When retired academic Imogene Durant finds herself in Paris with Victor Hugo as her guide, a series of disturbing discoveries are made in local hotels. While Imogene hopes to settle in, read, and write a follow up to her acclaimed book, Fyodor & Me in Russia, she's drawn into the mystery by her new friend and neighbour, the police detective assigned to the case.
Mise en Scene of the Crime
It had been a post-pandemic bureaucratic decision to get rid of the ice machines in hotels and motels, because of sanitary issues. Like buffets, it was deemed a risk to have people digging in themselves to fill their buckets and deposit their germs. Mr. Passi had decided that the kitchen would fill orders for ice from the room service line, and so today it was Guy's task to turn off the pipes leading to the machines in the hall on each floor, dig out the ice from each machine into the deep plastic wheelbarrow purchased especially for the task, and dry out the machines, in preparation for their removal.
He had completed the process on 2, and 4, thankful that an earlier management had decreed there would be machines only on every second floor of the hotel. He wheeled the wheelbarrow back into the elevator, having dumped another load of ice cubes onto the growing glacier in the back alley.
The shut off valve on 6 was a bit sticky, but nothing a shot of WD40 and a few minutes couldn't solve. In the meantime, he began to shovel out the ice, careful to prop the door open with the shim he had fashioned from a broom handle after the door of the machine on 2 had almost cost him a finger. Never trust old hydraulics. That would be something he would impart to his child, if he ever had one.
A couple two doors from the ice machine alcove came out into the hall, laughing, and headed to the elevator. He nodded as they passed and the woman smiled at him in passing. It was nice to see peoples' faces again, even though he wasn't sure it was safe yet to go without a mask. Tourists seemed to feel they could wander about with impunity, he had noticed, as if infecting people in a foreign country whom they'd never see again was no matter. He supposed in a way, people had always felt that way. Maybe that was how the fear of strangers began, not with distrust first, but a knowledge that strangers would never have your safety as a consideration.
He turned back to the job at hand. The valve should be ready to roll, and it was. What had someone once said? Everything could be solved with either duct tape or WD40. The machine fell silent as the water ceased to seep into the icemaking section at the top. Guy unplugged the electrical cord from the wall. By the time he had dug out the ice from the cooler section, the ice tray section would have dripped down and could be opened and dried with a chamois. He got back to work with his plastic shovel he had picked up in the automotive section of the Castorama when buying the wheelbarrow. He had one like it in the back of his car, for digging himself out of ruts in case of an accident. This one was bright pink, because that was all that was left in stock. The one in his car was neon green.
Micheline, one of the housekeeping staff, stepped off the elevator, pulling the slotted tray holder, to pick up the room service trays left out in the hallway. Guy approved of housekeeping's system in the Grand. They cleared the halls early before check out time, so that business people heading to their important meetings didn't have to skirt around sloppy trays of leftovers, and families checking out could pull their luggage cleanly down the halls. It helped out the maids pushing their massive cleaning carts, too, not to have to navigate around the detritus from the previous evening's meals.
"Hey Guy, how's it going?"
"Not bad. Not a job I'd want to do every day, but I'm getting into the swing of it. Should be done all of them by the end of tomorrow, I figure."
"You'll hav
