At his door, he flipped the housekeeping sign to Veuillez ne pas déranger, and listened for sounds from inside before slipping through. An empty room greeted him. Above the headboard of the single bed, a framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower provided the room’s best view. The flower-sprigged bedspread had been straightened; folded white towels were stacked in the tiny bathroom and the damp ones cleared from the floor. Judging by the wet ring on the sink, the maid hadn’t replaced the tumbler he’d used after brushing his teeth, just rinsed it out, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t taste anything that came out of the glass, and if they didn’t wash it for a year, he still wouldn’t get sick off it. All that mattered was that they’d done the housekeeping after midnight, just as he’d requested. This wasn’t the best hotel in Paris—far from it—but it suited his needs. Not that he’d ever had too many needs. But he’d whittled them down to a cheap room with heavy drapes and a solid lock, blood, and a mirror.
