Murder in Clichy

Monday

THE WAN NOVEMBER SUN slanted through the skylight onto the Cao Dai temple floor tiles. The all-seeing eye seemed to follow Aimée. Miles Davis curled beside her feet.

“These were in your care once, I believe,” she said, handing the bag to the priest Tet. “What you do with them is your decision.”

He nodded, his eyes grave. “Our government has changed, despite what you’ve heard. After your message, I spoke with the Director of the National Museum in Hanoi. They will display the jade with the dragon disk, recovered last year in Seoul. Our people, and visitors, will appreciate the jade. It will all be back where it belongs.”

One by one, he set each jade piece crowned by a disc on a side altar. “They don’t belong to China, nor to anyone else. They are our patrimony.”

The jade figures glowed. They took her breath away.

“The zodiac figures symbolize the animal hidden in one’s heart,” the priest said. “They help one to know oneself and to divine the path.”

Aimée knew that she could find her path only by putting one foot in front of the other.

“Very auspicious,” the priest said, grinning at Miles Davis. “Your dog.”

Miles Davis wagged his tail.

The gong sounded. “Please,” he said, indicating a meditation mat. “Join us.”

She sat, folding her legs. Sometime later Aimée opened her eyes and grew aware of the wind rustling over the soot-stained chimney flues on the roof, students putting their mats away, and René.

“Did you experience Mindfulness?” René asked.

She grinned. “Something close. A small shining moment.”

IN THE temple foyer, Aimée found her coat.

“Olf and the Chinese will be upset,” she said. “But right now, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“A subtle way of putting it,” René grinned.

She stared for the last time at the jade. The figures, bathed in the afternoon’s last light, emitted a sea-foam green glow. And she drew inner strength knowing they’d return to their rightful place.

Her stitches hardly ached today as she slipped her arm into the sleeve of her coat.

“No one suspected how ancient the disks were,” Aimée said, “except Dinard and Bao who knew their value, financially and historically.”

“And Bao?” René asked.

“Interpol’s file on her only goes back to Oslo, 1992,” she said. “Before that, in the late sixties, she was a Chinese agent acting with traveling troupes along the Vietnamese border.”

René stroked his goatee. “And the older de Lussigny stole the jade right after Gassot discovered it.”

Aimée found her scarf and wrapped it around her neck.

“In the 1930s the last Chinese Emperor, Pu Yi, is thought to have sold the jade disks to warlords in the south to finance his private opium patch,” Aimée said. “Rumor was that a local French governor stole the disks and hid them by having them fastened to the jade astrological figures that were being held in safety by the Cao Dai. He planned to prop up the failing colonial rubber industry by selling the disks, piece by piece. The governor was Julien de Lussigny’s father.”

René rocked on his feet. “Ironic that Julien de Lussigny tried to use them just as his father had earlier.”

She nodded. “After the colonials fled Indochina, no more was heard of them,” she said.

She picked up her bag. Put the leash on Miles Davis. Aimée stretched her arm and winced.

“Dinard and Julien de Lussigny planned to sell them at auction,” Aimée said, “but then they withdrew the jade for a ‘private sale’ to the ministry.”

“From what I saw in Thadée’s files,” René said, “it seemed that Thadée counted on selling the jade to settle his and Nadège’s debts to Blondel.”

“And the gallery’s, but Blondel not only had drug debts to collect, Regnier had hired him. He shot Thadée,” she said. “And strangled Dinard. But it was Gassot’s comrades who strung up Sophie. They all wanted the jade.”

René reached in his coat pocket. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time, Aimée.” He flipped his wallet open. Despite his misgivings, he put a creased business card with a man’s name on it in Aimée’s hand.

“Pleyet left this at the hospital for you,” René said. “This man’s retired, Pleyet said. But he worked with your father.”

She stared at it. “Merci. ”

“Pleyet told me to tell you ‘Sometimes in life the answers we want don’t make sense.’ ” René buttoned his coat. “ ‘Or make the sense we’d like them to.’ And to remember that.”

OUT ON the quai, the apricot-hued setting sun filtered through blue-gray tree branches. Aimée paused under a quay-side light, its pinprick of illumination reflected in the sluggish Seine. The Métro rumbled over the Austerlitz bridge, looped past the red stone Morgue, and hurtled toward Bastille.

“I’m off to my Hacktaviste class,” René said.

“See you later. Miles Davis needs a walk.”

Down on the quai, Miles Davis barked and sniffed a man’s pants. He turned. Surprised, Aimée stared into Guy’s eyes. She didn’t know what to do. Had he come to accuse her, hand her a summons, or inform her of the bill for his damaged office?

She stood tongue-tied, wishing it had happened differently. And that she was wearing more mascara.

Guy shifted his feet. “Don’t forget, you need to have those stitches taken out.”

His gray eyes and lopsided smile were the same. And his wonderful hands, that ruffled Miles Davis’s neck fur.

“Let me write you a check for the damages,” she said, pulling out her checkbook. But her newly bandaged hands impeded her progress. “Please forgive me. I owe you an explanation.”

“That’s not why I came,” he said. “And we don’t owe each other explanations.”

But once they had. “Look, Guy, let’s try to settle this out of court.”

He reached out and touched her cheek. “I tried, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

How could she say this the right way? Was there a right way?

“Why pretend, Guy? We’re too different. We both know I’m not what you want,” she said. “You have someone, I know. Work it out with her.”

“What?”

“Like you said, we don’t owe each other explanations.”

Something glimmered in his eyes and he laughed. “So you’re the one who telephoned. I’m going to be an uncle!” He pulled her over to the street. He waved and a blonde waved back from a Renault, a bouquet of white roses in her arms. “Do you see Cécile? She’s my sister! She’s been trying for years. We went to the Savoie to tell my parents.”

Aimée stared. Her mouth hung open.

“Speechless for once, Aimée?”

How could she have been so wrong? Stupid again!

“My schedule’s crazy. Like yours. Cécile keeps telling me that I should accept you as you are,” he said. “Big eyes, torn fishnet stockings and all. Do you want to try this again?”

Aimée saw the last glint of the sun hitting the rooftiles.

Did she?

*mètres carrés, square meters