Some were brushing their teeth or having an impromptu wash, others combing their hair or trying to sleep or hurriedly getting dressed, still others lighting the stoves or complaining about the smoke that filled the corridors at times for the pipes often ran along them. Unheated, the hotels would normally have been closed at the end of the season on 15 September, but now, thought St-Cyr as he hurried, carelessness and inexperience, if nothing else, were threatening to burn this one down. There were lineups for the toilets. Doors that should have been closed were wide open to air the smoke, space at an absolute premium, the shrieks, yells, and whistles shrill at the sight of a lone male hurrying down a corridor to Room 3–38. ‘Inspecteur!’ ‘Ah, merde, pardonnez-moi, mesdemoiselles. St-Cyr, Sûreté.’ He didn’t wait. Jill paused in pulling up her slacks; Marni had yet to put on a blouse; Nora had to step out of the way with the soup and bread; Becky was using the vase de nuit. ‘Mademoiselle Arnarson, a moment.’ ‘I have to get the firewood, Inspector.
