“A couple of cops and EMTs looking down at a body.”

“You’re sure he was dead?”

“Oui. He was covered by then.”

“Where was he?”

“The first landing. Next to the lamppost.”

At the southern end of the rue Chappe, where the café was located, the street was typical of Montmartre, narrow and cobbled and lined with small apartment buildings. The steps began at the rue André Barsacq. There were two separate flights, each with a pair of landings and an iron handrail down the center. The second flight, the one nearest Sacré Coeur, was the slightly steeper of the two. Gabriel paused on the uppermost landing and, crouching, examined the paving stones by the inadequate light of the streetlamp. If there had been blood the night before, there was none now. Nor was there anything to indicate there had been much in the way of a criminal investigation of the matter.

Rising, Gabriel climbed to the top of the steps. To the right was a small café, and beyond the café was the upper station of the Montmartre funicular. A group of tourists were gazing up at the floodlit domes of Sacré Coeur. Two young women were scrutinizing the counterfeit designer handbags arranged on a tarpaulin at the feet of an African migrant.

Gabriel turned and gazed down the steps of the rue Chappe. Something made him place a hand on the frigid lamppost. A fall, even a minor one, would doubtless result in serious injury. Still, most pedestrians managed to make the ascent without incident, especially lifelong Parisians and residents of Montmartre like Dr. Emanuel Cohen.

Gabriel moved away from the top of the steps and looked in both directions along the street. There were no surveillance cameras in sight, nothing to record how Cohen might have lost his balance. If there had been an eyewitness, he surely told the police what he had observed. Unless, of course, the eyewitness had been engaged in low-level criminal activity at the time of the incident and had therefore chosen to remain silent.

Gabriel walked over to the African street vendor, a towering figure, thin as a reed, with weary eyes that gazed out from an otherwise noble face. They exchanged pleasantries in French. Then Gabriel asked the African if he had been selling his wares on this spot the previous evening.

The weary eyes grew suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

“A friend of mine fell down the rue Chappe. I was wondering if you were here when it happened.”

“Oui. I was here.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Are you a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

The towering African said nothing. Gabriel looked down at the counterfeit handbags lying at the man’s feet.

“How much for that one?”

“The Prada?”

“If you say so.”

“One hundred euros.”

“My wife’s cost me five thousand.”

“You should have come to me.”

“How about I give you two hundred euros instead?”

“Two hundred it is.”

Gabriel handed over the money. The African shoved it into the pocket of his threadbare coat and reached for the bag.

“Forget about it,” said Gabriel. “Just tell me how my friend fell.”

“He got a phone call when he reached the top of the steps. That was when the guy pushed him.” The African pointed toward one of the coin-operated telescopes on the opposite side of the street. “He was standing right there for several minutes before your friend arrived.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Non. His back was turned the entire time he was there.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“Left hand, center of his chest. Down the steps he went. He never had a chance.”

“What happened to the man who pushed him?” Receiving no answer, Gabriel looked down at the African’s inventory. “How about I buy another bag?”

“The Vuitton?”

“Why not?”

“How much would you like to give me for it?”

“I really don’t like negotiating with myself.”

“One fifty?”

Gabriel surrendered three hundred euros. “Keep talking.”

“Another guy pulled alongside him on a scooter, and he climbed on the back. It was all very professional, if you ask me.”

“And you, of course, told the police everything you had seen.”

“Non. I left before they arrived.”

“Did you at least try to help my friend?”

“Yes, of course. But it was obvious he was dead.”

“Where was his phone?”

“On the landing next to him.”

“I assume you picked it up as you were leaving.”

The African hesitated, then nodded. “Forgive me, Monsieur. Those phones are worth a lot of money.”

“Where is it now?”

“Are you sure you’re not a cop?”