1 January 2026
Thursday. One year. One hotel. One penthouse. One unfortunate guest. And more suspects than there are gendarmes in the whole of France.
Every hour, the telephone. Every hour, the stairs. Every hour, a new party stepping out of Madame the lift into a situation not of their making. I have stopped taking off my coat.
The hotel keeps a register of the parties who named the culprit fastest, and in a tie, the party that asked for fewer hints wins. It does not record their names unless they wish it; their photographs go up only if they agreed at the desk. I approve. In my profession one learns to respect a person’s wish not to be photographed.
I have looked at the top of the register. I shall not repeat the time. It changes, and in any case it made me feel slow. Croissant and I celebrated the anniversary with a pastry each. His was larger. He had been a very good boy.
— Insp. A. Brochard, Gendarmerie
