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us.’
    â€˜Exactly, my old one. Exactly! That is why we need Talbotte’s help.’
    â€˜I’d sooner have the Devil’s.’
    â€˜They are one and the same, or hadn’t you noticed?’
    In alarm, the concierge threw her jaundiced grey eyes up at them. ‘Messieurs …’ she began, thinking to huff and fart about.
    â€˜Sit down!’ roared Kohler, turning swiftly to slam the slot of her cage closed even as Louis shut the door.
    Now the hall and the entrance to the hotel were hidden and she was trapped in her cage as never before.
    â€˜So …’ began Kohler, towering over her in the cramped enclosure with its shabby divan and dusty, faded purple cushions.
    Lisette Minou gripped the armrests of her chair. The big one was formidable. A fresh wound …
    The mouse elbowed his way between her and the giant. His voice would not be like a balm but the salve of a cop!
    â€˜Oil your way, monsieur,’ she shrilled with admirable tartness. ‘It will do you no good. I know nothing. Nothing , do you hear? Absolutely nothing.’
    â€˜A tough one, eh?’ breathed the Frog. The place was a rat’s nest! They’d get lice if they weren’t careful. ‘Mademoiselle Baudelaire has been murdered, madame. Ah yes, please do not distress yourself too much. Save that for later, eh?’
    â€˜A murder in my hotel?’ gasped the woman, visibly shaken.
    St-Cyr nodded. Hermann glowered.
    â€˜Did you see the man who went up that staircase to kill her?’ asked St-Cyr.
    The furtive gaze slid away to the mange of a torn-eared cat whose one encrusted eye wept as it limped towards her.
    They would discover the truth, these ones. She just knew they would. ‘My aching bones, monsieur …’
    â€˜Fuck your bag of bones! I’m tired. I’ve not had any sleep for days. I’ve not even been home yet!’
    â€˜Hermann, please ! Madame Minou has had a long and difficult life. There is also the shock of what we have just told her.’
    The eyes rose up in doubt and deceit from the doughy pan of her face. The rounded shoulders hunched, folding the knitted grey cardigan with its holes.
    â€˜I did not see anything, Monsieur the Inspector. Arfande, my cat – I was at the moment feeding him a little titbit. These days … Ah what can one say, eh? Things are so hard to get. I had acquired a tin of –’
    â€˜The black market?’ leapt Kohler expectantly.
    Her calm was shattered. ‘Hermann, please! For the love of Jesus, just let me deal with this one.’
    â€˜She’s all yours, chum.’
    The rolls of flesh about her throat rippled. ‘A tin?’ reminded St-Cyr.
    The woman swallowed. A murder … She had known it would come to no good, an arrangement like that. ‘A tin of sardines, Inspector. My back was turned to the wicket – for just a moment, you understand.’
    St-Cyr feigned surprise. ‘You heard someone come in, yet you did not turn to look?’
    â€˜My bones. My back. This world. This work. The war. The Naz … is.’
    â€˜All right, all right. What time?’
    The cardigan rose. The tired bosom, with its twin soccer balls, was held.
    â€˜About nine?’ offered St-Cyr.
    Eight as in the old days, but now that Paris ran on Berlin time, nine of course. The Sûreté was plucking at straws and that was good. So, they would barge into her office, would they?
    â€˜About nine. Yes, yes, but I heard nothing more, Inspector, and no one came back down so, you see I was not sure anyone had actually come into the hotel.’
    They’d never get done with her.
    Hermann lit a cigarette – one of the woman’s. He tapped Louis on the shoulder. The swollen eye opened a little. The lower lid of the other one was pulled well down. ‘The wireless,’ he breathed.
    St-Cyr sought it out, noting with alarm the position of the tuning dial even as the woman noted this