The Three Evangelists by Fred Vargas

something to Sophia. Sophia shook her head. Juliette appeared to insist. Nobody else heard what they were saying, but Mathias said:
    ‘If Sophia Siméonidis doesn’t want to sing, don’t press her.’
    Juliette looked surprised, and Sophia, on hearing this, changed her mind. A rare moment thus came about, for the benefit of four men sitting in a wine cask at four in the morning, Sophia Siméonidis sang, in private, accompanied on the piano by Juliette, who was quite talented, but who seemed chiefly to be used to playing for the singer. No doubt Sophia was in the habit of giving such secret recitals, after hours, far from the stage, for herself and her friend.
    After such a rare moment, one doesn’t know what to do. Tiredness seeped back into the muscles of the trench diggers. They stood up, and pulled on their jackets. The restaurant was closed and everyone walked home together. Only when they reached her house, did Juliette remark that one of the waiters had let her down two days before. He had left without warning. Juliette hesitated, before going on. She was thinking of advertising the job the next day but, as she seemed to have picked up a hint that …
    ‘That we’re down on our luck?’ Marc completed her sentence.
    ‘Yes,’ said Juliette, her face clearing, after getting over the worst of the difficulties. ‘So tonight, as I was playing the piano, I thought that afterall a job is a job, and it might interest one of you. When you’ve been to university, a job as a waiter isn’t exactly what you dream about, but to tide you over …’
    ‘How do you know we’ve been to university?’ asked Marc.
    ‘It’s very simple, when you haven’t been there yourself,’ said Juliette, laughing in the darkness.
    Without knowing why, Marc felt put out. Easily identifiable, a marked man, and slightly cross.
    ‘What about your piano-playing?’ he asked.
    ‘Ah, the piano’s another matter,’ Juliette replied. ‘My grandfather was a farmer, but fond of music. He knew all there was to know about beetroot, flax, wheat, music, rye and potatoes. For fifteen years he pushed me to study music. It was a sort of obsession with him. When I came to Paris, I worked at cleaning people’s houses, and there was no more music. Only years later did I take it up again, after he died and I inherited a lot of money from him. Grandfather had plenty of acres and plenty of ingrained ideas. He had set a condition before I could inherit: I had to take up the piano again. Of course,’ added Juliette with a laugh, ‘the solicitor said the condition couldn’t be enforced. But I wanted to respect my grandfather’s wishes. I bought this house and the restaurant and a piano. So there you are.’
    ‘That’s why you often have beetroot on the menu?’ smiled Marc.
    ‘Yes,’ said Juliette. ‘Beetroots in C major.’
    Five minutes later, Mathias had been hired. He smiled, squeezing his hands together.
    Later, going up stairs, Mathias asked Marc why he had not told the truth, pretending he couldn’t take up the offer, because he had something else in mind.
    ‘Because it’s true,’ said Marc.
    ‘No, it isn’t, you haven’t got anything else lined up. Why didn’t you take it?’
    ‘Because it’s a case of finders keepers.’
    ‘What do you mean “finders” … Oh blast! where’s Lucien?’
    ‘Oh-oh, we’ve left him at the bottom.’
    Lucien, who had drunk the equivalent of twenty plastic cups, had not been able to get past the first few stairs, and was asleep on the fifth. The others hoisted him up under an arm apiece.
    Vandoosler, who was in perfect shape, had seen Sophia home, and now walked in.
    ‘What a beautiful sight,’ he remarked. ‘The three evangelists all holding onto each other to attempt the impossible ascension.’
    ‘Why the hell did we give him the third floor?’ said Mathias, heaving Lucien up.
    ‘We weren’t to know he drinks like a fish. Anyway, there wasn’t any choice, remember, if we observe