“Evidence of foul play, Monsieur Floyd, is precisely what I have. Of course, the unimaginative idiots at the Quai didn’t want to know. I expect rather better of you.”

Floyd wadded the rent demand into a ball and flicked it into his wastepaper basket. “Can you tell me about this evidence?”

“In person, yes. I would ask that you visit my apartment. Tonight. Does your schedule permit that?”

“I should be able to slot you in.” Floyd took down Blanchard’s address and telephone number and agreed a time with the landlord. “Just one thing, monsieur. I can understand the Quai not being interested in the woman’s case. But why have you called me?”

“Are you implying that it was a mistake?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that most of my cases come through personal recommendation. I don’t get much work through people finding my name in the telephone book.”

The man at the other end of the line chuckled knowingly. The sound was like coal being stirred in a grate. “I should think not. You are an American, after all. Who but a fool would seek the services of an American detective in Paris ?”

“I’m French,” Floyd said, slicing open the second envelope.

“Let us not quibble over passports. Your French is impeccable, Monsieur Floyd—for a foreigner. But I will say no more than that. You were born in the United States, were you not?”

“You know a lot about me. How did you get my name?”

“I got it from the only reasonable policeman I spoke to during this whole affair—an Inspector Maillol. I gather you and he know each other.”

“Our paths have crossed. Maillol’s a decent enough fellow. Can’t he look into this supposed suicide?”

“Maillol says his hands are tied. When I mentioned that the woman was American, your name naturally popped into his head.”