The Faceless Republic

The rain had not let up for three days when Madeleine Vautrin found the envelope slipped beneath the door of her office. No stamp, no return address — only her name, drawn in violet ink in a trembling hand that seemed to belong to another age.

She hesitated. Strange cases were nothing new to her since she had taken over her grandfather's practice on the third floor of that decrepit building in the Marais. But something about this letter — perhaps the scent of wax escaping from the flap, perhaps the unusual weight of the paper — told her this one would be different.

Inside, a single sentence, calligraphed with the same meticulous care:

Madeleine set the letter back on her desk, her hands trembling. Through the window, she caught sight of a motionless figure beneath a black umbrella on the far side of the street. The figure raised its eyes to her window — and smiled.