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Fiction

The Case of the Novel Crime

Andrew Belsey tells it like it wasn’t.

I was lying on the bed in my garret just off the Boule Miche. Paris in the heat sizzled like a fat steak on a barbecue. Could life like this have any meaning? To get the air circulating I was shooting flies off the light bulb with a forty-five. I guessed flies weren’t too bothered by the meaning of life. Maybe they were lucky.