concerned about a compliance complaint.” She gave him a big smile, pushed the cap to the back of her head, and pulled a clipboard from her bag. “ Tiens , he’s not home.”
“You’re the second one tonight.”
“Eh, do you mean the cleaners?”
“People coming and going like this is the Gare de Lyon!” The man untied his apron. He stared at her clipboard as if it were dirty. “Come tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry, Monsieur,” she said, “but if you could unlock the apartment, I can lock up after.”
Irritation clouded the man’s face.
Aimée shrugged. “Just doing my job, Monsieur. Don’t mind me, eh, a quick plumbing adjustment, then I’ll be gone.”
All she wanted was to get into Romain Figeac’s writing room and search the back wall panels for the tapes. Why hadn’t she noticed before?
She wished he’d hurry up.
He stood, not budging.
From the hall the pitch of the contestants’ shouts mounted to a frenzy. The concierge was torn between the finale of his game show and escorting her upstairs.
“Make it quick,” he said, glancing at his watch.
He wouldn’t let her forget it, she could tell.
“Is something cooking on the stove?”
He reached for a big key ring. “I burned the sugar instead of caramelizing it.” He shook his head. “A catastrophe with crème brûlée! ”
Aimée hefted her plomberie bag and followed him into the hallway to the staircase for the Figeac apartment. The concierge hit the light switch.
And then she saw the black smoke pouring down.
“Call the pompiers .”
He stood paralyzed.
“Hurry—there’s a fire!” she said, keeping the panic from her voice with effort. “Give me the keys. Vite , get help!”
He clattered over the parquet to his flat.
She climbed to the next floor, then crouched down in the hallway. From her bag, she pulled out her scarf, sprayed it with Evian aerosol, and, covering her nose and mouth, knotted it at the back of her head.
Praying it wasn’t too late to find the panels, she unlocked the door to the Figeacs’ apartment and crawled inside. But she didn’t get far.
An inferno of heat, flames, and smoke enveloped her, fast and furious, blinding her, as searing pain shot through her hands.
She jerked back, her foot caught on a burning chair, and she stumbled. Embers fell from the burning ceiling, showering her clothing. Her work shirt ignited. Flames licked her ears, singed her hair. Ripping her shirt off, she grabbed her plomberie bag and rolled on the floor, smothering the flames.
She had to get out. Crawling forward, she reached the door, struggled to her feet, turned, then heaved herself backward. Hard.
She landed in the hallway, her shoulder ramming the grillwork. No time to deal with it. Heat and smoke choked her.
She crawled, trying to ignore her burns, through scorching heat. Red-orange flames leaped, dense black smoke poured across the foyer. Her lungs hurt but she took as deep a breath as she could. She had to get out of the building.
Coughing, eyes smarting, blindly she made her way down the stairs, bumping into the concierge, who was crumpled against the banister.
Startled, she grabbed him. Had he been attacked? Quickly, she scanned the stairs but couldn’t see anything through the smoke.
She sat him up, bracing her wrists under his shoulder. Good thing he was thin. Her lungs burned. She had to pause on the cracked marble stairs to breathe even though each inhalation hurt. She heard the sound of glass popping and shattering as yellow-white flames shot from the windows.
Arson, she thought, as her mind grew foggy. Someone had set the apartment on fire … Christian Figeac? No, she reasoned. He’d make more if he sold the place.
Beside her, the concierge stirred. Aimée heard sirens outside. Who’d called the pompiers ? The concierge? She heard hatchets chopping, saw the streams of water arcing against night darkness, and felt the spray mist from the window cover her. Then a sharp blow struck her on the
“You’re the second one tonight.”
“Eh, do you mean the cleaners?”
“People coming and going like this is the Gare de Lyon!” The man untied his apron. He stared at her clipboard as if it were dirty. “Come tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry, Monsieur,” she said, “but if you could unlock the apartment, I can lock up after.”
Irritation clouded the man’s face.
Aimée shrugged. “Just doing my job, Monsieur. Don’t mind me, eh, a quick plumbing adjustment, then I’ll be gone.”
All she wanted was to get into Romain Figeac’s writing room and search the back wall panels for the tapes. Why hadn’t she noticed before?
She wished he’d hurry up.
He stood, not budging.
From the hall the pitch of the contestants’ shouts mounted to a frenzy. The concierge was torn between the finale of his game show and escorting her upstairs.
“Make it quick,” he said, glancing at his watch.
He wouldn’t let her forget it, she could tell.
“Is something cooking on the stove?”
He reached for a big key ring. “I burned the sugar instead of caramelizing it.” He shook his head. “A catastrophe with crème brûlée! ”
Aimée hefted her plomberie bag and followed him into the hallway to the staircase for the Figeac apartment. The concierge hit the light switch.
And then she saw the black smoke pouring down.
“Call the pompiers .”
He stood paralyzed.
“Hurry—there’s a fire!” she said, keeping the panic from her voice with effort. “Give me the keys. Vite , get help!”
He clattered over the parquet to his flat.
She climbed to the next floor, then crouched down in the hallway. From her bag, she pulled out her scarf, sprayed it with Evian aerosol, and, covering her nose and mouth, knotted it at the back of her head.
Praying it wasn’t too late to find the panels, she unlocked the door to the Figeacs’ apartment and crawled inside. But she didn’t get far.
An inferno of heat, flames, and smoke enveloped her, fast and furious, blinding her, as searing pain shot through her hands.
She jerked back, her foot caught on a burning chair, and she stumbled. Embers fell from the burning ceiling, showering her clothing. Her work shirt ignited. Flames licked her ears, singed her hair. Ripping her shirt off, she grabbed her plomberie bag and rolled on the floor, smothering the flames.
She had to get out. Crawling forward, she reached the door, struggled to her feet, turned, then heaved herself backward. Hard.
She landed in the hallway, her shoulder ramming the grillwork. No time to deal with it. Heat and smoke choked her.
She crawled, trying to ignore her burns, through scorching heat. Red-orange flames leaped, dense black smoke poured across the foyer. Her lungs hurt but she took as deep a breath as she could. She had to get out of the building.
Coughing, eyes smarting, blindly she made her way down the stairs, bumping into the concierge, who was crumpled against the banister.
Startled, she grabbed him. Had he been attacked? Quickly, she scanned the stairs but couldn’t see anything through the smoke.
She sat him up, bracing her wrists under his shoulder. Good thing he was thin. Her lungs burned. She had to pause on the cracked marble stairs to breathe even though each inhalation hurt. She heard the sound of glass popping and shattering as yellow-white flames shot from the windows.
Arson, she thought, as her mind grew foggy. Someone had set the apartment on fire … Christian Figeac? No, she reasoned. He’d make more if he sold the place.
Beside her, the concierge stirred. Aimée heard sirens outside. Who’d called the pompiers ? The concierge? She heard hatchets chopping, saw the streams of water arcing against night darkness, and felt the spray mist from the window cover her. Then a sharp blow struck her on the
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