Murder in the Bastille

Saturday Evening

“LET’S FIND WHERE JOSIANE was meeting Brault,” said Aimée.

Out on cobbled rue de Lappé, Aimée gripped René’s arm.

The early Saturday evening sounds in a quartier thronged with nightlife flowed around them. Laughter and voices spilled over the narrow street. Young voices, those who’d come into the Bastille for a good time. Later, surly and sullen with drink, they’d straggle home. Get sick in the Métro.

Some rollerbladed with gorilla masks, weaving in formation over the garnet-pink bricks outlining the old Bastille prison. They circled the Bastille column, passing the Café des Phares where patrons debated philosophy and solved the world’s problems on Sunday mornings.

The Bastille attracted them as it had since the days of the Bal Musette. Sophisticated ones might attend raves outside Paris in abandoned warehouses. But the tradition continued from the 30s, when movie stars and aristos had gone slumming on rue de Lappe. Despite the changing face of the quartier, working-class types still danced to the accordion, cheek-to-cheek, and everyone drank.

“Brault said it’s down from the Balajo,” she said. “What do you see?”

“Number twenty-four’s next to bar à Nenette,” said René. “There’s a wooden door covered with graffiti, leading to a courtyard.”

“Let’s go visit,” she said.

“Attention!” said René.

Too late. Her legs hit a metal marker, short and rounded. She crumpled onto the damp, cobbled pavement. Good thing she’d thrown her arms out and landed on her knees and spread palms.

“Where did that come from?” she asked, rubbing her shin. Her legs must be black and blue all over with the way she’d been bumping into things. She wouldn’t have a whole pair of stockings left. Better stick to wearing pants.

“I’m sorry,” said René. “Bollards dot the walkway, to prevent cars parking.”

She knew in the old days they prevented carriages running into the building.

“These resemble chess pieces, pawns,” said René.

That was what she felt like. A pawn in life’s game. Advancing from square to square but ending in a stalemate.

She heard the unmistakeable crowing of a rooster from inside.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Uneven cobbles greeted them. The crowing grew louder and the strains of an organ grinder accompanied it. A pocket of life, unchanged and utterly Parisian, part of the passages and courtyards honeycombing the Bastille.

“Lost your way, monsieur et mademoiselle?”

“Er . . . you could say that,” said René.

“But you might help us,” said Aimée. “Do you make organ grinders here?”

“And the sheet music,” said the man who’d offered to help them. “With the holes punched in them so the platen can ‘read’ the notes.”

“Do you know Josiane Dolet? I’m asking because she was meeting a friend here on Monday night.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Anyone here who might?”

“Hard to say. A few of us live here. The others work in the ateliers in the day. I’m alone here now.”

The clucking of hens came from nearby.

“Who owns the chickens, monsieur?”

“They belong to Ravic, the ironsmith.”

“He still works in iron?”

“Mais oui,” the man said. “The iron forge stands behind the chicken cages. He’s closed today. Gone to his niece’s wedding.”

“Merci for your help, monsieur.”

Another dead end. She turned and tugged René’s arm.

They walked past the chickens. Strains from the organ grinder’s tinny music rose behind them.

And then it clicked. Of course. She turned back, grabbed René’s arm.

“May I ask, monsieur, does Ravic work with lead?”

“All kinds of metal. Not just iron. He supplied me with a lead compound for my new handle. My old one wore out.”

“Wouldn’t that be heavy?”

“Not that heavy.”

Her ears perked up.

“Not that heavy?”

“Ravic uses thin leaded sheets,” he said. “Mixed with some alloy, for strength.”

“Does he supply craftsmen in the area?”

Silence. Did he shrug or shake his head?

“I’m sorry but I can’t see you.”

“Mais oui,” he said, a chuckle in his voice. “He supplies everyone.”

“Merci, monsieur.”

Buttery smells wafted from somewhere as they reached rue de Lappé. René told her to wait, then she felt something warm put in her hand.

