Murder in the Sentier

Monday Noon

AIMÉE RANG COMMISSAIRE MORBIER, her father’s old colleague, at the Commissariat.

“He’s not here,” said a bored receptionist. “Gone.”

She knew he would qualify for retirement soon. But it wouldn’t be like him to leave without telling her.

“Can I reach him somewhere else?”

“Who’s this?”

“Aimée Leduc, his goddaughter.”

She waited while the receptionist checked.

“As it happens, Mademoiselle Leduc, we refer his calls to the préfecture at the Quai des Orfèvres on Mondays.”

“Quai des Orfèvres?” That Morbier would be at police headquarters on Ile de la Cite took Aimée aback.

“He’s in charge of a unit there,” the receptionist said.

“Since when?”

But the receptionist had already patched her through. Several clicks, then a sustained buzz, and then the phone was picked up. “Groupe R,” came Morbier’s voice on the line.

What was Morbier doing in the special branch? “Got a new job?”

“Temporary assignment, Leduc,” Morbier said, his voice gruff.

In the background she heard the murmur of voices, the noise of an ancient Teletype, still in use in this age of computers, echoing off stone walls.

“Weren’t you going to tell me, Morbier?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Clue me in on the secrets d’état.”

A slight pause. “I’ve got another call,” Morbier said.

He seemed bent on stonewalling her. His hand muffled the receiver. She heard indistinct conversation, then recognized his hacking cough. Almost a two-pack-a-day man.

“Leduc, I’m busy.”

“Everyone in Paris either works frantically or collects le dole,” she said. “So what else is new?”

He put his hand over the receiver again.

“Let’s meet for lunch and you can tell me all about your new job,” she said.

“Things seem tight….”

“I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say,” she said. “I’m in the Sentier, but you name the place.”

“MAKE IT good, Leduc,” Morbier said over the dog-eared menu. “I don’t have much time.”

Outside, hookers plied their trade by the open brasserie window.

“Does murder qualify?”

“Important things first. We order.”

A true Gallic response. His mismatched socks—one tan, the other brown—his suspenders, and wrinkled jacket were as usual but he seemed different.

“Order the formule,” Morbier said. He didn’t look up but pointed to the blackboard, where “59 francs” had been chalked. “Cart-pusher’s special, but worth it.”

A promising scent of garlic and rosemary wafted from the black hole of a kitchen.

“The chef’s from Marseilles,” he said. “His son’s on parole.”

Aimée hated that. It meant no bill and general toadying-up from the poor staff. They ordered the formule from a gap-toothed young woman, who wore an apron over her jeans.

The brasserie bustled with a late lunch crowd: auto mechanics, white-haired ladies with full shopping bags from the outdoor marche at their feet, African security guards nursing bières, and stockbrokers from the nearby Bourse.

“Tant pis, my Marie’s teething,” Aimée overheard a tinsel-wigged hooker say to her sidewalk mate. Her mate, a middle-aged woman, adjusted an orange latex miniskirt, her eyes never leaving the passersby. “My sitter’s complaining,” the woman continued, “alors, that’s all the sitter ever does, that one!”

Why had Morbier chosen this place?

“Jean Jaurès was stabbed at that table, Leduc,” Morbier said. “The bloodstains are still there.”

Aimée looked over. A dark brown ghoulish stain, shaped like a butterfly, spread over the old table.

“As always, Morbier, you pick the scenic and informative.” She set the menu down. “Food any good?”

Was this her socialist lesson for the day? When she was in grade school, he’d insisted she read the transcript of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s trial, even quizzed her about it.

From the next table came the tang of a Gauloise. The acrid smoke teased her. Too bad she’d quit. The second time this week.

And then it hit her.

“You quit smoking, Morbier?”

He pointed to the patch on his arm.

“I’m full of surprises today, eh, Leduc?”

The waitress set two bowls of Provençal soupe au pistou in front of them, swirls of basil crème in the center.

“My visit to Berlin generated some interest.”

“And you’re proud of that, Leduc?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She took a big swig of the rose, light and with a peachlike aroma.

Not bad. She took another.

“Tell me about this murder while I eat,” Morbier said.

She told him about Jutta Hald. “She said she’d been in prison with my mother and would give me her things, but she needed money,” Aimée said. “Later she called to say there was something I should know about my mother, but I got to the meeting too late. Jutta’s brains were all over the tower wall.” She watched Morbier run the napkin across his mouth, then snap toothpicks between his splayed fingers.

