Custine said nothing. He just trembled, still fixated on the wreckage of the double bass., He wanted to reverse time, Floyd thought. He wanted to unhappen the last few minutes of his life and let them spool forward again. He would be obliging this time, answering the guards’ questions civilly, and perhaps the damage that they would inevitably do to the double bass would not be irreparable.

“Say it,” Floyd whispered.

“I apologise,” Custine said.

“Unreservedly.”

“I apologise unreservedly.”

The inspector looked at him critically, then shrugged. “What’s done is done. In future you might take a leaf from your friend’s book.”

“I’ll do that,” Custine said numbly.

Down below, the guard kicked the remains of the double bass into the river. The bits of wood were soon lost amidst the oozing debris that hugged the banks.

Floyd’s telephone was ringing when he let himself into his office on the third floor of an old building on rue du Dragon. He put down the mail he had just collected from his pigeonhole and snatched the receiver from its cradle.

“Floyd Investigations,” he said, raising his voice above the rumbling passage of a train and pulling the toothpick from his mouth. “How may—”

“Monsieur Floyd? Where have you been?” The voice—it sounded as if it belonged to an elderly man—was curious rather than complaining. “I’ve been calling all afternoon and was about to give up.”

“I’m sorry,” Floyd said. “I’ve been out on investigative work.”

“You might consider investing in a receptionist,” the man said. “Or, failing that, an answering machine. I gather they are very popular with the Orthodox Jews.”

“Receptionists?”

“Answering machines. They employ magnetic tapes. I saw a model for sale in rue des Rosiers only last week.”