“All drugs,” said Joe. “Those were nutty days. Drugs bring out the worst in people. The third brother, Marcel, he was sworn to avenge the death of his kin. He was there at the . . . I don’t remember the name of the hotel.”

“Rothschild,” said Siri.

“That’s it. That’s it. He was there,” said Joe pointing at Siri. “Marcel was there to make sure the Russian wasn’t so out of it he’d miss the president and shoot himself. It all went great but Marcel got himself arrested somehow. I don’t know how that could of happened.”

“What became of him?” Siri asked.

“Not a lot, as far as I can remember. He was in jail for a week or so then the gendarmerie gave him some money for the inconvenience and sent him home.”

“What?” asked Siri.

“As far as I remember,” said Joe.

“Why?”

“Now, that’s another story,” said Joe. “He didn’t shoot no one, did he? And there was a little matter of repercussions.”

“About what?”

“Doumer had been the state representative for Corsica before stepping on a few heads and hitting the big time. There’s those that say it was drug money that got him up there. They say he’d feathered his nest over there in Annam and brought the trade home with him. If Marcel had been formally arrested and charged, there would of been a lot of evidence leaked to the newspapers to that effect. The government was struggling to keep everyone happy during the Depression. They didn’t want the presidency besmirched. And they had their assassin. They didn’t need Marcel, did they?”

When the guests had left, Siri and Daeng went outside to sit on the two barbershop chairs that had arrived on the current one day and snagged in the weeds. Once they’d dried out they were surprisingly comfortable. Ugly lay between them.

“So, you didn’t actually ruin Marcel’s life,” said Daeng. “A week in jail is hardly purgatory.”

“I doubt he even remembered me when they let him out,” said Siri.

They drank in the river air and considered Joe’s story.

“It looks like we’re just about to learn whether our crazed killer is behind door number two,” said Siri.

Daeng looked up to see a short plump man riding a bicycle. In white chinos and a pink brushed-silk shirt, he was dressed more for cocktails than exercise. On the otherwise empty road he stood out like an Easter egg on wheels. Monsieur Seksan was French with Lao parents. But France wasn’t ready for an ambassador to Laos of Lao ancestry. The compromise was that he could look after the embassy after diplomatic relations had broken down as a sort of high-level janitor. He showed his resentment of this slight by drinking all the wine in the cellar and damaging things.

He kicked down the bicycle stand and hurried toward the couple.