“Doesn’t sound pretty.”

She told him about Jutta’s photo of Romain Figeac, Christian’s behavior, and the blood-smudged wall. “Figeac didn’t commit suicide, Morbier, he was murdered.”

“And you can prove that?”

“Serge at the morgue concurs,” she said, hoping Morbier wouldn’t check up on her stretch of the truth. “Both Figeac and Jutta Hald were killed by high-caliber gun blasts. Serge has the evidence Baggie for testing but I know it’s the same gun.”

“What do you want from me?” Morbier sighed.

“I know it’s related to my mother.”

“Leduc, I can’t help you anymore.”

“Attention, c’est chaud,” the waitress interrupted, wedging two heaping plates of grilled rougets, the brilliant red fish skin still crackling, in front of them. Thyme and olive oil aromas filled the air.

She felt sure the Berlin trip, to investigate clues to her father’s death, from which she’d just returned had kick-started Jutta’s effort to contact her. She pulled out the paper she’d taken from Romain Figeac’s desk.

“Figeac wrote ‘agit888’ and ‘Frésnes,’ the prison where Jutta and my mother were held,” she said. “Know anything about it?”

His eyebrows knit in concentration. “How old are you?”

He should know. She’d been nine when he and her father assembled her bike over a bottle of wine on a long-ago Christmas Eve. She’d watched from behind a door. The bike had always wobbled.

“You know a woman never reveals her age.”

“Will you let me eat in peace?”

She nodded.

Morbier tucked his napkin into his collar, spreading it over his suspenders. “All I know, which isn’t much, is that sometime in the early eighties a number of RAD members—”

“RAD?” Aimée interrupted.

“The Red Army Division,” he said. “Some German fugitive terrorists wanted to leave the underground. They were given a chance to lead new lives in East Germany, under different names.

“So by Red Army Division,” she said, dipping her bread in the sauce, and keeping her hand steady with effort, “you mean the seventies Haader-Rofmein gang who blew up banks and kidnapped people?”

“The newspapers called them that.” Morbier took a long sip of rose. He raised his thick eyebrows. “They called themselves the RAD. Their French counterparts were Action-Réaction.”

This fit what Jutta had told her.

“This came out in the late eighties when some ex-terrorists living in East Germany were arrested. Then the Wall came down.”

“What’s the connection to agit888?”

“Thank Jean-Paul Sartre for that,” Morbier said, attacking the rouget with gusto.

“Sartre?”

“The Marxist fool interviewed Haader in his cell,” he said. “And gave that infamous press conference about terrorists. For that the Ministry of Interior kept Sartre under surveillance until he died.” Morbier made a moue of distaste. “Your tax francs at work.”

“Sounds convoluted to me.”

“Agit888 is what they called the Sartre surveillance squad.”

Aimée thought old Sartre would have been secretly pleased. An existential thorn in the establishment’s side until the end.

“What happened to the RAD gang?”

“Most of them testified against their former comrades and received fairly mild sentences.”

“What about …?”

“Some did time in Frésnes. Most are free by now, I imagine.”

Aimée paused. Jutta Hald’s visit—the timing of it—right after her release, was significant. She took a deep breath. “Was my mother one of them?”

Morbier’s fork stopped midair. He didn’t look at her.

“I asked you a question, Morbier,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Some things in life should stay buried,” he said.

Her appetite disappeared. “I just want to know if she’s alive.”

“Rumors circulated,” he said.

“What kind of rumors?”

“A moucharde, a stoolie,” he said. “That she played both sides.”

“A stoolie?” She gripped the table edge. Hard. “For who?”

“The Sorbonne riots in ’68 threw everyone into turmoil,” he said. “Crazy times.”

“What do you mean?”

“She put her nose into places it didn’t belong.”

Morbier got the waitress’s attention and pointed to his empty glass.

“I asked your father once, but he avoided the topic.”

“But …”

“C’est fini, Leduc,” Morbier said.

Aimée’s heart sank.

Her father had refused to discuss it with her, too. The whole family had.

She didn’t know what to think or how to figure out what her mother had or hadn’t done.

“You knew my mother, didn’t you, Morbier?”

He shrugged. “Not well.”

“What was she like?” Sadly, she realized she’d used the past tense.

“A handful. Like you,” he said.

The lunchtime rush had subsided. Shouts and horns sounded from the street.

