The basement of the Palace of Justice was always cold. The lights were dim. They flickered.

  Berger Frelinghuysen lay on the slab. He looked like an unfinished sculpture. Dr. De Lange stood over him, as much as he could, short as he was. He didn't bother to look up when Pulaski walked in.

  -You’re looking pale, Berger, Pulaski said. Even for a dead guy. It’s the lighting.

  The doctor made a small sound. It might have been a laugh. Or a cough.

  -He was healthy before he stopped breathing, De Lange said.

  -They usually are.

  Pulaski pulled out a pouch to roll a cigarette.

  -The neighbors don’t want to talk. Probably owed him too much money. Or someone who wanted the money for himself.

  -He has no marks on his hands, De Longe said. No defensive wounds.

  -Someone he knew, by more than sight. A colleague, a friend. Or an authority.

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  Pulaski walked over to the slab. He looked at Berger’s right hand. He leaned in close. The right index finger was stained. It was a purple-black smudge.

  -Look at that, he muttered. You see that, Doc?

  -He was a debt collector. He used a pen.

  -No. That’s not pen ink. That’s ribbon ink. Typewriter ink.

  Pulaski moved the hand. The stain was on the very tip.

  -He used a typewriter? De Lange asked.

  -No, Pulaski muttered. He didn't have one in the room. I looked.

  Pulaski straightened up. He blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  -Debt collectors use ledgers. They use pens. They use their feet. They don't spend their time changing ribbons on a typewriter.

  He pulled the tram tickets from his pocket. He looked at them in the harsh light. Line 33.

  -He was going to Avenue Louise, Pulaski said. You don't go there to collect a debt from a baker. You go there to see the men in black.

  The doctor looked at the body. Then at the detective. He didn't say anything. In Brussels, you didn't talk about the Avenue.

  -He was a rat, Doc. A busy little rat. He wasn't collecting debts. He was selling people out. He was sitting on a desk in some office, pointing at the names. Correcting the spelling.

  -Nobody collaborates, the doctor muttered unconvincingly.

  Pulaski walked to the door. He paused.

  -Sure, Pulaski said.

  He stepped away from the slab.

  -A rat needs a hole, he muttered. Berger had a whole building.

  He walked out of the morgue. The hallway was gray and dim.

  He thought about the neighborhood. Saint-Gilles.

  People there were quiet. They weren't blind.

  If Berger was going to Avenue Louise three times a week, someone saw him. Someone watched him get on the tram.

  -No wonder they didn’t want to talk to the kid.