Murder in Clichy

Saturday Morning

NADÈGE BLINKED. LIGHT CAME through the shutter’s slits and wavered across the floor. Her bag had vanished, her jewelry, and the old lady, too. She felt sore, itchy, and cold.

The old woman had slipped something into that liquid. Like something she’d heard making the rounds of clubs. A tasteless, odorless substance men put in women’s drinks, knocking them out and causing them to forget what happened after. But her head felt clear though she remembered drinking and no more.

Footsteps sounded below.

Had the old woman returned?

The wormholed armoire lay open, papers and old clothes strewn around. But her body wouldn’t cooperate. She rolled over and was face to face with the smudged baseboard.

“Where did she put it?” a loud voice was saying. “Thadée owes me.”

What did they mean? Thadée’s stash? Or the old key she’d found? But it had gone with her bag. And she hadn’t known what it opened. Her plans for flight had gone up in smoke.

Nadège crawled, her muscles protesting, and gripped the edge of the armoire. She must get inside, hide under piles of clothes. But she felt so tired. Her hand loosened, fell.

“Where the hell did she go?”

Nadège knew that voice. The Bonbon King. Panic gripped her. She owed him. She forced her legs, made them crawl. Somehow she got inside, curled into an embryonic position, pulled an old crocheted shawl over her, and closed the armoire door halfway. Like she’d hidden when she was small and her parents fought, trying to drown out her father’s accusations and her mother’s tears. But she never could.

Only her grand-mère’s warm arms that rocked her, and her inexhaustible supply of ginger candy, had made it better. For awhile.

Several men argued in the doorway. “We find her, grab the kid—”

One of them kicked the bedstead, then the old desk, splintering it to pieces. Nadège shuddered. He’d smash the armoire next.