Murder in Montparnasse by Kerry Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page B

away. Out of the Hôtel Magnifique and into the grey Rue de St Honoré.
    ‘The young will no longer be advised by the old,’ she said to the hall porter.
    ‘That is because we advised them to die,’ said the hall porter.
    Paris was cold. An icy wind sprang up, ruffling Phryne’s hair and chilling her bones. She stopped at a boutique where her father had an account and ordered a stout leather coat, then walked on. Where to go? Toupie had a lot of friends in Paris and it was time Phryne found some of them. Left bank— so she needed to cross the Seine. Now, where had Toupie told her to go if she found herself at a loose end? Aha. The tea shop of Sybaris at the end of the Rue du Chat qui Pêche.
    Strange to just be walking again, with nowhere to be, no hurry, no shells bursting. No wounded men crying. Paris was crowded. Well-dressed women in fur coats gathered around the few open food shops, shrieking at the proprietors. Not much to eat in the shops. People looked thin. Paris had been besieged, more or less, for four years. Most people carried a bag of some sort, in case they came upon an open shop with some chance-arrived stock.
    Phryne skirted two city gentlemen almost coming to blows over half a kilo of sugar. She heard one woman say, ‘The farmers’ market is tomorrow. Not that many will dare to come in, now that the Spanish influenza has arrived.’
    Phryne winced. The Spanish ’flu had romped through the weary soldiery in May, and again in late September, when Phryne had caught it. She had been delirious for three days but assumed that she was now immune. It was very infectious and she wondered what it would do to an unprotected, malnourished population who had to be out and about if they wanted to eat. Would M. Poincaré, the President, be able to rule a city as hungry and downtrodden as this one if another plague came upon them?
    She came to the Pont Neuf and put down her knapsack. There she was, Notre Dame, bone-coloured towers still lacy and perfect against the hurrying grey clouds. The river slid away beneath her, boats were hauled, men shouted. She caught sight of a red and white striped fisherman’s jersey and a voice shouted to her from a barge, offering various delights.
    Standing and staring was always perilous, she knew. So was looking vulnerable, scared, or obviously a stranger. Time to pace along the Pont Neuf, walk quickly along the Quai des Grands Augustins and find the Place St Michel and Thé Sybaris. She was beginning to notice the number of eyes upon her, cold eyes, summing her up; female, fragile looking, alone. She began to feel like a target.
    She lifted her chin, deliberately slowed her pace so that she would not be tempted to run, and resolved to fling her first attacker into the river. That ought to discourage the others. She might look frail, but Phryne could woman-handle a full-sized unconscious soldier onto a stretcher. One learned that most weights were all a matter of points d’appui—leverage. Her attacker would have time to say ‘Merde alors!’ as he fell, but not much else. The change in stance registered with her prospective assailants. Maybe not such an easy mark after all. Catch her on the way back, perhaps. Probably not carrying anything worth having.
    She was conscious of malicious attention moving away from her. She reached the end of the bridge, patted the last knob for luck, and turned along the Quai des Grands Augustins, where hundreds of small craft were moored. From the Quai, one looked down into the boats. They were bringing into Paris late spinach in bitter, dark green bunches, apples from Normandy and cheeses in golden rounds. Sheep bleated on one barge, milling about in the nervous manner of sheep and controlled by one old, intelligent, experienced black and white dog. Phryne watched him with delight. He did not even rise, but lifted his grey muzzle from his wayworn paws and gave a small, imperative bark, and the sheep moved as he required. Even this late in the