“What’s this?”

“A Bastille pavé, a cobblestone,” he said. “At least that’s what the boulangerie calls them.”

“It tastes more like chocolate pastry,” she said. “Delicious.”

She clutched René’s elbow as they walked, cupping crumbs with her other hand.

“What are you getting at, Aimée?” asked René.

“Do you remember what Brault said about Dragos looking for lead?”

“So what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I need to reach Vincent,” she said. “To find out. Let’s go call from a café. We’ll try another number.”

“VINCENT CSARDA, ” he answered at the first ring.

“We need to talk, Vincent.”

“Impossible. Look, sorry,” he said. “Let me call you later.”

“This can’t wait, Vincent.”

“Bad time right now,” he said.

“Your bad time’s just beginning if we don’t persuade la Proc to ignore your affair, Vincent,” she said, improvising as she went along.

“What do you mean?” His voice lowered.

“Having an affair is your business except . . .”

“Join the planet, Aimée Leduc,” he said. “Get back to reality.”

“It’s who you had the affair with ‘Inca,’ ” she said.

She heard rustling, as if his hand covered the phone. Mur-murred speech.

“How do you mean?”

“Kinky, threesome or however Inca liked it,” she said. “Short for Incandescent.”

“Who?”

“Those hot e-mails make it hard to convince the Proc you had no involvement with Incandescent.”

“Leave my business alone,” he said, his voice brittle. “Our contract has ended.”

“And to think, a moment before you apologized!” she said. “But in a court of law, as I told you, we’re still responsible. Monday’s the court date, René expects the subpoena to issue then.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“Vincent, I’ve got the software to prove it. And I will. It’s personal now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Why couldn’t he understand? Face it, he didn’t want to understand.

He kept talking. “We just settled our negotiations in Bordeaux,” said Vincent. “Those vintners take their time. I kept telling them, backing a business isn’t like aging wine. One has to move in a flash. Thank God for Martine. She’s saved the magazine.”

Hadn’t Martine spoken with him?

She took a deep breath. “After you stormed out of the resto, when I was en route to the Métro, someone attacked me. Or maybe you know all about that?”

“What do you mean?”

He sounded surprised.

“Josiane, the woman who sat next to us was killed in the adjoining passage. I’m going to find out who attacked me and murdered her. I’ve got time, since the attacker blinded me.”

The words had tumbled from her. She heard him gasp on the other end.

“You? A murder?” His surprise sounded genuine.

Aimée’s reply caught in her throat.

And a terrible thought crossed her mind. She remembered Josiane sitting and smoking at the table adjoining theirs. And her glance their way. Had her look been aimed at Vincent?

“You knew Josiane Dolet, didn’t you?”

Silence.

Was that planned . . . had there been some code between them? Or had she been about to speak with him, but thought better of it and agreed to meet him later?

“You killed Josiane.”

“You’re not making sense,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All these allegations about an affair and now . . .”

“She investigated your ties to Incandescent. The money laundering for the gun-running . . .”

“This has nothing to do with that,” he said, his voice low, filled with emotion. “Look, Aimée I’ve been keeping this quiet. One of my friends had a relationship with her. But I’m shocked to learn she’s dead.”

“Your friend? If you knew her, why didn’t you speak to her?”

“But I didn’t know her, not to talk to anyway. There’s a lot more on my mind than a friend’s estranged lover.”

“Martine was in Bordeaux, didn’t you see her?”

Wouldn’t Martine have told Vincent about the attack on her?

“Tiens! I prepared the groundwork. Then I just missed her. Alain Ducasse had demanded a correction in the nouvelle cuisine review about to print. Another impending catastrophe. So she flew to Lyon, soothed him, and sweet-talked him out of it. She works miracles, does Martine.”

She knew Martine. And she believed him.

Metal clanged in the background and what sounded like knocking, then a door opening.

“I have to go,” said Vincent.

