Murder in Clichy

Thursday

TIGHT DUCT TAPE BIT into René’s ankles, cutting off his circulation. His wrists, tied behind his back, stung. He chewed the kerosene-smelling rag in his mouth. He couldn’t stop panting nervously, his nostrils working hard under his small, flat nose. The cartilage had never developed properly due to the diminished volume of pituitary secretion, a common problem for those of his size. But he doubted these mecs would notice.

Every so often the gravel-voiced man kicked him. He heard murmured conversations somewhere. Waiting; they were waiting for someone, or for instructions.

Musky, mildewed odors surrounded him. His nose itched and ran. They’d taken off the burlap bag. Old timbered beams held up the damp wall, part brick, earth, stone, and flaking stucco that he faced: as if someone had once meant to resurface the old cellar and had given up, abandoning piles of cobwebbed bricks and worm-holed planks.

The light from a sputtering kerosene lantern flickered with a low hiss. He watched a trail of black ants mounting a brick by the sweating moisture-laden wall, moving a large crumb. It looked impossible. He watched them to keep his mind sharp, alert. And to avoid dwelling on the ache in his hip.

He could just make out numbers and letters written on the stone: 5/3/1942, Renault factory bombing, and the name Etienne M. He tried to peer closer. More names on the wall in a faded, old-fashioned script. Now he knew, he was in an old bomb shelter, an abri, one of 22,000 shelters used during the war.

He remembered his mother’s tales of running to the shelters or sometimes to the Métro. More often she’d gone to underground cellars and caves. Most Allied attacks had focused on outlying train depots and factories that had been taken over by the Germans.

Fat lot of good this information did him; he could be anywhere. If only he could locate his phone, reach it, and call Aimée.

“Get some beer while you’re there,” the gravelly voice said somewhere behind him.

“Where?”

“Next to Bata.”

“No names, shut up!”

Bata . . . the shoe store? René closed his eyes.

“He’s asleep.”

How many Batas were in Paris? They were usually in low-rent quartiers. Places like la Goutte d’Or, the African section, or Belleville or Clichy.

They’d left the rags in a wet pile on his raincoat. Even that he could live with. He disliked more the fact that he could see them. A bad omen for kidnap victims. It meant the kidnappers didn’t care if they could be identified; the victim wouldn’t be around long enough to identify them.

Forty-eight hours. Then dismemberment and death.