Tight-Lipped

He considered a trip down the corridor to the coffee machine. It seemed unlikely to provide any inspiration. He stayed where he was, in his garret under the sloping roof of 36 quai des Orfèvres, home to the Brigade Criminelle since the 1920s, which was probably when his office had last been repainted. He drummed his fingers on his desktop, contemplating the torn skin on two of his knuckles, a relic of his encounter with Denis Langlois the previous day.