“Who killed Josiane?”

“Leave me alone,” said Vincent. His voice cracked.

“These Russian e-mails weren’t part of the Opéra advertising campaign were they?”

“Russian e-mails?”

“Why did you encrypt them?”

“I don’t contact the Russian Opéra or encrypt e-mails,” said Vincent. “Why would I?” But his voice slowed, as if weighing his words.

“René made backup tapes,” she said. “It’s all on there.”

“You’re folle! Out of your mind.”

And he hung up. One thing she could say for Vincent, he was consistent; tearing up contracts, walking out, and hanging up on her. But he’d sounded genuinely surprised hearing of the attack on her and of Josiane’s murder.

Then what was he hiding? And what friend’s affair had he been shielding?

“Where are we going?” asked Aimée, as they got into the Citroen.

“Vincent’s office.”

“You want to try to make him reconsider in person?”

“Can’t hurt,” said René. “His office is on rue Charenton. Close by.”

She heard René’s turn signals beat a pattern. From outside the window came the revving of cars shifting into first gear.

“He’s scared, René,” she said. “He says his friend was having an affair with Josiane.”

“Two ends of the spectrum, aren’t they?”

“These e-mails generated a lot of steam,” she said.

“But why would Vincent kill her?” asked René.

Aimée shook her head and regretted it. The sparks behind her eyelids moved.

“The Proc’s assistant will meet with us before the hearing on Monday if . . .”

“How will we explain the encrypted Russian e-mails?”

“Russian e-mails . . . is that what you were talking about?”

And she described what she’d discovered among Vincent’s deleted e-mails as the car sped along.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “But when I confronted him now, he sounded surprised. Denied knowledge of them. And somehow, I believe him.”

She heard René inhale. “So someone stole his password?”

René had a good point. She hadn’t considered that.

“Or used his computer and logged on with their own. A secretary would know who had access to his office,” she said.

“But first, let’s talk with Vincent, make sure he’s being straight with us.”

But Vincent wasn’t in his office. His secretary said he hadn’t returned and didn’t know when he would.

“Who has access to Monsieur Csarda’s office?” asked René.

“Talk to Monsieur Csarda,” said the secretary, irritation evident in her voice. “Excuse me, but we’re closing now.”

BACK IN Madame Danoux’s apartment, Aimée got on her hands and knees and felt each armchair and cabinet until she found the old record player. Right where Madame Danoux had told her it would be. And Madame’s records. Her collection of old songs from the Bastille.

The floor grumbled. She clutched the nearest thing. The leg of a coarse horsehair upholstered divan. She had to calm down, remember it was only the Métro passing below in the bowels of Bastille.

René had gone to copy the morgue log and would leave it in an envelope for Bellan at the Commissariat. She didn’t want to get Serge in trouble, so they had to disguise her morgue source.

Right now she wanted to hear music. Find the old Bastille songs. The power button stuck out, like the one in her father’s old stereo set. Like on all the phonographs from that time. Her hands traveled over the plastic hood.

She pushed what felt like the turntable switch.

The record dropped onto the turntable. The needle joined it with a soft whisper. A slight crackle, then Jacques Brel’s voice soared with When one only has love to give to those whose only fight is to search for daylight. The guitar and Brel’s words, struck her. Moved her.

The French analyzed him. But it was his own Belgians who knew the gray streets of Brussels that he evoked, the wistfulness of old lovers who meet again.

Too much like the way she felt. She ran her fingers over record jackets, so many, dusty and peeling. In the end she put on the next one that smelled old. She put her index finger on the hole and after trial and error, the disk slipped down the tall, thin record holder.

“Nini peau le chien of the Bastille,” Aristide Bruant’s turn-ofthe-century chanson of a third-class streetwalker accompanied by accordions and a scratchy voice.

She froze. That was it . . . the song. The one her grandmother used to play, the song she had heard in the background over the cell phone. The funny title, skin of the dog . . . as a little girl she’d wondered if it meant Nini’s complexion or her cheap “fur” wrap.

