Murder in the Sentier

Monday Morning

AIMÉE WOKE UP KNOWING she had to contact Etienne Mabry and find Christian Figeac’s girlfriend, Idrissa.

On the Minitel she found two clubs with Senegalese music, one in Montmartre and the other, Club Exe, in the Sentier. The one in Montmartre had never heard of Idrissa.

“Idrissa Diaffa who sings with Ousmane?” asked a woman with high-pitched voice at Club Exe.

“Yes, where can I find her?”

“She quit.”

Perfect.

“Her boyfriend, Christian, is in jail,” Aimée said. “Please, I need to find her.”

“I’d like to help you,” the woman said, “but I’m just a part-time cashier. Sorry.”

Aimée was about to hang up. “What about her friends … who was she close to at the club?”

“Bien sûr, everyone liked Idrissa,” the woman said. “But she hung out with Mala, the dishwasher, another student.”

“Where can I find Mala?”

“Around the corner.”

“Where’s that?”

“Rue Jeûneurs. Number 7. And could you tell her she’s needed for a double shift today?”

Aimée thanked her. At least she had something to go on.

She took the Metro into the Sentier, climbing the stairs to emerge into the heat.

Dark windows, like dead eyes, stared from above the wide marble steps of 7, rue Jeûneurs. The ancient building, once a clothier’s, as evidenced by the faded drapier sign, was typical of the Sentier district. Filigreed metal balconies, limestone walls in need of steam cleaning, and the cobbled courtyard exuded a forlorn charm.

On the left was a faded concierge sign, lights glowing behind lace curtains covering the glass door.

Aimée knocked.

“Bonsoir,” said a man, poking his long face out. He worked his horselike teeth, chewing a piece of bread. The smell of frying onions clung to him.

Few buildings in the Sentier would have concierges, she imagined. From inside the logement came the sound of a piano scale being practiced, the same note missed each time.

“Monsieur, can you direct me to Mala’s apartment?”

The concierge scratched his neck. “She didn’t leave word to expect anyone,” he said, his syllables rolled in a Spanish accent.

“This concerns—”

“Tiens, I don’t pry into tenants’ lives,” he interrupted.

He must be an unusual concierge.

“What floor, Monsieur?”

He shook his head.

“Who might you be, Mademoiselle?”

A brown baguette crumb had lodged in his mustache. Aimée wanted to brush it off.

“Aimée Leduc,” she said.

“Got an appointment?”

“Sorry to disturb your meal, Monsieur,” she said with a smile, “but they need Mala to work a double shift today at Club Exe. Her phone’s off the hook. I’d appreciate your help.”

The crumb rode up and down as the man chewed. He debated for a long moment.

“Left rear staircase, third floor, door on the left.”

She felt him watch her as she crossed the courtyard.

Seventeenth century, by the look of it. Like her building. However, much of the rear courtyard and first floor of this hôtel particulier had been hacked into warehouses, divvied up among small manufacturers over the centuries. She heard the whine of sewing machines.

After a steep climb, she reached the dark green door. One other massive door kept it company on the black-and-white-diamond-patterned landing. Dirt filmed the single small circular window.

She knocked several times. No answer. She tried the other door. A small bronze nameplate with click.mango was affixed to the grime-patinaed wall.

An Internet company here? Frustrated at finding neither Mala nor Idrissa, Aimée leaned against the wall and thought.

She looked up to see a lean, caramel-skinned young woman coming up the stairs. She was in her early twenties with a boyish figure, and she wore a red, yellow, and green Rasta cap from which an errant braid escaped, a tank top, and army fatigue pants.

“Bonjour, do you know where I can find Idrissa Diaffa?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “But I don’t know you,” she said with a lilting West African accent.

“I’m Aimée Leduc,” she said. “Christian Figeac’s in jail. You were his girlfriend, right? Could we talk?”

Idrissa’s almond-shaped eyes darted around the landing. She shifted in her sandals.

“May I come in?”

Idrissa didn’t move. In the dark, cool hallway, she seemed ready to bolt down the stairs.

“I’m sorry, it’s not my place,” Idrissa said. “And I’m in a hurry.”

“Christian’s in trouble,” Aimée said.

Idrissa sighed. “Always him and his big ideas!”

“Last time I saw him he was being taken to the Commissariat for questioning.”

Idrissa waved her hand as if that were old news. Odd.

Jumbles of red and yellow beads clacked on her wrist. Aimée caught a whiff of coconut oil.

“Matter of fact, I’m trying to reach his financial advisor to spring him from the Commissariat,” Aimée said.

“Christian calls me his girlfriend but … it’s just the friend part now,” Idrissa said. “I won’t go to the apartment, vous comprenez?”

Idrissa’s speech didn’t match her looks. Most young women in the quartier would have used the familiar tu form of address, not the formal vous. Was she a Sorbonne student? A heavy denim bag hung from her shoulder, weighing down her slim frame.

“Christian can’t find some boxes of his father’s work,” Aimée said. “He thought you might know where they are.”

“Accusing me of stealing?”

Why hadn’t she worded it another way? She’d put Idrissa on the defensive! As René often told her, tact wasn’t her strongest suit. “Actually,” Aimée said, trying for an ingratiating smile, “Christian’s being generous, trying to help me find his father’s research on terrorism,” she said. “My mother was involved.”

Idrissa shrugged. “My music only earns half the rent,” she said, her accent thickened. “So I typed, transcribed for his father.”

Aimée took a step forward. “For Christian’s father’s book?”

Idrissa nodded.

“How interesting,” Aimée said. “Were they his memoirs or, perhaps, stories about people involved in the radical movements?”

“I didn’t pay attention,” Idrissa said. Her gaze didn’t meet Aimée’s.

“Did he mention the Haader-Rofmein gang?”

“Nothing made much sense to me,” Idrissa said. “It seemed jumbled.”

“Jumbled … how do you mean?”

Idrissa shrugged. “He rambled, talking about the past one minute, then he’d zoom to the present.”

“So would you take dictation, or did he give you tapes to transcribe?”

Idrissa shifted against the wall. “What does it matter?”

“Do you have any of those tapes?”

“Look, it was only a job. I gave them back,” she said. “The boxes, too!” Idrissa looked at her Swatch watch. “I’m late.”

“Christian is so upset. He doesn’t know why his father committed suicide,” Aimée said, edging toward her.

Idrissa winced. “Excuse me,” she said, opening the door, “I’ve got to go.”

Aimée wanted her to talk. But Idrissa shut the door in her face.

As she passed by the concierge’s place, the piano scales climbed in an agonizing march.