The inspector narrowed his eyes at Custine. “I know this one,” he said. “Used to be a policeman, didn’t you? Some big cheese at Central Headquarters?”

“I felt a change of career would do me good.”

Floyd took a fresh toothpick from his shirt pocket, inserted into his mouth and bit down. The sharp end dug into his mouth, drawing blood.

“Quite a comedown, isn’t it, from high-profile police work to this?” the inspector persisted, setting his toolkit down.

“If you say so,” Custine replied.

The inspector picked up the double bass, shaking it with a look of deep concentration on his face before returning it to the table. “Nothing rattling around,” he said, reaching for his toolkit. “Still, they might have taped something to the inside. We’ll have to take this boy apart.”

Floyd saw Custine draw in a sharp breath and place his hands protectively on the double bass. “You can’t take it apart,” Custine said incredulously. “It’s an instrument. It doesn’t come apart.”

“In my experience,” the inspector said, “everything comes apart in the end.”

“Easy,” Floyd said. “Let them have it. It’s just a piece of wood.”

“Listen to your friend,” the guard suggested. “He talks good sense, especially for an American.”

“Take your hands from the instrument, please,” the inspector said.

Custine wasn’t going to do it. Floyd couldn’t blame him, not really. The double bass was the most expensive item Floyd owned, including the Mathis Emyquatre. Short of another investigation dropping into their laps, it was also about the only thing standing between them and penury.

“Let go,” Floyd mouthed. “Not worth it.”

The inspector and Custine began to struggle over the instrument. Drawn by the commotion, the guard with the machine gun who had stopped them originally left his post and began to saunter over to the action. The double bass was now off the table and the two men were yanking it backwards and forwards violently.