Help He's trying to kill me. With a practiced thumb, Jack Flynt flips the cap off a bottle of Stella Artois and listens to a woman pleading for her life on the other end of a black antique telephone. Picked up in a junk shop on a whim, it has sat silent on the small table tucked beneath the window of his Paris apartment where the cables hang frayed and lifeless from the back of the casing. He suspects his imagination, fuelled by too much Stella Artois,...