Her mind raced. The same music was in the background . . . Nini le peau chien . . . just like that night.

The doorbell rang. Was it René? Should she answer?

“Who’s there?”

“Madame Danoux?” asked a familiar voice.

Surprised, Aimée stood, took small steps, then bumped into the door. She felt for the lock, turned the deadbolt, pulled the door ajar with the chain still on it. Cold, stale air came in from the hallway.

“It’s me,” said Dr. Guy Lambert. “Can I come in?”

She slid the chain back and let him in.

A warm hand cupped her shoulder. “Ça va?”

“Never better,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a huge smile. “Madame Danoux’s not here.”

“But you’re the purpose of my visit,” he said, taking her hand. “We were talking about dinner, remember?”

She liked his hands; the warmth and the way his fingers tapered. Slender yet strong.

How could she have forgotten?

“Notice any changes in your vision?”

“More of the same: swirling dots and pebble patterns or a grayish net. Is this what it will be like?” she said. “It makes me dizzy like a whirlpool that never ends. Nauseous.”

“That could persist for a long time,” he said. “Nothing happens quickly, I’m afraid.”

His voice moved. Where was he?

“Except for how I feel about you.”

Had he said what she thought she heard?

“What do you mean?”

“You’re always getting into trouble,” he said.

“Everyone needs a trademark.”

But he didn’t laugh. She sensed him standing next to her. And all her consciousness settled on his hands enveloping hers.

“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.” His hands traveled up her arm, to the place where her shoulder met her neck. “I’m getting to like keeping you out of broom closets and safe from attackers.”

Was this some rescue fantasy he had? His words didn’t feel as welcome as she thought they would. But his warmth and the faint scent of Vetiver did.

From somewhere in the street came the muted clash of cymbals, the thunder of a kettle drum, and the clear peal of a tenor’s voice.

“Opéra tonight,” he said. “Don Giovanni.”

“Believe it or not,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight.”

“You’re boasting.”

Maybe she was. “Boastful or not, it’s the way my life’s played out. No one’s ever wanted to take care of me except my father.”

Her hand brushed a stiff plastic rectangle of his badge, then the cold metal of his stethoscope.

“On duty, Doctor?”

“Just on call, until morning.”

“So that means?”

“I’m at the mercy of my beeper, but we can have dinner,” he said.

“Hungry?” She felt for his warm hand.

And she wanted to be close to him. Right now.

“Famished.”

“Feel like appetizers in my room?” she said, turning and pulling his stethoscope. “That’s if I can find it.”

His footsteps stopped.

What was wrong?

“Attends,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” She let go of the stethoscope.

“I know about people in your condition,” he said. “You feel grateful but . . .”

“I’m not people. I’m me.”

Pause.

“There’s the doctor and patient relationship to consider . . .” he said.

“But you’re no longer my doctor,” she said. “You referred me to a retinologist. Remember?”

Another pause.

“Is that it? A quick jump under the duvet?” he said, his voice low.

Was that anger in his voice?

She sensed him moving away.

Great. She wanted to curl up and disappear. What in the world had she done? Thrown herself at this man who smelled delicious, whose touch thrilled her?

Merde! She deserved some kind of medal, ruining her chances with a man in record time. Talk about faux pas. Why had she done that? Acted so desperate with her doctor!

Better salvage a scrap of dignity and see him to the door.

“Bet you thought I meant it, didn’t you?” she said. “I was testing you.”

“Liar.” His scent wafted in front of her. He pulled her close. “But you’re beautiful. Banged up knees, spikey hair, and all.”

She didn’t expect that.

“You’ve as much as said I’ll never see again.”

“What does that matter?”

“A lot.”

“To you,” he said. “But you have to get over that hurdle. Move on. Try. You’ll be happier when you do.”

Could she be happy without seeing?

