The apartment on the second floor of the house on Rue Saint-Germain-des-Prés had a secret. Its tenant was a ghost, or at least, that's what the building's doorman thought. In all his years managing the property, he'd never once seen the man's face.
During winter, the mysterious tenant buried his chin in one of those large red scarves that wealthy men's drivers wore on cold nights. In summer, he had a convenient habit of blowing his nose with a handkerchief just as he approached the door. Every. Single. Time.
The doorman had learned not to pry. Word around the building was that this tenant was someone important, the kind of person who valued his privacy and had the power to enforce it. So his secret identity remained just that, a secret.
His schedule was remarkably consistent. Whether in the blazing heat of summer or the bitter cold of winter, he arrived around four o'clock in the afternoon. He never stayed the night, though. Never.
