Alastair Reynolds - Century Rain

“Custine and I have been a little busy,” Floyd said.

“That heavy case load of yours?” Greta indicated her luggage. “Help me with this, will you? Did you come by car? I need to get to my aunt’s, and I’d rather not waste good money on a taxi.”

Floyd nodded towards the welcoming glow of Le Train Bleu , a café at the top of a short flight of iron-railinged stairs. “Car’s nearby, but I bet you haven’t eaten anything all day, have you, stuck on that train?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would take me straight to my aunt.”

Floyd bent down to collect the suitcase, remembering what Greta had put in her letter. “Does Marguerite still live in Montparnasse?”

Greta nodded warily. “Yes.”

“In that case, we’ve time for a drink first. Traffic’s murder across the river—we’re better off waiting half an hour.”

“I’m sure you’d have an equally plausible excuse if I’d told you she had moved to this side of the river.”

Floyd smiled and began to lug the suitcase up the stairs. “I’ll take that as a yes. What have you got in here, by the way?”

“Bed sheets. Nobody’s used my aunt’s spare room in years, not since I moved out.”

“You could always stay at my apartment,” Floyd said.

Greta’s heels clicked on the stone steps. “Turf Custine out of his room, is that it? You treat that poor man like dirt.”

“I don’t hear any complaints.”

Greta pushed open the double doors leading into the café, pausing a moment on the threshold as if having her photograph taken. Inside, it was all smoke and mirrors and opulently painted ceiling: a miniature Sistine Chapel. A waiter turned to them with a look of blank refusal on his face, shaking his head once.

Floyd helped himself to the nearest table. “Two orange brandies, monsieur,” he said in French. “And don’t worry—we won’t be staying long.”

The waiter muttered something and turned away. Greta sat down opposite Floyd and removed her hat and gloves, placing them next to her on the zinc-topped table. She flicked the end of her cigarette into an ashtray and closed her eyes in deep resignation or deep weariness. In the light of the café, he realised that she was not wearing eyeliner at all, but was simply very tired.

“I’m sorry, Floyd,” she said. “I’m not in the best of moods, as you might have noticed.”

Floyd tapped the side of his nose. “Detective instinct again. Never lets me down.”

“Not exactly made your fortune, though, has it?”

“Still waiting for the knock on the door.”

She must have heard something in his voice: some crack of hope or expectation. Studying him for a moment, she reached into her purse for another cigarette and slid it into the holder. “I haven’t come back for good, Floyd. When I said I was leaving Paris, I meant it.”

The waiter brought them their brandies, slamming down Floyd’s like a bad chess player conceding defeat.

“I didn’t seriously think anything had changed,” Floyd said. “In your letter you said you were coming back to visit your aunt while she was unwell—”

“While she dies,” Greta corrected, lighting the cigarette.

The waiter was hovering. Floyd reached into his shirt pocket for a note, found what he thought was money and spilled it on to the table. It was the photograph of Susan White, taken at the horse races. It landed face-up, presenting itself to Greta.

Greta took a drag on her cigarette. “Your new girlfriend, Floyd? She’s quite beautiful, I’ll give her that.”

Floyd returned the photograph to his pocket and paid the waiter. “She’s quite dead. You can give her that as well.”

“I’m sorry. What—”

“Our new investigation,” Floyd said. “The woman in the picture threw herself off a fifth-floor balcony in the thirteenth. That was a few weeks ago. She was American, although that’s pretty much all anyone knew about her.”

“Open and shut case, then.”

“Maybe,” Floyd replied, sipping at his brandy. “There isn’t one, incidentally.”

“Isn’t one what?”

“A new girlfriend. I haven’t been seeing anyone since you left. You can ask Custine. He’ll vouch for me.”

“I told you I wasn’t coming back. There was no need for you to become celibate on my account.”

“But you are back.”

“Not for long. This time next week, I doubt I’ll be in Paris.”

Floyd looked through the café’s steamed-up window, beyond the concourse to a platform where a train was inching out into the night. He thought of Greta on a similar train, returning to the south, the last time he’d ever see her unless he counted airbrushed photographs in the music weeklies.

Finishing their drinks in silence, they walked out of Le Train Bleu and back through the iron vault of the station. It was nearly empty now, save for a handful of stragglers waiting for one or other of the last trains. Floyd steered Greta back towards the street, via the entrance he had come in by. Nearing it, he became aware of a commotion: voices raised in anger or defiance.

“Floyd, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“Wait here.”

But she followed him anyway. Rounding the corner, they were confronted by a tableau in light and shade, like a still photograph from a movie. Three hatless young men stood in aggressive postures beneath a streetlamp. They were all dressed in crisp black clothes, their trousers tucked into highly polished boots. Sitting on the ground, pinned in a circle of lamplight with his back against the base of the post, was the young man who had given Floyd the pamphlet earlier. His face was bloodied, his glasses mangled and shattered on the sidewalk.

He recognised Floyd, and for an instant there was something like hope in his face. “Monsieur… please help me.”

One of the thugs laughed and kicked him in the chest. The youth bent double, letting out a single pained cough. One of the other thugs turned from the little scene, shadows sliding across his face. He had very sharp cheekbones, his short, fair hair oiled back from his brow and shaved close to his skull at the sides and back.

“Keep your nose out,” the thug said, something gleaming in his hand.

Greta squeezed Floyd’s arm. “We have to do something.”

“Too dangerous,” Floyd said, backing off.

“They’ll kill him.”

“They’re just giving him a warning. They could have killed him already, if they were serious about it.”

The pamphleteer started to say something, but his words were curtailed by another well-aimed boot to the chest. With a groan, his upper body slumped to the sidewalk. Floyd took a step towards the scene, wishing that he carried a weapon. The first thug waved his knife between them, and then shook his head very slowly. “I said keep your nose out, fat man.”

Floyd turned away, feeling his cheeks tingle with shame. Quickly he led Greta away from the scene, back around to a different part of the station where he knew there was another exit. She squeezed his arm again, just as if they were promenading in the Tuileries Gardens on a Sunday afternoon. “It’s all right,” she said. “You did the right thing.”

“I did nothing.”

“Nothing was the right thing. They’d have cut you up. I just hope they leave that man alone.”

“It was his fault,” Floyd said. “Handing out stuff the way he did… he should have known better.”

“What exactly was he saying?”

“I don’t know. I threw his pamphlet away.”

They reached the Mathis, hidden away in a backstreet. Another pamphlet had been tucked under the wiper. Floyd took it out and pressed it flat against the windshield, examining it under the stuttering glow of a dying sodium light. It was printed on better paper than the ones the young man had been distributing, with a photograph of Chatelier, smooth and handsome in military uniform. The text urged the president’s friends and allies to continue their support of him, before digressing into a thinly veiled attack on various minorities, including Jews, blacks, homosexuals and gypsies.