Free 77 Rue Paradis by Gil Brewer

pirouette, then leaned across the desk. The perspiration had really started again. He could not seem to reach the commissaire and he was beginning to understand that there is nothing so disconcerting as not being able to reach somebody in time of real need. He had to convince the commissaire, but just looking at the man, he knew it was futile. The commissaire had made up his mind about something.
    “You expect me to believe this tale?” the commissaire said.
    “You’ve got to believe it.”
    “Henri,” the commissaire said. He nodded toward a door on the other side of the office. Henri nodded back and Baron caught the look of pleasure in the man’s eyes.
    “We will have to detain you,” the commissaire said.
    “Oh, no,” Baron said. “No, you don’t!”
    “Please,” Henri said, nudging Baron with the barrel of his revolver toward the door on the other side of the room.
    Baron shrugged him away, went around the desk belligerently.
    “Arrest at attention,” Henri said, “or I am forced.”
    “Go to hell.”
    “It is to warn.”
    Baron bent over the commissaire, grabbed his arm, held his face close to the man. His voice was even louder than he’d thought of making it. “You’ve got to do something,” he said. “You can’t just sit here. The Republic is in danger, monsieur le commissaire. Don’t be a fool.”
    “He calls you the fool,” Henri said. “Release or I am forced.”
    The commissaire looked at Baron, and nodded toward Henri. Baron understood what he meant. Henri would, in another moment, obey the impulse.
    “How did you find out about Cassis?” the commissaire said.
    “I told you,” Baron said.
    “Laughing,” Henri said.
    “Do so,” the commissaire said to Henri. Henri came over and took Baron’s arm, held the gun just under his elbow, and began to guide him across the room toward the door.
    “My apologies, monsieur,” the commissaire said from behind them, and the chair creaked. He heard the commissaire leave the office and the door slammed.
    It was the detention room. Henri thrust him aside, closed and locked the door. There had been no need to tell him not to try to escape. There was no way out. There were no windows. Only one door led from the room and it was a solid oak door. He heard Henri on the other side of the door, pacing the office floor.
    There were several chairs in the detention room and a single golden oak table about eight feet long. There were two dry inkwells on the table and three broken-nibbed pens. A single sheet of paper was by one inkwell and somebody had doodled on it. There was a steam radiator, stained with rust where it leaked at one end, and the air in the room was very close.
    A key scraped in the lock of the door, the door opened partially, and the commissaire leaned around the iamb, looking at Baron. “We cannot at this time allow you the usual,” he said. “You understand this? It demands the utmost. Security is vital. I am sorry, monsieur.”
    Baron made for the door. The door closed and the key grated and clicked.
    “Truly,” the commissaire said from the other side of door. “Wait a little.” Baron heard him walk away.
    Somewhere in the building a telephone began to ring.
    Baron tried to tell himself that at least he was safe. It was a conclusion reached very deviously and it did not help at all. It only seemed to make matters worse, and for the space of a moment he lost his head. He went over to the door and banged on it with both fists as the precariousness of his position became clear. Finally he quit that and went over and sat in one of the chairs by the large table. Nobody had answered when he banged on the door.
    Gorssmann would never suspect for a moment that he had come to the police. No sane man would have done this. It placed not only himself, but Bette and Elene, in horrible danger. How could he have been such a fool? If Gorssmann somehow got wind of this, it would be all over. He tried to discover the true motive for his