To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 33

La Fantaisie was instantly recognized by Timothy as one of the restaurants whose three-bit appearance came with a price that made it accessible to two-bit people. His family had used to frequent a similar establishment whenever they dined out, and so he knew that he was once again woefully underdressed for the establishment he wanted to enter as soon as he stepped out of the cab. Why didn't anything interesting happen to poor people?

The restaurant stood over the street with solid finality as if daring anyone to slander its great name with the base charge of murder. A thinning crowd had come to gawk at the horrible place nevertheless, and Timothy and Sam had to shoulder their way through the people just to get to the door. What they found was not encouraging; the windows were shuttered and the door was barred. Timothy cupped his hands around his face, looked in the tiny window set in the top of the door, and found that the interior was as dark and deserted as the exterior seemed to hint.

"Well," he said, "I think we've come to a dead end."

Sam looked at him wryly. "I'm certain you could have phrased that better."

Timothy was just about to protest that he hadn't meant it that way when Sam started banging on the door like the murderer had returned. "You there, inside!" he yelled. "Open up!"

Timothy was almost positive Sam's voice did not naturally deepen an octave just because he was shouting. "What are you doing?" he asked, but his words were drowned out by Sam hammering on the door again.

Suddenly the door swung open, and they were brought face-to-face with the proprietor of the restaurant, who looked like he was ready to add another murder to the history of the place should Sam continue to make such a racket.

"Aye aye?" he asked, peering out of the doorway as if he expected more than two. "I thought mayhaps the constabulary was out here again. What do you want? I've already spoken to them, and I've no desire to be talking any more about that horrible happening."

"Samuel Paine, sir, reporter for The Thameton Pry," Sam said, apparently ignoring the restaurant owners' obvious unwillingness to broach the subject. "And my friend and fellow reporter, Timothy Wright. We'd like to talk to you about what happened."

Timothy was unreasonably warmed by Sam's use of "friend," but he had little time to reflect on it before the door began to close as suddenly as it had opened. Sam jammed it with his foot. Timothy winced.

"Sir, if you would just give us the briefest half hour of your time—" Sam pleaded.

"I don't say things I don't mean, lad," the restaurant owner replied, stubbornly trying to shut the door with Sam's foot still in it.

Timothy stepped forward, bowing to the man. "Sir, if I could draw your attention for a moment to the crowd outside?" He turned as he gestured, pleased and rather alarmed to find that the people had drawn closer since their arrival.

"Aye? And what of it?" the restaurant owner asked, opening the door just wide enough to stick his head through. Sam relaxed. "A lot of busybodies—not uncommon, more's the pity."

"Yes, but those busybodies are here to see La Fantaisie," Timothy watched the man's reaction carefully. "This is a quiet street. Giving us the opportunity to write on the scene of the crime could be good for business."

The man's squat, hard-edged features reminded Timothy of stone, but they softened as he considered. Finally he decided that Timothy spoke sense, and opened the door for them. "Come in, you two silver-tongued rogues."

It was not altogether a pleasant feeling to be shut in the dark of an empty restaurant with a stranger, but he soon led the two of them to a room in the back lit by electricity. Moreover, there was a small window that let in a little reassuring natural light. As they sat down Sam asked for the man's name, and Timothy opened his notebook. The routine was beginning to feel natural.