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to sleep—”
    “We must get first your information, madam,” said the inspector.
    “—in a room where this man died. And I want another room that has trees outside the window. I like the trees, but I don’t want to have to talk to that woman at the desk again. She was very unpleasant.”
    “This is true,” the inspector agreed. “But you must not judge we of Lyon by her. We are a very friendly people, madam. She is probably from Paris.”

6
    Brasserie Georges

Carolyn
    We went downstairs, leaving the dead man sprawled across the beds with the door carefully locked by Inspector Roux. While he and I sat behind a cactus drinking coffee from the neon bar, he took my name and personal information, looked at my passport, and then questioned me about my reasons for being here, my discovery of the dead man, everything I did and touched thereafter, my interactions with Yvette before and after the discovery, and everything she said. I was even asked to provide my fingerprints for comparison purposes. Naturally I agreed and allowed Kahled to ink my fingers and roll them on cards. Afterward he provided little packages of detergent wipes so that I could scrub the ink off, which was very thoughtful. I couldn’t remember seeing that amenity offered by American policemen on television at home.
    When we finished the interview, the doctor, who had talked to Yvette and supervised the removal of the French Canadian, joined us at the table and said, through the inspector, that the hotel would not have a substitute room with trees ready for several hours. That was certainly bad news. By then I was so tired that I was experiencing difficulty in focusing my eyes.
    “I must now interview Mademoiselle Yvette,” the inspector murmured, after expressing sympathy for my sleepless plight.
    “And I must have a nap, even if it has to be on a sofa.”
    “But of course,” cried the inspector. “I can show you to one of sufficient length, madam.” He led me to a three-cushion leather sofa and plucked a decorative cushion from a chair for my head. I was dozing as soon as my head touched the pillow with its Mondrian-inspired color blocks. I did hear, as if in a dream, the raised voices of the inspector and Yvette as their combative interview ensued, but I found it comforting and sank down into deep sleep, from which I was aroused later by Inspector Roux saying, “Madam, it is at least another hour until your room is ready. Perhaps you would join Doctor Petit and me for a meal. An excellent brasserie of culinary and historic interest is close by.”
    I blinked dazedly, wanting to fall back into sleep but also aware that I’d had nothing to eat since the continental breakfast served before landing in Paris. Culinary and historic interest? I should go for the sake of my column. So I dragged myself into a sitting position, regretted my rumpled appearance, and agreed to their kind suggestion. Brasserie Georges was, of all places, situated down the industrial side street to the left of the Perrache Station. However, once inside, I found a bustling nineteenth-century establishment with white tiled floors, gilding and draperies, framed advertisements for products no longer made, and a large menu.
    Hoping to spend the afternoon asleep in my new room, I chose a soup recommended by the doctor—tomato, shrimp, and ginger, an interesting combination, and very tasty. With it, I ordered a nice white wine, also recommended by the doctor, whose rumpled suit made me feel less self-conscious about my own travel-worn appearance.
    Meanwhile we held an interesting bilingual conversation. Yvette had revealed, grudgingly, information previously withheld. The inspector began by asking if she’d informed me that she had sent a man to my room. Imagine my astonishment. “Yvette claims he was a friend who came to see you. You are certain, madam, that you do not know Monsieur Robert Levasseur?” asked Inspector Roux.
    “Certain,” I assured him, “and she never