CHAPTER 25It was a small general merchandise warehouse overlooking the intersection where the canal of Saint Denis flows into the Ourcq canal up near the Porte de la Villette. An industrial section, quiet and almost deserted late at night. Not entirely deserted: the man who ran the canal warehouse had a little apartment above it.
“The first I ever saw her was about three weeks ago,” he said. His name was Felicien Charcot and he was having difficulty dealing with his anxiety. “She was introduced to me by a guy I know and trust—used to trust.”
“Who is he?”
Charcot shrugged. “Just a guy. I know him from years back, when we were both serving some time in Melun Prison.” He gazed bitterly at the photograph of Angelina Doniol that lay on his threadbare purple satin tablecloth.
All of his livi