This felt all mixed up and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time a man refused to sleep with her. Time to take her wounded vanity and climb into a hole.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said.

“Enlighten me.”

“Before medicine, I studied literature,” he said. “Scribbled poetry. You make me think of Byron’s lines . . . ‘She walks in beauty like the night.’ ”

Out in the night, a police siren wailed.

“I wish I wasn’t so attracted to you,” he said.

Now she was more confused than ever.

And then suddenly he was kissing her like last time. Her leg wrapped around his and she held him tight. He pulled her down onto the horsehair sofa.

His scent was in her hair, his lips brushing her neck. She gripped his back. And that’s when his pager went off, beeping near her elbow.

“Merde!” he said.

Non. Non, non, she almost shouted.

“You couldn’t pretend you didn’t hear it, could you?” she asked, feeling his elbow and warm breath in between kisses on her arm.

She heard clicking as he read his message. Felt his body stiffen. “Not when a three-year-old’s spilled acid base photograph developing emulsion and rubbed it in his eyes.” She felt him pulling away, his hands helping her up. “If I hurry I’ll get there when the ambulance does.”

And in two minutes he was gone. Only his Vetiver scent lingered.

SHE WOKE up to the rain spattering on the skylight above.

And she felt safe, cocooned in the big warmth of the duvet.

Her senses were heightened. Every part of her tingled remembering his kiss, the way he hadn’t stopped. . . .

And then she heard the accordion strains of Nini le peau de chien . . .

Again . . . like the background of the phone call on the stranger’s cell phone.

She froze.

Was the killer here? In the apartment?

But how?

Doubt invaded her. And for a moment she wondered if she’d gotten it all wrong. Made a mistake. The serial killer was alive and still . . . non, that made no sense.

Yet her blood ran cold.

She pulled the duvet off, crawled her way to the door. Listened.

Madame Danoux’s voice joined the chorus of Nini on the record. Footsteps beat a pattern on the floor as if she were dancing. The old folkdance, la bourrée. So Madame Danoux danced by herself on Saturday nights.

But Aimée couldn’t sleep any more. She felt for the bed, then sat down on the floor and combed her fingers through her short hair.

She’d set the talking alarm clock to wake her up, but there was no reason to wait. She called Le Drugstore, followed the procedure, and within four minutes spoke to Martin.

“It’s like this, ma petite mademoiselle,” said Martin, as if imparting a confirmation gift. “No news at all, nothing really.”

She figured his usual police informants had clammed up. “But Martin, you of all people have impeccable connections.”

“So some say,” he replied. She heard a pleased chuckle in his voice.

“There’s a whisper. Something to do with Don Giovanni,” he said. “Know him?”

“Not personally. It’s an opera.”

“My source says a Romanian caught in the 11ième for selling Ecstasy died.”

“Dragos Iliescu?”

She heard Martin expel a deep breath. Tinged with smoke, no doubt. “Why do you need me? You know already.”

“Was it bad dope?”

“The BRIF got involved immediately.”

That meant heavy duty. And Morbier was with them.

“If it’s not dope, Martin, what is it?”

“Not known by my usual channels. A mystery, they say. Probably the Romanians had a sweet deal. But they got careless, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. People got burned.”

Her excitement mounted. Where had she heard that before?

“Burned?”

“And I don’t mean figuratively.”

FROM THE the hallway, she heard water running in Madame Danoux’s kitchen.

She pushed the talking clock, which said 1:00 a.m., then pulled on the nearest things she could reach. Her leather skirt, the tight zip-up sweatshirt. She struggled into her ankle boots and felt her way into kitchen.

“Madame Danoux, are you dressed?”

“What a question! Of course, I haven’t even taken my makeup off yet . . .”

“Bon,” she interrupted. “Be an angel.”

“And do what?”

“Come for a drink with me,” she said, reaching for Madame Danoux’s arm. “Let’s go down the street. To the corner.”

