Chapter 36
The fire had been burning for quite some time. Josée and the others had evacuated to a nearby church and escaped without injury. By the time word came that the flames had finally been extinguished, the sun had already begun to set.
They made their way back toward the brothel.
Along the way, a crowd had gathered in front of an apartment building on Fourth Avenue. The fire department had managed to put out the blaze, but the building now stood blackened and charred, a scorched husk of its former self. Josée and her companions joined the onlookers, gazing up at the smoldering ruin.
"Good thing they managed to put it out quickly," someone murmured.
"I wonder how it got that bad in the first place?"
As they exchanged thoughts, a figure suddenly emerged from the building’s entrance. Josée and Lisette instantly frowned.
It was Bernard.
Josée turned quickly to Mélias and Brian.
"Um… before we head back to the brothel, why don’t we go have a drink somewhere else? Maybe a bit farther away?"
"Oh? What’s the matter, Madame Josée? The brothel’s just around the corner," Brian said, puzzled.
At the sound of his voice, Bernard’s head snapped up—and he immediately came rushing toward them.
"Ah… crap."
"Josée! You again?!"
Just as she tried to slip away, Bernard grabbed her by the collar. Josée tilted her head, genuinely confused.
"...Again? What are you talking about?"
Bernard’s eyes narrowed.
"The fire started in the room of a writer named Florent. That name rings a bell, doesn’t it, Josée?"
"!?"
"He was at the literary salon. There’s testimony that he spoke with you during the last gathering—"
"!!"
"Hmph. Thought so."
The others froze as well. Bernard’s sharp gaze swept over them like a blade.
"And... Mr. Florent is dead. He was the only casualty from the building."
Mélias took a cautious step forward.
"Detective... Do you know what caused the fire?"
Bernard gave a grim nod.
"It started in Florent’s room. His death was just confirmed. They say it might’ve been from a carelessly handled cigarette."
"I see…"
"But apparently, he had a lot of visitors. People were coming and going all the time. So, we can’t rule out foul play just yet."
"I see..."
"Which is why we’re looking into his social circles. He seemed to frequent quite a few literary salons."
"Oh my..."
"Madame Mélias, may I ask for your cooperation in the investigation?"
Before Josée could even object—
"Yes!" Mélias replied, her eyes sparkling.
Josée groaned. "Ugh..."
"Wait, Madame Mélias—"
"Ah! It’s my first time being a person of interest in a case! I’m sure I can use this in one of my novels someday!"
"Madame...?"
"Surely the god of literature is smiling upon me right now!"
"Madame..."
"Come on, Madame Josée! Opportunities like this don’t come every day!"
Josée, who had had more than her fair share of “opportunities” already, just wanted to go home. But with things having gone this far, she had little choice.
The four of them followed Bernard into the building, the acrid scent of smoke still hanging thick in the air.
The sight of the body was too much for the others; they lingered near the entrance while Josée stepped further inside.
Everything in the room had been reduced to ash. The only items that had escaped the flames were a wine bottle and a few dishes in the kitchen. Whether it had been arson or not, most of the evidence had already gone up in smoke.
The body lay sprawled on the bed.
"The door was locked. No signs of forced entry or exit," one of the investigators said.
The door itself was half-burned, but the locking mechanism remained intact.
The window was wide open.
"Florent’s cause of death appears to be from the fire. No visible wounds. The room was filled with flammable materials—neighbors said he stacked manuscript pages along the walls."
That explanation didn’t sit right with Josée.
"Bernard," she said, "could you open the corpse’s mouth for me?"
He hesitated at the strange request, but eventually, with help from another officer, they pried open the mouth. Josée leaned in to take a closer look.
"Hmm. Just as I thought."
"...What is it?" Bernard asked.
"The inside of his mouth is clean."
"...?"
Everyone stared blankly at her.
Exasperated, Josée sighed. "Don’t you get it? He didn’t inhale any smoke."
Bernard’s eyes widened as the realization hit him.
"Which means… he was already dead before the fire started?"
"Exactly. If he’d died from smoke inhalation, there would be soot in his mouth. But there's nothing. That means he was killed before the fire began. This wasn’t an accident."
The fire had started near the bed—exactly where the damage was most severe.
"It’s a murder made to look like an accident. And if there are no external injuries, the killer likely used poison."
As soon as she said it, a chill ran down Josée’s spine.
"A cigarette… Wait. Lisette also got a cigarette at the literary salon, didn’t she—?"
Without another word, she bolted for the stairs.