Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saturday, Noon

CLODO BURPED. HE was safe from the flic, celebrating down in the Métro on the bench of the line 9 platform at République station. He steadied his shaking hand around the bottle of red, trying to rid his mind of what happened last night, the mec’s cry for help.

Unsuccessful, he watched the surge of passengers. That poor mec didn’t deserve suffocating like that. Who did?

The burnt-rubber smell from the train brakes lingered in the fetid air. The parfum of his childhood, of the underground. A warning buzzer sounded and the doors shuddered closed. Then the train rumbled off, gathering speed.

Clodo swigged from his bottle on the deserted platform, watching the train’s red lights disappear in the dark tunnel. In the distance he heard the grating of a shutter being rolled down, closing off this section.

Now he could get some sleep.

Snatches of conversation heralded the crew who maintained the subterranean world—three hundred stations, more than two hundred kilometers of routes unseen by flics. The Métro workers were simple to avoid if one knew the station maintenance closure schedule via the homeless grapevine. And Clodo did, courtesy of a fellow clochard. On the weekends, no line work, apart from stock and service repair runs, would run on this route, which branched toward Strasbourg Saint-Denis.

Ever since the war, he’d dreamed of working in the Métro. It was a second home to him, in a way, after the nights taking shelter in the station. Always good with his hands, he’d applied at the Vincennes train repair center, but without a school certificate he had no chance.

He downed the dregs from his bottle, tossed it in the bin. Time for his stash in the Métro tunnel.

And to barter the cell phone he’d found on the steps near the body. Wouldn’t do the mec any good now. But Clodo would raise a bottle to his memory.

At the mouth of the tunnel, he ignored the yellow sign saying Passage Interdit au Public—Danger and the blinking signal-switch panel. He followed the narrow walkway hugging the curved wall of the Métro tunnel. The service walkway supported a small, green, illuminated track that stretched ahead in the darkness. Clodo inched his cold fingers along the grimy wall for several yards until his thumb caught on the flaking mortar. He wedged out the loose brick and reached into the niche for the bag.

His stash.

As he replaced it with the mec’s cell phone, the tunnel filled with blaring white light and a terrifying whoosh as a repair train thundered through like a luminous snake. He saw the momentary silhouette of a figure before the bright light passed. He closed his eyes, grabbed the wall. Wind blew grit in his nose and ears. The walkway vibrated beneath his feet.

Merde. He moved faster. The walkway led down three steps to the rails. Candles flickered ahead on the ghost station platform, silhouetting blanketed mounds. The enclave of the homeless. Not far.

With the forecasted drop in temperature today and the shelters full, it was too much trouble for the Métro flics to rouse the drunken and unwashed. Clodo clutched his stash inside his fur coat, knotted his pink scarf, and steadied himself, careful to avoid the live third rail. 750 volts of electricity. He’d seen a man fried last year. Lying on the rail, his hair standing up like a porcupine’s.

Raised drunken voices and red wine smells told him he’d arrived. Graffitied posters and water-stained advertisements from the forties still clung to the walls. Forgotten relics, like those who clustered here for warmth, but intimately familiar to Clodo. He remembered his mother swearing by Persil soap, like the old pockmarked green bottle half visible on the tattered poster. It was one of the few things he remembered her saying.

He gathered crumpled newspapers and torn cardboard, nodded to Fichu, who huddled in several khaki sleeping bags.

“Want to rent me a bag, Fichu?”

“If the price feels right,” Fichu mumbled. “What you got, Clodo?”

Clodo sat down. A wave of dizziness, then a fit of coughing overtook him. Damn lungs burned.

He fumbled in his coat, keeping the bag from Fichu’s view. Pulled it out.

“What the …?”

In his hand was a sealed Plasticine bag of white powder.

“I don’t do sugar, Clodo.”

“Some bastard took my bottle,” Clodo said. “My wine’s gone.”

“Left you with something you don’t want to keep.” Fichu shook his head. Bleary-eyed, he rubbed his nose. “Dope dealers here these days. Strangers.”

Clodo struggled to his feet. “We’ll see about that. He owes me, the salaud,” he said. Then he remembered. “Interested in a cell phone, Fichu? It’s fresh.”

“Like I’d get reception down here?”

Clodo shuffled to the end of the platform. Another fit of coughing overtook him. The tunnel reverberated with the roar of an approaching train.

“Looking for this?” a voice said behind him.

Before Clodo could turn, he felt a hand on his back. Then a push. Felt himself flying in front of the blinding light.