IN THE bar-tabac on rue Moreau, a block away, Aimée’s hand trembled. She couldn’t lift the panache to her lips without spilling.

“Why so nervous?” asked Madame Danoux, beside her at the counter, yawning. She sounded petulant. “You wanted to come here!”

She gripped Madame Danoux’s warm hand. What if the killer was here tonight? But she hadn’t confided in her, she had to see if her hunch was right.

“I need to talk with Clothilde, the owner, Mimi’s friend,” said Aimée.

“Aaah, I know the one.”

“Did you see her tonight?”

“By the door,” she said. “The accordion player comes, she lets in those she likes. Then locks the door. Only a natural disaster will get you out before dawn.”

“Please, can you ask her to join us,” she said.

“Let me try and get her attention.”

Around her, glasses tinkled, the milk steamer hissed and grumbled, and a woman’s shrill laughter came from somewhere farther down the counter. Aimée smelled the thick tang from a cigarette burning somewhere in an ashtray. Here she stood in a smoke-filled café and didn’t have one.

She turned toward a conversation. The barman?

“Sorry to interrupt, a pack of Gauloise light please.”

“Too bright in here for you?”

“I wish.” She’d worn dark glasses, a pair Martine had sent.

“But, I see,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I mean, sorry . . .”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everyone stumbles over those phrases. Me, too. How much?”

“Won’t your doctor get upset?” he asked.

“I’m a big girl,” she said, sliding a twenty franc note along the zinc counter.

She felt Madame Danoux’s breath in her hair. “Clothilde’s busy. That drink hit me, I’m tired. Let me take you back.”

Part of her wanted that. The other part refused. She had to find out who had called.

“You go ahead,” she said. A frisson of fear passed through her.

“You seem nervous.” Madame Danoux squeezed her arm. “Sure?”

“Bien sûr,” she said. “I’ll get help to go back.”

Her landlady left.

“Monsieur, where’s the phone?”

“End of the counter.”

“Remember a person who used the phone on Monday night?”

“Could have been anyone.”

“Someone called me, then they hung up,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort. “I heard the accordion in the background.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “When they start singing, it’s impossible to hear.”

Someone pressed a paper into her hand. “That’s sheet music.”

Sheet music? As though she could read.

“Sorry, my bus broke down. I got here late Monday,” the bartender said. “Anyone see who used the phone on Monday? Help this lady?”

“How about Lucas?” said someone at the counter. “He sees everything!”

The remark, greeted with laughter, made her want to slink away, fly a million miles off. Blindness felt like being naked in a world of clothed people. All her expressions were read, but she could decipher none.

“Give me a break, eh!”

She recognized Lucas’s voice. But he was laughing.

“Aimée Leduc? Pay no attention to these old men,” he said, clutching her elbow. “I know all the songs by heart. You don’t need to read. They’re jealous.”

“Lucas, do you know if Clothilde’s still busy?” she said, glad the dark glasses masked her eyes. Milky opaqueness crackled in the corners of her vision. Veins of shooting dull lights throbbed at the edges. Like slowly flowing lava.

Merde. It was if the earth shifted and gravity pulled her sideways.

She clutched the rounded zinc counter, her fingers on the filature, trying to concentrate.

“Clothilde?” Lucas said, stools scraping beside him. “You give me too much credit; peripheral vision isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

This time his voice boomed over the accordion, tinkling glasses and conversation. “Clothilde!”

“J’arrive!”

The eruptions taking place in her eyes made her dizzy. Blinks of light, a lessening of the pressure on the optic nerve . . . hadn’t the retinologist said that? Maybe those pills had already reduced the swelling.

It made her yearn to see more. But deep down she feared it wouldn’t happen. Face it. She was afraid to hope.

“Lucas, your women get younger and younger!” said Clothilde.

Aimée heard what sounded like a slap on his rear. And felt the presence of a towering, perfumed woman.

“Clothilde, you broke my heart,” he said, “Now I have to go for the young ones.”

