The Remaining Voice Read Online Free PDF Page A

standing up. I had much to do. I could not allow myself to be distracted.
    “ C’est tout. I will be in touch. You are at the hotel?”
    “Yes.” Damn it, but I had anticipated finding somewhere quieter to stay. “For now.”
    “Perhaps you would care to meet for supper this evening? You could tell me about what you have found. Perhaps I might help in some way.”
    I stretched my fingers wide and then pressed them together. As pleasant on the eye as he was, I did not want to eat with this man. I did not know him, and, if truth be told, I considered myself too emotionally fragile to keep polite company.
    “I’m not sure what my plans are. Can I let you know later?”
    Monsieur Daviau shrugged. “ Bien sȗr. You have my number. I look forward to talking with you again.” He was nothing if not a gentleman.
    “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.” I felt his eyes bore into my back as I opened the door. Jacqueline looked up as I descended the stairs. She scow led and I smiled at her. Poor thing. I would bet a cent to the dollar that Laurant Daviau had never asked her out for supper.

Chapter 3
    The Rue Tronson Du Coudray was narrow and full of tall buildings, each with differently dressed windows. Some had white shutters, like country homes, and some like number twenty-five, had iron balustrades and pretentions to greatness. Berthe’s former home sported the latter and had a huge bronze door the colour of mahogany. I knocked and waited. The manager sounded angry at having been disturbed. I apologised profusely and asked to be let in.
    “ Je suis le nouveau propriétaire de l'appartement de six , ” I said, as best as I could. He stood aside, all the while coughing and grunting. I pushed inside and stood in the cold echoing gloom.
    “ Personne n'a vécu là-bas pendant une longue période,” the building manager said. He was a scruffy man with a barrel chest. He smelled of tobacco and stale sweat.
    “Oui, je sais.”
    He stared at me, hands on hips, breathing hard like a train that’s run out of steam. “Qui êtes-vous?” he asked, through gritted teeth.
    “ Je m’appelle Sophie et je suis sa petite-nièce de Berthe Chalgrin. She has died – erm … Elle est décédée et a quitté l'appartement pour moi.” I hoped he would understand my poor French.
    “Vous êtes une Américaine.” he said, squinting at me. “She went away.” His English was thick with misuse.
    “Berthe? You knew her?”
    “ Mais oui . I have been here a long time. You look like a nice girl. Too nice for this place. Monsieur Pascal. You may call me Armand.” He offered his hand to shake. It was warm and damp. He attempted a grin. His face broke out in a volley of twitches. “It is a long way up.” He pointed to the stairs. “If you need anything Mademoiselle, let me know.” He pursed his lips. I nodded my thanks and glanced upwards. The wooden handrail shone with a burgundy hue.
    “C’est tout. Allez-y.” Monsieur Pascal waved his hand at me. “Go. See what the old witch has left you. Then you come to me. There is a story to tell.” He twitched a grin, cocked his head and turned on his heels.
    I waited until he had gone before I started up the stairs. He would tell me a story? I should have asked him there and then. I did not want to enter his lair. I wanted only to talk to him on common ground… with the front door open for preference, so that I could slip out, or hail a passer-by, just in case Monsieur Pascal tried anything untoward. I shuddered at the thought that he might want more from me than conversation.
    On the second floor I stopped to get my breath back and promised I would do more exercise when I got home… Home? Where was that exactly? All my belongings were in storage. I had only the clothes I had brought with me to Paris. I looked through the well of the stairs to the third floor and saw it spin above me. Boy, was I tired.
    “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” My voice echoed whispers until I could no longer