Pulaski found Benoit standing under the awning of the local precinct, shielding him from the mist of rain that had started coming down. The boy was shivering even though he didn’t have to.

  -You’ve got the look of a man who hasn't slept, Pulaski said. It’s a bad look for a gendarme.

  -I did the canvas, Monsieur, Benoit said. He handed over a small, damp notebook. It’s all there.

  Pulaski flipped through the pages. The handwriting was neat.

  -Madame Colline says he was a saint, but in that way where you know she means the opposite. Kleer said he had it coming, he’s got an alibi and didn’t mind saying that. Others said they’d never seen Frelinghuysen before.

  Pulaski looked at the station house. A German military truck rattled past.

  -They’re lying, he muttered. They’re all lying. It’s a beautiful thing. A whole building can’t remember.

  -Why would they lie about a debt collector? Benoit asked. They didn’t owe him.

  -He wasn’t collecting money, Pulaski said, handing the notebook back. What else?

  -There was a man, Benoit said. A man in a grey suit. He was seen leaving the building an hour before the body was found. Madame Colline saw him from her window.

  -A grey suit? That’s half of Brussels.

  -She said he looked like he was in a hurry. He was carrying a briefcase. A heavy one.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Pulaski rolled a cigarette. The paper was damp.

  -Are we done?

  -I’m never done. Sometimes you just have to change your direction, not your speed.

  Pulaski walked away.

  -A grey suit, he said to the mist. It’s not a problem.

  He went back to Saint-Gilles, up the groaning stairs all the way to the door of 4C.

  Kleer. A good a start as any.

  He was another small man, with a tape measure around his neck.

  -Detective, Kleer said. I told the boy everything.

  -The boy is young, Pulaski said. Maybe you tell me something different.

  Pulaski walked into the apartment. It was a tailor's shop. Piles of wool. A sewing machine. It was quiet.

  -You knew Frelinghuysen, Pulaski said. You lived across the hall. Who wouldn’t?

  -Me

  -He was a rat, Kleer. You knew that. Everyone must have known that.

  -Not you, Kleer responded, his eyes moving to Pulaski’s blonde hair. He was a neighbor, Kleer said. We do not judge our neighbors.

  -Sure you do. You judge them every time they get on the tram. You judge them every time they go to Avenue Louise. More of them all the time.

  -Nobody collaborates, Kleer muttered unconvincingly.

  Pulaski walked to the window. He looked at the street.

  -Did you all do it? he asked. Was it a party? One of you held the door. One of you held his arms. All of you choked him to death. I read that once.

  -I don't know what you’re talking about, Kleer whispered.

  -Murder on the Orient Express, sure you have. Everyone has a motive. Everyone has a pair of hands.

  Pulaski turned around. He leaned against the cutting table.

  -He was a bad man, Kleer said. His voice was a thin thread.

  -He was a dead man. There’s a difference.

  Pulaski walked out. He went to 2A. Madame Colline was waiting for him. She’d watch him come in.

  -He’s gone? she asked.

  -He’s on a slab, Madame. He’s very quiet now.

  -Good. The air is better today.

  -You saw a man in a grey suit?

  -Ugly pale man, fat and sweaty.

  -A clerk, Pulaski muttered.

  -Swinging that suitcase of his.

  Pulaski nodded. He walked back to 4B. He stood on the landing. He looked at the two doors. 4B and 4C.

  -A clerk and a tailor, he said to the empty hall. And a widow who likes the air.

  He pushed open the door to 4B.

  -It’s a party, Berger. And I wasn't invited. It’s not a problem. I’ll find the host.

  He stepped into the victim's room. What had he missed?