The general strike had lasted only for a day, and the Métro was working again, although on a partial schedule. When she finally emerged from the station by the Bastille monument, she thought she was beginning to understand the anger that had driven the Paris mob to destroy the hated prison. She herself would happily join a mob bent on tearing down the police headquarters at the quai des Orfèvres. But that would have to wait. She would begin her counterattack by questioning Madame Defarge.

Madame was sweeping the courtyard, dressed rather oddly for the job in her skirt and kitten-heeled pumps, with a string of big pearls dangling around her neck instead of her usual scarf.

“Bonjour, Madame Stone,” she said. “Your companions are all out except for Monsieur Stone.”

“Merci,” said Lucy. “I have just been interviewed at the police headquarters . . . ,” she began.

Madame Defarge clucked her tongue, and Lucy wasn’t sure if it was an expression of sympathy or disapproval. Probably both, she decided.

“The proc told me that the police did not search our apartment. In fact, she wanted to make arrangements for a search in the next few days.”

“Impossible,” said Madame Defarge, shaking her head. “They were policemen. They showed me their credentials.”

“Were they wearing uniforms?”

“No. They were detectives. They had black wallets, and they held them up for me to see.”

“Did you examine their IDs?”

Madame bristled. “There was no need. They were police.”

Lucy understood completely. The concierge hadn’t wanted to get involved, which was only natural. She probably gave the IDs a cursory glance and went about her business, putting as much distance between herself and the flics as possible. And now, after all she’d been through, Lucy couldn’t blame her. She’d like nothing more than to forget all about Chef Larry and get on a plane and fly home. “They weren’t police,” said Lucy, “but the police will be coming tomorrow.”

“We must cooperate with the police, of course,” said Madame, using a broom to gather up a few bits of debris that had strayed from the pile, “but I hope this investigation will not take much longer. I have consulted the owner, who told me your group has the apartment for only one more week. After that I must prepare it for a new group of tenants.”

Ah, thought Lucy. The new tenants, the nice tenants, the tenants who aren’t involved in a murder. “I understand,” she said, tempted to walk right through the small pile of sweepings, scattering them, but instead walking carefully around them.

“How’d it go?” asked Bill when she entered the apartment. He was sprawled on one of the sofas, watching a soccer game.