we can’t just turn him loose at the whim of the vice-consul.”
But St-Cyr was writing again and didn’t respond. Finally, he looked up at Borely with a thoughtful smile that showed his small, even teeth. “Would it be possible to have a look at this indien, Sergeant Borely? I would like to write a small story about him, nothing much. I think my editor would find it of some small interest.” He laughed what he hoped was a charming laugh. “I will make sure I spell your name right—in the first paragraph.” St-Cyr didn’t really have much hope that the sergeant would allow such an unusual request from a lowly police reporter. Or that his editor, whom he only knew by sight, would allow much more than a few factual words. More likely he would send a feature reporter to write the story.
But Borely actually seemed to be considering. St-Cyr didn’t think Borely was a vain man, but the thought of seeing one’s name in print can be enticing. The desk sergeant was in control of his own little world here in the Préfecture, but when he went home in the evening to his flat, to his civilian clothes and squabbling brats, he was as anonymous as the dock worker who lived above him.
Borely called out to two policemen who were standing in the hallway that led to offices and interrogation rooms. They had been chatting quietly, but at the sound of Borely’s voice, they both came at a fast clip, their shoes clicking smartly against the marble floor.
“You, Dugommier, take Monsieur St-Cyr down to the cells. Tell the jailer that the monsieur wishes to see the Peau-Rouge.” He turned to the reporter. “This is very irregular, St-Cyr—but you are a police reporter and it is incumbent upon me to offer the cooperation of the department. I could do nothing less.”
“Merci beaucoup, sergent. My newspaper always appreciates the cooperation of the Marseille Police Department.” St-Cyr fought back an impulse to laugh at Borely’s puffed-up language. “And may I have your Christian name, sergeant—for the story?”
St-Cyr thought that Ambrose was not a name he would have associated with Borely, as he followed the policeman down the narrow, winding stairs to the depths of the Préfecture. Francis or Jerome, perhaps even Michel. Not Ambrose. Patron saint of—what? Desk sergeants?
The basement smelled of cooking, of rancid oil, onions, and cabbage, with a strong hint of disinfectant. The combination was not agreeable to St-Cyr’s nose, and he felt the brioche and the sweet café au lait move in his stomach. He began to wonder, as he looked at the dark, sweating walls of the low, narrow corridor, if this was such a good idea after all. The place was medieval, right out of the Spanish Inquisition. He imagined torture devices in special rooms inhabited by men in brown hooded robes. Again, he felt a surge in his stomach as a wave of claustrophobia hit him.
But the corridor opened out into a larger hallway, and a man sat behind a desk beneath a tall skylight. He was wearing a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His tunic was draped over the chair.
“Monsieur is here to see the Peau-Rouge. It is cleared with Sergeant Borely.”
The man behind the desk was obese, a condition not at all usual with the Marseillais. He had a periodical spread open before him. St-Cyr could see an illustration of a young woman in a corset and black stockings that came to just above her knees. A fringed mantle was draped across her lap.
“And what is monsieur’s capacity?” The man carefully folded the periodical and pushed it to the side of the desk. It was clear that he was in charge here and took his orders from a higher authority than Borely.
“I am a reporter with Le Petit MarseiLlaid. I cover the activities of the police department. Today I have been sent to interview the Peau-Rouge—with the kind consent of Sergeant Borely and, of course, yourself.” St-Cyr didn’t find it necessary to tell the truth, to explain that he had heard of Charging Elk just moments before.
But the fat man had quit listening to St-Cyr. He lumbered to his feet, pulling his suspender straps over his shoulders with a satisfying snap for each, all the time grumbling to the other policeman about the lack of communication between those lilywhites upstairs and the poor bastards who had to work in such a shithole as this.
He shrugged into his tunic, which he did not bother to button, then opened a small cabinet on the wall behind the desk. He continued his diatribe against those upstairs as he lifted a heavy ring of keys from a metal hook. “Insufferable bastards,” he grumbled as he walked across the hall to an iron door. He fitted one of the keys into the lock, then pushed the door inward. The groan of the iron hinges made the hair stand up on the back of St-Cyr’s neck.
The jailer told the other policeman to wait outside, then slammed the door shut behind himself and St-Cyr. The corridor before them was even dimmer than the one that had brought St-Cyr to the jailer’s desk. There were no windows, no outside light, just the occasional lightbulb in a wire cage hanging from the high ceiling. St-Cyr was almost surprised to see that the jail had electricity. He had half expected to see gaslights, perhaps even torches flickering on the walls.
One side of the corridor was a stone wall; the other side, another stone wall interrupted by metal doors with no windows. St-Cyr had not been down here before and now he wished he hadn’t been so eager to come. He pulled his coat tighter to afford some protection from the damp chill. He thought, This is right out of the Inquisition. He had always had a touch of claustrophobia—since that day as a child when he and his class at the lycee had toured an ancient dungeon and had to walk single-file through the narrow passageways and the small winding marble stairs that were lit only by small slits in the stone walls. Now he felt the familiar panic and he made himself look at the jailer’s broad back.
“These are the doors to the cells, then, monsieur?”
“Oui, oui,” said the jailer.
“And is there a prisoner behind every one?”
“Oui, oui. Some. Not all.”
St-Cyr was annoyed by the man’s abruptness but he knew that the jailer was equally annoyed by his presence. He obviously didn’t approve of civilians in his fiefdom. The man was practically subhuman, a grouser and a bully, just the type that St-Cyr might have imagined working in such misery. Still, he couldn’t help but be somewhat comforted by the broad back before him.
St-Cyr was trying to imagine what this American Indian would look like—would he be dressed in feathers and fur, in war paint? Would he have a fierce scowl? More important, would he be dangerous, a wild savage from the American frontier? St-Cyr had not gone to the Wild West show of Buffalo Bill. He really had no interest in the wild west or the cowboys and Indians—at least up to a half hour ago. When he was a boy, his playmates would often play Indians and soldiers, enacting the violent scenes they had culled from the pages of illustrated adventure books. St-Cyr was more inclined to collect insects. He had had a large butterfly collection from his family’s August vacations to their chateau in Perigord.
The jailer grunted something and stopped and rattled his keys. St-Cyr had been so deep in thought he almost ran into the broad back, but now he pulled back in fear of this damp, cold, dimly lit place and its Gothic keeper. What in the name of God was he doing here? He was only a police reporter who went around the city to the various precincts to gather small facts about mostly small crimes. As he watched the jailer insert a key in one of the iron doors, he had the irrational fear that this whole business was a trap, that he was going to be locked up, that he would never see the light of day again.
The jailer swung the door open, then stepped inside. St-Cyr was surprised to see a shaft of light from the open doorway;