“Bonsoir, Clothilde, I know you’re busy,” Aimée said. “But Mimi is my neighbor.”

“Mimi . . . of course!” she said.

“She mentioned you might help. Someone using your phone called me Monday night about eleven. Remember?”

“Monday, never,” she said. “I opened at midnight.”

Aimée’s heart sank. The counter jumped as a bottle landed by her.

“Mais non . . . what am I saying? Monday night my accordionist started at ten p.m. He left early for an accordion slam . . . whatever that is!”

“Do you remember who was here at the counter?”

“My habitués, the regulars.”

“Do you know who used the phone?”

“Chérie, for one franc, anyone uses the phone,” she said.

Aimée expected that. And it could be true. But she suspected Clothilde ran a tight ship and had eyes in the back of her head, like any good owner would. She’d know who drank what, how to keep the regulars happy, when to talk and when to listen.

It was hard to trawl for information and remain casual. Clothilde had been around before Aimée was born. How could she get her to reveal the truth or to let something slip?

“Clothilde, you’re right. But today so many use cell phones. Mimi said your memory’s sharper than a razor. You see,” she leaned toward where she suspected Clotilde to be. “It’s a bit private. Wouldn’t want the world to know. Or the doctor.”

“My ear’s right here, cherie,” she said. “Turn away, Lucas!”

Aimée had to think fast. Faster than she ever had. And make it work.

“Alors, he invested in a project. But he thinks I owe him money . . .” she said, her voice low. Then she paused for dramatic effect. “Call it an investment, I told him. No guarantees, eh? At first it was a gift, then he called it a loan. I don’t want to bring it all up again if he’s let it pass! But I have to know if he called. Then we’ll settle this. Do you understand, Clothilde?”

“What’s his name?”

Great . . . how could she get out of this now?

“I can’t say, it’s not right, if . . . well you know, he’s not the one or doesn’t . . .”

“But why . . .”

“He called me from here. I remember Nini peau de chien in the background.”

A perfumed sigh tinged by garlic wafted toward her.

“No wonder. One comes to mind.”

Say his name, she prayed.

“Alors, he’s a bit old for you. Dull, too. But it wouldn’t be him, eh?”

Say it, she wanted to yell. Say it.

“Age doesn’t matter.”

Clothilde sighed. “Men continue to surprise me.”

Aimée took a deep drag. Clenched her fist, willing her to talk. “He certainly surprised me.”

“Mathieu uses the phone. Doesn’t believe in cell phones, he tells me. He was here tonight,” she said. “Maybe half an hour ago. Hard to believe it was him.”

Mathieu?

How could it be Mathieu? Yet thinking back, Chantal had told her the flics brought him in for questioning. But attacking her and killing Josiane . . . ?

Aimée felt a garlic-scented breath on her face. “But everyone’s taste is different.”

“Well, I thought . . .”

“Now that I think about it, Mathieu’s father,” said Clothilde, “invested in girls. He made everyone turn a blind eye to the women he supplied from our place. In turn, he got favors.”

“Mathieu’s father? Wasn’t he a craftsman?”

“Ask Mimi. The high-ranking SS loved it . . . earthy Parisian girls from Marché d’Aligre. They liked peasant costumes.” Clothilde blew a breath of smoke in the air. “Go figure.”

“But I thought Mathieu’s family were respected ébénistes.”

“Eh chérie, who was acquiring works of art during the Occupation? ‘Buying’ is a polite term. ‘Appropriating’ says it better. Who better to take a wealthy deportee’s furniture and make money from it?”

Did that have anything to do with the old woman she’d seen coming out of Mathieu’s with the silvery hair?

“Clothilde!”

Voices had risen, singing along with the accordion. Old songs, like her grandmother had played.

“Excuse me, time to close the doors.”

“Lucas, mind helping me back?” asked Aimée.

She heard him gulp his wine.

