Mr. Clarinet

"Business was good, even though the political climate wasn't," she continued, her composure regained. "One month we had two presidents and three coups. You could always tell whenever something was going down, because our business wasn't too far from the palace. Whoever was in power at the time would send his guys out to buy a load of extra gas for his getaway.

"The thing about this country is that all the gas comes from the U.S., so any time they want to bring down a president they threaten to stop the gas from coming in. Whenever there was a real danger of that happening you'd see one of the oil company's management roll up to the gas station—always these big fat sweaty white Americans looking like Bible salesmen. They'd tell the station manager to expect extra shipments because they'd had 'drought warnings'—their code for another changeover in leadership.

"The gas never stopped coming in because they were quiet coups. Not a shot fired. You'd be watching some TV program and then there'd be an intermission and a general would make an announcement on TV: this month's president had been arrested or exiled for treachery/corruption/speeding/whatever and the army had taken temporary control of the palace, and that would be that. Everyone carried on as usual. No one thought an embargo would ever happen. And then it did."

"We went out of business. A lot of our stuff came from the U.S. or Venezuela. Ships couldn't get through," Caspar said. "Claudette used to ask me why I wasn't going to work. I told her it was so I could watch her grow."

"They burned our business down—just before the marines landed," Mathilde said.

"Who?" Max asked.

"The military. They just wanted to make life as difficult for the invaders as possible. They set fire to a lot of amenities. I don't think it was personal—at least, not against us."

"Oh no?" seethed Caspar. "That was our life. It don't get more personal than that."

Mathilde didn't know what to say. She looked away, found one of the pictures, and fixed on it, as if willing herself there, back in time to happiness.

Max stood up and walked away from the table. Behind them were a sofa, two armchairs, and a medium-sized television on a stand. The television had a layer of dust on it, as if it hadn't been watched in a while or simply didn't work. He noticed a shotgun parked near the window. He looked at the courtyard, taking in the swing and the kennel and the gate. Something wasn't right about it.

"What happened to your dog?" he asked, turning back to the table.

"He was killed," Mathilde said, getting up and coming over to him. "The people who took our daughter poisoned him."

"You mean they came in here?"

"Yes. Come with me."

She led Max out of the open-plan area and into a short, dark corridor. She opened a door.

"Claudette's room," she said.

The Thodores had resigned themselves to the fact that they weren't going to see their little girl again. The room was a shrine, preserved, probably, more or less the way they had last remembered it tidy. Pictures Claudette had drawn were on the walls—mostly family sketches—Dad (tall), Mom (not as tall), Claudette (minute), the dog (in between her and Mathilde), standing outside their house—drawn in crayon, as jerky stickpeople. Dad was always blue, Mom red, Claudette green, and the dog was black. Her drawings of the Rue des Ecuries home showed the human figures twice the size of the house. Other pictures were simply squares of painted single colors with Claudette's full name at the bottom, written in an adult hand.

Max looked briefly out of the window and back to the room. He took in the bed—low, blue spread and a white pillow, rag doll peeking out from over the throw. He noticed the throw was smooth everywhere but in the middle, where it had been sat on and crumpled. He imagined either parent coming in and playing with the doll, soaking up their daughter's memory and crying their eyes out. He'd put money on Caspar being the more frequent visitor.

"The day she disappeared…I went to wake her up. I came in the room and saw her bed was empty and her window was wide open. Then I looked out and saw Toto—our dog—lying on the ground, near the swing," Mathilde said.

"Was anything broken in the house? Glass?"

"No."

"What about the front door? Had it been forced?"

"No."

"Did you notice anything about the lock? The keys don't often turn all the way after they've been picked."

"It worked OK. Still does."

"And it was just the three of you in here?"

"Yes."

"Anyone else have the keys to this place?"

"No."

"What about the previous owner?"

"We changed all the locks."

"Who changed them?"

"Caspar did."

"And you're sure you locked the front door that day?"

"Yes. Certain."

"Is there a back way in?"

"No."

"What about the windows?"

"Everything else was closed. Nothing was broken."

"What about a basement?"

"Not here."

"What's behind the house?"

"Empty lot. There was an art gallery, but it's closed down. The wall's fifteen feet high and covered with barbed wire."