“Vennet’s death confirms my intuition: someone out there is killing people associated with the Baudelaire manuscript, and by removing the victims’ eyes they are doing it conspicuously, as if they want the murders to be noticed, to be connected. The common thread that links them is the Baudelaire Society. Which poses an interesting question: can a literary institution be guilty of the crime of murder?” Massu rose from his seat and walked over to the window. The water in the river below continued its dark, restless flow. “That is why, monsieur, we are not holding you here as a suspect: you’ve only lived in Paris since 1933. But you may be able to help us find the culprit. Perhaps it is the other man who was tailing Vennet yesterday.”

“The one in the tailored suit?”

“Precisely. I’d like you to find out his connection to the Baudelaire Society. Perhaps you could pay Madame Chanel a visit.”

“How do you suggest I do that?”

“That is up to you. But you would be appropriately rewarded.”

“I see. You want me to become an indicateur.”

“A time-honored tradition. You are at last becoming a true Parisian.”

“Just as I was thinking of leaving. What’s in it for me?”

“Name your price,” said Massu.

“An exit visa.”

“For the right information, it can be arranged.” His smile disappeared for an instant. “But the information would have to be very useful indeed.” He went to the door and opened it, signaling it was time for me to leave. “You would basically have to solve the mystery on our behalf. We are very stretched, as you can see.”

The interview was at an end. I stood and we shook hands. I was almost out the door when I remembered my notebook. It contained all the notes I’d made of Madeleine’s stories. “And my notebook? May I have it back?”

“Ah, the notebook. For now, we shall keep it—as a security deposit, if you like. Good day, monsieur.”

Go here.

The Baudelaire Society

I WANDERED HOME slowly in the afternoon sun. Commissaire Massu’s story had left me in a daze. Even without referring to my notebook, it was clear that somehow his story and Madeleine’s dovetailed almost exactly—to such a degree, in fact, that they’d both asked me to run the same errand on their behalf. It seemed there would be no avoiding a rendezvous with Madame Chanel.

In the lobby of my apartment building I ran into the concierge, Madame Barbier, shuffling envelopes.

“The Germans may be coming but the bills must be paid all the same,” she said, speaking in the old country way, rolling her r’s. She approached me with a worried look. “What are you still doing here? Don’t you know it’s all over?”