Murder in the Bastille

Friday

RENÉ CLUTCHED THE ROPE railing as the gangplank swayed. He wished he could suppress the churning of his stomach. A porthole snapped shut on a boat down the quai.

The bright glare from the water and greasy oilslick danced in front of him. Seasick had been one of his middle names growing up. Le petit was the other.

The slim dark blue péniche, moored in the Port de Plaisance, swayed in the wake of a tugboat. The barge’s hold had been converted to a covered living space. STARLA was lettered in white across the hull.

“Allô? Anyone there?” called René. His words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what he’d say if the door opened.

No answer.

He knocked on the door. Again and again.

The lapping of water against the wooden hull was the only response.

He looked around then turned the doorknob.

Locked.

Weathered wrought-iron chairs and a glass table took up the deck space. On the other side, by some piled deck chairs, he saw a round porthole. And another larger one, circled by rusted bronze. Unlocked. If he opened it wide enough, he just might squeeze through.

Should he?

He saw no sign of life on the next boat.

Breaking and entering was more Aimée’s métier. Yet, if he continued to stand here, he’d learn nothing.

Alors, he might as well try. He pulled the deck chairs over as a shield, opened the porthole wider, and shimmied inside, landing on a slick pine floor. Newspapers were strewn across the counter. René looked. The mastheads read Romania-Libera.

He pulled on the latex gloves that he’d taken from his pocket, as he’d seen Aimée do countless times. Then rolled up his jacket sleeves and got to work, hoping to find something that dealt with Mirador. He’d have to find it soon and get out.

In a drawer, he saw names, hours, and what looked like break-times, listed on a sheet. A work roster for different shifts? He glanced down . . . Iliescu, Dragos.

His excitement mounted. He’d found Dragos. At least where he’d been known. And he’d found it all by himself.

Footsteps pounded on the wooden gangplank.

Merde . . . he was coming back!

René looked for somewhere to hide.

Where?

The doorknob turned. Locked.

René dodged under the table that was bolted to the floor. Against the bulkhead were the built-in knee-high cabinets. He heard footsteps circling the boat like he had, someone trying the windows. Out of options, René opened a latched cabinet and backed himself inside a musty damp space big enough for a trunk. A man with longer legs would never have fit inside.

He prayed that he wouldn’t sneeze. His hand fell on a dirty beige canvas bag. Slants of custard-hued light came through the space where the cushioned seat missed meeting the wall.

In the cramped, hot space, René’s hip throbbed. On his right were glass cylinders. Long, fat, test tube-like, poking out from a bag.

But his gaze caught on the bag’s dirty canvas flap that bore the initials DI . . . Dragos Iliescu! He wished whoever was tramping about outside would leave so he could exit with Iliescu’s bag.

In his dreams.

He tried concentrating on the rays of light, not the swaying of the boat. Or his claustrophobia. He heard the barge ropes strain against the hull.

And then his cell phone trilled in his pocket. Merde . . . why hadn’t he put it on vibrate? How dumb!

A shadow blocked the light. He couldn’t answer it. After three rings, he shut the phone off. And prayed.

He heard the windows jiggled from outside. He held his breath. Finally, the footsteps clomped back up the gangplank.

René used his elbows and scooted out. But not before he’d slipped the sling of the canvas bag around his shoulders.