars. I shook my head, but Emil, intrigued, took one. “Thank you.”

Garamond lit it for him, then settled behind his desk, looking very pleased to have us both there. “Now what is it I can do for you gentlemen?”

Emil was puffing frantically on the cigar to keep it lit, and the smoke began to bother me. I said, “We’re here in connection with a homicide investigation. Evidence has turned up a connection to a French national who frequents our country. A Louis Rostek.”

Garamond didn’t seem to know the name. “Rostek?”

“His family was from here originally, years back.”

“I see,” he said, eye twitching. “And you think he killed someone?”

“No. But he’s connected to our suspect, and he certainly has information that could help us.”

Emil was finally satisfied with the ember at the end of his cigar, and began waving smoke away. “Do you have,” he said, then blew some smoke from his face. “Do you keep records of your citizens when they’re here?”

Garamond smiled, but this was a smile I didn’t trust. “Well, we don’t run things your way.”

“Our way?”

He shrugged expansively. “We don’t follow our citizens down the street taking notes.”

“And if you did,” I said, “you wouldn’t give such notes to the local authorities.”

“That would be our prerogative.”

Emil had gotten rid of most of the smoke. He took a normal draw of the cigar, crossed his leg over his knee, and exhaled. “Can you tell us, then, why a French national was seen at a labor camp last spring trying to get inside?”

“Maybe he was a journalist.”

“He’s a poet,” I said.

Garamond took one of the cigars for himself, but didn’t light it. He rolled it between his fingers. “I think you should be going through other channels for this kind of information. Here at the consulate we’re more interested in protecting the privacy of our citizens than divulging their secrets. Your people can talk to the embassy.”

“We’d rather not do it that way,” I said. “For Louis Rostek’s good as well as our own.”

His eye twitched when he lit his cigar. Three short puffs, and the ember glowed. “I’m afraid I can’t help you men. I can point you to our cultural and language programs if you’re interested.”

I did consider it briefly, for Agnes, but said, “No thank you,” and stood up.