taken the cellophane from but found nothing further.
The roof was a big place. He could not search through every inch of snow. Besides, the assassin could have tossed any stubs off the roof.
He remembered yesterday’s wind, fierce and cold, blowing south. He hadn’t paid sufficient attention to estimate the wind speed, but that’s where weather reports came in. He looked over the parapet. He stood and brought his right thumb and index to his lips. He inhaled and moved his hand away, extending his index finger and parting it from his thumb in a flicking motion. He pictured a cigarette tumbling through the air, veering to his right and falling under gravity’s pull, but the wind blowing it back. He pivoted as he watched the imaginary butt arch back over the parapet and on to the roof.
Victor found it lying beneath the top layer of snow, next to an air-conditioning unit.
He used his nails to retrieve it by the burnt end. It was moist but not wet because the temperature had not yet risen enough to cause the overnight snow to melt.
A trace of mauve lipstick smudged around the filter end.
In the darkness, he had not noticed the assassin wearing lipstick – he had been too focused on staying alive to take in such details – but there was about half an inch of tobacco above the filter. No smoker threw away so much unless they had to – say because they needed both hands to operate a rifle now their target had presented themselves. That would also explain why she had overlooked the stub blown back on to the roof. She had been distracted by thoughts of killing Victor.
He broke off the ash from the tip and smelt the unburned tobacco. He hadn’t smoked for a couple of years but at that moment was tempted to start again.
He pushed the thought from his mind, breathed in the scent one last time, and dropped the butt into a pocket of his new suit trousers.
A taxi took him across the city and two buses brought him back in a circuitous route. He walked the rest of the way to Wenceslas Square, seeing no sign of a female assassin stalking him. He didn’t know if she was still on his trail or if she had fled or was preparing to strike again. The only thing he knew for certain was that she was alive because no mortuary in the city had received a corpse crushed by falling building material.
The old tailor grinned when Victor returned to the low-ceilinged atelier and moved to greet him with a youthful deftness to his step.
‘You’ve changed your mind,’ the tailor began with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘You’ve seen sense, finally, else have been reborn and resurrected into a man of taste. Yes?’
‘Not exactly,’ Victor answered.
The glimmer faded from the old tailor’s eyes. ‘You don’t want me to adjust your suit?’
Victor shook his head. ‘I assure you I’ll consider it if I could have your opinion on something.’
The tailor looked at him with suspicion. ‘That sounds like a bribe to me.’
‘That’s because it is.’
‘Very well, let’s have it.’
‘You said before no two varieties of tobacco are the same. Was that hyperbole?’
‘It was not.’
Victor produced the cigarette stub. ‘Then can you tell me anything about this particular cigarette?’
He handed the stub to the tailor who first examined it in his palm, then held it beneath his nostrils to smell.
‘This is no ordinary cigarette,’ the tailor said. ‘This is a work of art. These are crafted with love and rolled by hand. Not some godless machine.’
The tailor squeezed some unburned tobacco into his palm, then pinched and rubbed it between his fingers and smelled his fingertips, one by one, before holding the butt under his nostrils.
‘This is a particularly good blend of tobacco, strong and sweet. An aftertaste of chocolate, I think. This is the Château Lafite of cigarettes. Hand-rolled from only the finest leaves, perfectly dried under only the hottest sun.’
Victor listened.
‘From the West Indies,’ the tailor
The roof was a big place. He could not search through every inch of snow. Besides, the assassin could have tossed any stubs off the roof.
He remembered yesterday’s wind, fierce and cold, blowing south. He hadn’t paid sufficient attention to estimate the wind speed, but that’s where weather reports came in. He looked over the parapet. He stood and brought his right thumb and index to his lips. He inhaled and moved his hand away, extending his index finger and parting it from his thumb in a flicking motion. He pictured a cigarette tumbling through the air, veering to his right and falling under gravity’s pull, but the wind blowing it back. He pivoted as he watched the imaginary butt arch back over the parapet and on to the roof.
Victor found it lying beneath the top layer of snow, next to an air-conditioning unit.
He used his nails to retrieve it by the burnt end. It was moist but not wet because the temperature had not yet risen enough to cause the overnight snow to melt.
A trace of mauve lipstick smudged around the filter end.
In the darkness, he had not noticed the assassin wearing lipstick – he had been too focused on staying alive to take in such details – but there was about half an inch of tobacco above the filter. No smoker threw away so much unless they had to – say because they needed both hands to operate a rifle now their target had presented themselves. That would also explain why she had overlooked the stub blown back on to the roof. She had been distracted by thoughts of killing Victor.
He broke off the ash from the tip and smelt the unburned tobacco. He hadn’t smoked for a couple of years but at that moment was tempted to start again.
He pushed the thought from his mind, breathed in the scent one last time, and dropped the butt into a pocket of his new suit trousers.
A taxi took him across the city and two buses brought him back in a circuitous route. He walked the rest of the way to Wenceslas Square, seeing no sign of a female assassin stalking him. He didn’t know if she was still on his trail or if she had fled or was preparing to strike again. The only thing he knew for certain was that she was alive because no mortuary in the city had received a corpse crushed by falling building material.
The old tailor grinned when Victor returned to the low-ceilinged atelier and moved to greet him with a youthful deftness to his step.
‘You’ve changed your mind,’ the tailor began with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘You’ve seen sense, finally, else have been reborn and resurrected into a man of taste. Yes?’
‘Not exactly,’ Victor answered.
The glimmer faded from the old tailor’s eyes. ‘You don’t want me to adjust your suit?’
Victor shook his head. ‘I assure you I’ll consider it if I could have your opinion on something.’
The tailor looked at him with suspicion. ‘That sounds like a bribe to me.’
‘That’s because it is.’
‘Very well, let’s have it.’
‘You said before no two varieties of tobacco are the same. Was that hyperbole?’
‘It was not.’
Victor produced the cigarette stub. ‘Then can you tell me anything about this particular cigarette?’
He handed the stub to the tailor who first examined it in his palm, then held it beneath his nostrils to smell.
‘This is no ordinary cigarette,’ the tailor said. ‘This is a work of art. These are crafted with love and rolled by hand. Not some godless machine.’
The tailor squeezed some unburned tobacco into his palm, then pinched and rubbed it between his fingers and smelled his fingertips, one by one, before holding the butt under his nostrils.
‘This is a particularly good blend of tobacco, strong and sweet. An aftertaste of chocolate, I think. This is the Château Lafite of cigarettes. Hand-rolled from only the finest leaves, perfectly dried under only the hottest sun.’
Victor listened.
‘From the West Indies,’ the tailor
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