The Body in the Pneumatic Post

How it begins

The capsule arrived empty of air and full of trouble.

Sylvie knew the first part from the pressure gauge.

She discovered the second when she unscrewed the lid.

Inside lay a parcel wrapped in good paper, a visiting card and a finger wearing a silver ring.

She put the lid back on.

Then she called for the inspector.

Luc Perrin arrived with the expression of a man who expected another complaint about overdue replacement valves.

Sylvie pointed to the capsule.

He removed his hat.

Outside the workshop, Paris continued sending little messages beneath its streets. Invitations. Market prices. Apologies written too late for the ordinary post.

The line behind them sighed and clicked.

Another capsule entered the receiver.

Luc stepped away from it.

"This route," he said, examining the marks on the first capsule, "passes through three stations."

"Not in that order."

"The stamps say otherwise."

"The stamps aren't pushing the air."

Sylvie took the maintenance chart from the wall.

At nine twelve, the pressure had dropped in a sealed branch that should not have been carrying anything.

At nine fourteen, somebody had logged a routine inspection there.

Her initials.

She had been repairing a valve in this room, with two apprentices watching.

Luc read the chart.

"Could somebody have borrowed your tools?"

"They could borrow my name more easily."

The visiting card bore the address of a physician whose surgery stood above the closed branch.

On its back, in hurried pencil, were four words.

DO NOT TRUST THE TIMES.

Another capsule struck the receiver.

This one contained a single envelope.

Addressed to Sylvie.

Luc reached for it.

She caught his wrist.

The pressure gauge was rising.

Somewhere beneath the street, somebody had opened a junction that did not appear on her plan.

For the first time that morning, the inspector looked at the pipes as though they might have something to say.