1 January 2025
Wednesday. New Year’s Day. I had planned to spend it asleep. Instead the telephone rang at ten o’clock precisely: a guest found dead in the penthouse suite of the finest hotel in Paris, and a party of suspects caught stepping out of the lift.
I know this hotel. Politicians stay here, and very important persons, and people who wish to be discreet about being either. Murder is not discreet. It is the opposite of discreet. I put on my coat.
The suspects, so the night staff told me, had been trapped in the lift between floors when it happened. They got it moving again, the doors opened, and there they were, the nearest faces to a very unfortunate situation. It looked bad for them. It always looks bad for whoever is nearest. That is why I never stand near anything.
By the time I reached the suite, by the stairs, as always, they had spent the hour on the case themselves and had a great deal to say about it. I wrote down none of it. A casebook is not a gossip column.
The telephone rang again at eleven. Same hotel. Same suite. A different party in the lift. I have a feeling this is going to be a long year.
— Insp. A. Brochard, Gendarmerie
