The by The Tourist

Author:The Tourist [Tourist, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-13T11:11:50.778000+00:00

32

Rue David d'Angers was one of six major streets that grew like irregular flower petals out of Place de Rhin et Danube's ovule. It was decided—that is, Milo decided—that Einner should stay in the car, parked along the street as lookout, while Milo and his knapsack went inside. He trusted Diane Morel to a certain extent, though her partner, Lambert, might do anything. "Need the gun again?" Einner asked.

"If I do, that means I'm doing something wrong."

Number 37 lay at the beginning of the street, its corner facing the Danube metro stop in the middle of the square. The one key Milo had from Angela's apartment didn't fit it, so he looked at the board of buzzers. Rather than listing apartment numbers, there were only names. There—one of them was a business: Electricien de Danube. He pressed it.

"Nous sommes fermes," came the answer, a man. We are closed.

"S'il vous plait," said Milo. "C'est une urgence." It's an emergency. "Oui?"

"Mon ordinateur." My computer.

The man didn't answer at first, but he could hear him sighing. The door buzzed as he said, "Quatrieme etage." Fourth floor.

"Merci."

Milo pushed inside, then moved under the stairwell, where five soiled trashcans were lined up. He hid, squatting behind them, suffering the stink of old cabbage and bad meat.

First he heard the sound, four floors up, of a door opening. Then: "Hello?" Then feet stomping as someone came down the stairs, muttering to himself. The old man came all the way to the ground floor and peered out the front door, finally saying, "Merde," and slowly ascending the stairs again. Once his door slammed shut, Milo emerged from the claustrophobic stink and mounted the stairs.

Luckily, apartment seven was on the third floor, so he didn't have to pass the electrician's door. The name beside the doorbell was Marie Dupont—essentially, a French version of Jane Smith.

On the off chance a friend named Dupont actually did live there, he rang the bell, but got no answer. He heard a television (Formula One racing) from the next apartment, number six, but nothing from seven.

It was a typical old-Europe heavy door with two small opaque windows that opened from the inside so that fearful pensioners could have entire conversations without ever opening their doors. And, he noticed, there were two locks.

His heart sank, because he knew before he verified it what would happen. His key fit the lock in the center of the door, which worked a loud double dead bolt—but it didn't fit in the second lock, just below the handle. He had no idea where that second key could be. It wasn't under the doormat.

Damned Angela and her overdone security. Like the door itself, the frame was heavy and old, reinforced on the outside by steel. Very effective, just like Angela Yates.

Milo quietly returned to the ground floor and went back into the courtyard, looking up. On this side, terraces rose up, beginning with the second floor. Each terrace was accessed by a sliding glass door, and in the five-foot space between the terraces was a small, high window, probably from the bathroom.

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