Murder in Montmartre

Thursday

LAURE HEARD THE VOICES. Faraway voices, punctuated with beeps, and shuffling footsteps. Cold, she was so cold. And her head so heavy and cotton filled. She tried to speak but her dry, thick tongue got in the way.

“What’s that?” said a young voice in her ear. “Good. I know you’re trying.”

What were those noises? The sounds, the moaning. They came from her. She felt a searing pain in her side. A flash of white passed by her. Then a smiling face was looking at her, a warm damp washcloth stroked her brow. The monitor tinkled beside her.

“Hello, Laure. You’re back with us now, aren’t you?”

She nodded and felt a dull throb behind her eyes.

“Try this.”

Ice chips traced her lips, her fat tongue licked them greedily.

“Slowly, Laure. You’re thirsty, non? Take it nice and slow.”

She sensed heated blankets laid over her feet, hot-water bottles shoring up her side. The licks of ice were chilly and invigorating. Drops of water trickled down her eager, parched throat.

She grew aware of shadows on the row of beds, the bustle of nurses, and the low monotone of a loudspeaker system somewhere in the background.

“Someone’s here to see you, Laure,” the voice said. “Says he’s an old friend. A family friend.”

Drooping eyes were watching her; a man sat in the chair next to her bed. His head nodded. “You had us worried, Laure. You look much better. Remember me, Laure?”

The retirement party, the café, and Jacques. It all flooded back. This was Morbier, her father’s old colleague.

“You don’t have to speak,” he told her. “Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

She had to speak, to tell him about the roof, the scaffolding . . . she had to talk. About coming to, and the men, the snow in her face. And how they laughed. Those men. And their gun, the other gun. Someone had taken hers. They’d kicked her when she reached for it. The glint of metal from his pocket. How everything went black again.

She spoke, but no sound came out.