23Maron was home in bed asleep when he got the call. Someone breaking into the Baskerville’s house, newly renovated, out on route de Canard. He threw on some clothes, jumped on his scooter, and got to the house in a matter of minutes. Shining his flashlight around the yard, he saw no sign of anyone.
“Officer Maron!” a man called out, after opening the door a crack.
Maron trotted up the steps and pushed his way inside. Mr. Henry Baskerville, formerly of London, was standing in the foyer in his pajamas, holding the arm of a teenaged boy twisted behind his back. The boy had an innocent face, young and open—and frightened.
“What’s this about?” said Maron gruffly.
“Found him trying to jimmy open a window. Car was parked around back, guess he figured no one was home. That it, kid?” asked Bas
