Anne Marie, slightly out of breath, went up the steps and past the procureur de la République. He was surrounded by three men. Two wore ties and neat tropical suits. The third—a tall, gaunt black man with sunken cheeks—had a pale, white raincoat. Politicians, Anne Marie thought. Only politicians from France wore jackets in this heat. The procureur and the three men stepped out into the street. The procureur nodded, a look of wisdom on his plump face. His hands were in his pockets, and a small, unlit cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth. The man in the raincoat bent over. “A spoon.” He shrugged, gave a small laugh, and threw the spoon into the gutter. The procureur laughed, too. Turning his head, he caught sight of Anne Marie. There was no sign of recognition, but the smile slowly died on the large face. Anne Marie entered the bustling cloister of the Palais de Justice. It was cool out of the sun. A crowd of people was breaking up, caught in the inertia of indecision. A television team was in the process of stowing away their equipment.
