Babayaga

took a few moments before an older woman answered the buzzer to let them up to her flat. She met them at the door.
    “Yes?”
    “Madame Bemm, I am Superintendent Maroc. This is Detective Lecan. I’m afraid we have some terrible news.” Maroc quickly explained the situation, how her son and his partner, in the course of a critical investigation, had disappeared without a trace. He said they did not have any suspects now, it could be Algerians, possibly the National Liberation Front, it was hard to say. Maroc tried to wrap up as fast as he could, generously ladling out words like “noble,” “brave,” “valiant,” and “heroic” to describe a man he had barely ever noticed.
    As he talked, the old woman silently looked up at him, her eyes widening with confusion, and then refocusing, as if the various sounds Maroc was making were only slowly assembling into words she could comprehend. When he finished, her face went pale. She placed her hand on her chest and inhaled deeply, pausing mid-breath to suck in more air. Watching this small woman gulp up what seemed to be all the oxygen in the room, Maroc had a bad feeling about what was coming next. He tried, as best he could, to steel himself from the inevitable, looking nervously to Lecan for support, but when it came it was far worse than he had imagined, a loud, piercing wail of grief so shrill that went on for so long it seemed as if the old woman was intent on utterly destroying his eardrums. In the middle of her glass-cracking shriek, she lunged out and grabbed hold of him, pulling him close until her cry finally broke into choking sobs that she buried in his coat. Gingerly putting his arms around her, Maroc gave her an awkward, hesitant pat. “Now, now, have faith,” he said, despite being sure that the situation actually was hopeless. She could continue to weep and pound her small fists against his chest all she wanted, it would not change the fact that Bemm—and Vidot—were most likely dead.
    After a while, the old woman finally calmed down. She sat on a chair, staring glumly at the floor as Maroc explained the next steps, how they would wait a bit longer to be sure, and then, if no better news arrived, there would be a small ceremony at the station. The mayor would come, of course, and her son would be posthumously awarded many honors and medals. She would also receive standard insurance compensation, and her son’s pension would help her weather this great loss. When Maroc finally began to make his excuses to leave, and he and Lecan started for the door, she watched them go with a desperate, silent sadness. Her eyes looked like spoons brimming over, ready to spill again. Maroc could not get out of there fast enough.
    Vidot’s apartment was not too far away, but by the time they got there the light drizzle had grown into a deluge and they had to jump over swelling gutters to reach the building’s front door. Luckily, they did not have to wait out in the rain as they were buzzed in right away. They climbed the stairs to the flat and when they knocked at the apartment door, a woman quickly answered. Her bright smile faded instantly at the sight of them. “Yes, can I help you?”
    “Are you Madame Vidot?” asked Maroc.
    “I am.”
    “I am Superintendent Maroc. This is Detective Lecan. I am afraid—”
    The loud buzz of the downstairs doorbell interrupted him. She did not answer it.
    “I am afraid we have some unfortunate news,” Maroc continued.
    “Oh?” she said, her face turning white. “Is this about my husband?”
    Again, the doorbell buzzed, and again she did not answer it.
    “I’m sorry.” Maroc smiled politely. “Are you expecting company?”
    “It is nothing, no one,” she stammered. “Please, go on.”
    Maroc was about to continue with his speech when Lecan stepped forward. “Madame, perhaps you should invite us in. The news we have is serious and inappropriate for hallway conversation. And please, let up whoever is waiting. The weather is terrible and we would not want to be the cause of their inconvenience.”
    “Yes, I’m sorry, please come in.” She opened the door for them. As they entered the modest apartment, Lecan gave Maroc a knowing look. “But I am sure,” she said, “whoever is outside will go—” The buzzer rang a third time, its duration implying a certain impatience.
    “Please,” said Lecan, “invite him up.”
    Blushing, Madam Vidot pushed the front door button. The three of them waited in the