Babayaga

shook his head. He had not called in sick, left any sort of message with his assistant, or even checked in. At this rate, his job probably wouldn’t be waiting for him.
    He leaned toward the driver, “ Je te donnerai cinquante francs de supplémentaire si vous pouvez m’amener au commissariat de police en dix minutes .”
    The driver’s eyebrows went up and a broad smile broke out on his face. “Okay!” he said in English and they were off. Through a combination of blaring horns, bravado, and inspired sidewalk driving, the cab zoomed, lurched, cut, swerved, and sped down the Boulevard des Capucines, along rue de la Paix, then turned up the Right Bank until it crossed the Pont Notre-Dame and pulled up in front of the police station.
    Will threw a fistful of francs at the self-satisfied cabbie and, leaping out, ran up the steps. Inside, he found a desk clerk. Yes, yes, she said, a woman matching that description had been brought in early that morning. The clerk began leafing through the ledger in front of him.
    “Well, hello!” said a voice behind him. Will turned and saw the man from the barn, no longer naked or wearing the priest’s borrowed clothes but now clothed in what appeared to be a smartly tailored suit. “We never had time for a proper introduction. I am Detective Vidot.” He looked down at his clothes. “I am not usually this formal, but I will be reuniting with my wife soon after some time away and I would like to look my best.” He offered a tight smile. “I trust you had a good rest.”
    “Where is Zoya?” Will said.
    “Ah,” said Vidot, “I have some news there, good news or bad news, I do not know. I had hoped we could keep her longer, but when I returned from the tailor I discovered she had already left.”
    “She was released?”
    Vidot looked uncertain as to how to answer that. “Maybe? Or perhaps she released herself, with some assistance? I am not sure yet.”
    “You think she escaped?”
    Again Vidot paused before answering. “Yes, that is my guess, though it was not entirely unexpected. I was actually on my way to speak with a man who will, I believe, shed a bit of light on what occurred. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”
    As Vidot led him down the hall, Will looked around. He had never been in a police station before. The slow clatter of typewriters clicking out reports and the stale cigarette scent mixed with the smell of mimeograph ink permeated all the rooms they passed through. The officers and clerks they passed moved in a slow and steady motion, as if they were assured justice would ultimately prevail, or because they simply did not care. At the end of the corridor they came to a closed office door that Vidot opened without knocking. An older man sitting behind the desk stood up as they entered. He already looked nervous.
    “Detective Vidot,” the man began, straightening his tie, “it is good to have you back—”
    “Lecan, please, be seated,” said Vidot curtly, taking a chair across from the man. Then he paused and stared at the older detective. Will remained standing, watching the two and trying to figure out what was going on, until Vidot remembered he was there. “Oh yes, this is my American friend Mr.—I am sorry, Will, I don’t know your last name.”
    “Van Wyck.”
    “Ah, yes, a Dutch-American? I see. Well, Mr. Van Wyck, this is a colleague of mine, Detective Lecan. Now that we have made our introductions, Lecan, could you please tell us what happened with our prisoner Zoya Polyakov?”
    “Who?” Detective Lecan grinned, clearly attempting to look as if he had never heard the name before.
    Vidot shook his finger at his colleague in a scolding, almost teasing way. “Now, now, Lecan, do not try to hide it from us, tell us what you did with her. I have found three officers who can testify that she was last seen in your custody, so please provide us with the details of what happened or we will have to go to the authorities.”
    Will looked confused. “Wait, aren’t you the authorities?”
    Vidot lifted a pack of cigarettes off Lecan’s desk. “Perhaps we are,” he said, taking one out, “or perhaps we are simply three men talking about a pretty girl as men so often like to do. So now what do you have to say?”
    Lecan looked at him suspiciously. “You are saying this conversation is off the record?”
    Vidot smiled and held out his hands. “Of course.”
    Lecan shifted in his seat, he looked nervous. “No, it’s too much. What I have