“We’ll never get out if we don’t leave now.”

“D’accord,” he agreed.

Out on the street, the only sounds were their footsteps and the click of Lucas’s cane on the rain-dampened cobbles. The music had faded into the night. Rain-freshened air scented the stone-walled street.

“How well do you know Mathieu?”

“Listen, that Clothilde talks a blue streak,” said Lucas. “She wasn’t so clean herself in the war. I heard stories. But people did what they had to. And it’s over.”

“Do you think Mathieu’s hiding something?” she said. “Was he afraid Josiane would find out?”

“Zut!” he said. “We all hide things.”

“I have to talk with Mathieu,” she said. “Take me there.”

“Why would I do that?” he said. “I’m tired. Leave all this alone.”

She felt inside her bag, found the Beretta.

“Here,” she said, taking the cane from him and putting the Beretta in his hand. “Didn’t you want to try this?”

“You’ve got a deal,” said Lucas, his voice changed. “I hope you left the safety on or I’ll cause some serious damage.”

“At least you’ll aim better, with your peripheral vision, than I would,” she said.

“That’s a joke right?”

“But if Mathieu’s forgotten, you can remind him.”

She felt their way down rue Charenton with the cane. Tap, tap, tap. At the gurgling fountain she remembered and turned right into what she figured was the entrance to the courtyard of Mathieu’s shop. The tall doors were closed. She felt all over with the cane, found the digicode, and hit some buttons.

“Who’s there?” came an irate reply.

“Pardon, I forgot my uncle Mathieu’s digicode. He’s asleep. Please let me in,” she said.

“Write it down next time.”

A loud buzzing came from their right.

She and Lucas pushed the heavy door open.

“How did you know about this entrance through this building?”

“Well, it’s opposite the old part of the Résidence built in the Musketeers’ time. They all connected at one time. Feel the wall’s thickness. Like the Résidence.”

“Saves us from going up to rue Faubourg St. Antoine and entering Cour du Bel Air that way.”

Or through the back of Passage de la Boule Blanche. She wouldn’t do that again.

“Sounds funny to ask this Lucas, but can you see anything?” “I didn’t want to admit it, but the little peripheral vision I have crashes at night.”

“Crashes?”

“Grays and shadows are subtle at the best of times. Darkness blacks it all out.”

Pills. She had to take her pills. Merde!

She found them, swallowed, and tapped her way over the cobbles to the gurgling fountain. She stuck her head under, lapped up the water, welcoming the coldness. The clean mineral taste slid down her throat. It must tap into the old artesian source from the Trogneux fountain across the street.

Late-night starlings twittered in the courtyard. The honeysuckle scent she remembered seemed stronger in the night air. By the time they reached the atelier’s glass door, she’d tripped several times on the worn stones.

She felt the glass. Tapped it lightly. “Mathieu?”

“Door’s open,” said Lucas.

She grabbed Lucas’s elbow, followed him. Followed the strong smells of paint thinner emanating from Mathieu’s atelier.

“Mathieu?”

No answer. From somewhere a Mozart sonata played, low and soothing. A tape, the radio?

She heard Lucas feeling around ahead of her. Wood scraped and was pushed aside. They hadn’t gone far. Then a loud ouff as Lucas sat down.

“Look, I don’t feel good prowling in his atelier. He’s probably upstairs asleep. We’re blind, so our sleep patterns are off. Night or day means nothing to us, but to the rest of the world it does.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She tapped with the cane, feeling her way ahead. Sensed the legs of work tables, rectangles of picture frames, hollow panels, the thick metal block of what must be the heater emitting sputtering bursts of warmth. Then the stone wall, thick and damp.

And she heard the gun fall on the floor, skidding over the wood. Her reflex was automatic. “Lucas! Duck and cover your head!”

She ducked down under a thick-legged work table. No shot.

“Lucas?”

No answer. Silence.

Then she heard the door close. The metallic ratchet fell as it locked.