Here she was sitting with a man who knew her mother and father, but wouldn’t talk about them. Why couldn’t he cooperate?

“Jutta Hald’s gone,” Morbier said after a long pause. “Those radicals have a death wish, always did.” He swirled the wine, sniffed his glass. “Take my advice, eh—move on.”

Aimée remembered that the only good thing to do with advice, as Oscar Wilde pointed out, was to pass it on to someone else.

She managed a thin smile. “I’ll try.”

“Tiens, say it like you mean it, Leduc,” Morbier said.

“Just make one inquiry about Jutta Hald, that’s all I ask.”

Morbier leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. His thick salt-and-pepper head of hair could use a wash, Aimée thought. He looked like he’d been up all night.

“You’re well acquainted with the French legal system, Leduc.”

“But there’s a lot I don’t know.”

“There’s a rule stating that for 150 years no one can look at a prisoner’s dossier,” he said. His thick eyebrows crinkled, tenting his eyes. “Just to be clear, that’s 150 years from date of birth. I can’t find out anything about your mother, even if I wanted to.”

“But, Morbier, if you’re working a case and need the info …”

“My hands are tied,” he said. “This is to protect the prisoner.”

She tried to hide her disappointment.

If she couldn’t see the file on her mother, the trail ended.

“Any idea how to get around this rule?” she asked.

Morbier shrugged, a typical Gallic shrug. “You’re friends with higher-ups. Complain to the ministry.”

At least two ministers in the Ministry of Interior weren’t happy with her after the incidents in Belleville, although Martine, the sister-in-law of one, remained her best friend.

She thought about Frésnes, the old brick prison on the out-skirts of Paris where Jutta had been held. Unheated and the worst in the system. She remembered something. “No cell holds just two,” she said. “They usually cram in three or four prisoners…say Jutta and my mother—”

“Wasn’t that years ago?” Morbier interrupted.

She nodded. The words caught in her throat. She made herself go on, leaning forward, her eyes locked on Morbier’s. “But Jutta was just released, it should be easy to find out whom she roomed with.”

Morbier frowned. “Her last cell mate might not be the same person.”

“True.” Morbier had a point. “But if Jutta was excited about getting out, she could have talked to a cell mate about the past, discussed her plans. She told me she came straight from prison to my apartment.”

She knew Frésnes also held the CNO, the Centre National d’Observation, for prisoners who required physical and psychiatric evaluations when up for parole. Or those under surveillance for undesirable behavior.

The CNO assessments could take up to six weeks. All the prisoners hated them, but several times in their prison life they had to endure them. Some more often than others. Prisoners in this transit loop were much easier to track down than others in the penal system.

“Morbier, do me a favor,” she said. “Discover who shared Jutta’s cell in Frésnes before her release. Maybe she can help me to find out about my mother.”

“You’re chasing pipe dreams, Leduc.” Morbier expelled a quick breath. “Wasting your time.”

From the table behind them, several patrons sat smoking and drinking espresso. Such a perfect end to a meal! She could almost taste the tobacco, feel the jolt in her lungs. Instead of turning around and begging for a cigarette, she popped some Nicorette gum and forced herself to continue.

“A lot of retired flics sit on the parole board,” she said, chewing fast. “Can’t you make a phone call or two?”

“Favors cost,” he said. “If I start nosing around Frésnes, they expect their backs scratched. On my turf.”

Now she was stroking his fur the right way. He always wanted a favor in return and would bargain until he got it. Being his goddaughter gave her no exemption.

“But you do it so well, Morbier,” she said, “and you always come out on top.”

Morbier reached into his pocket, found an empty packet of cigarettes, and crumpled the cellophane on the table. He reached again, pulling out a half-full packet.

“You quit, remember?”

He nodded, threw the packet on the table, and picked up another toothpick. A glimmer of a smile passed over his face.

“Include yourself, Leduc,” he said. “At payback time.”

Morbier ran true to form. Nothing came free.

“I’ll make some calls, but no promises,” he said, hitching up his suspenders.

He’d lost weight. A lot.

“You’ve slimmed down,” she said. “Gone for your annual checkup, Morbier?”

“I’ll ignore the last part and take that as a compliment.”

She doubted but asked anyway. “On a diet?”

“Grapefruit, seaweed, and raisin capsules!” he said. “Drains the toxins, fatty lipids, eliminates cellulite buildup.”

Morbier … talking about cellulite?

“You might try it,” he said.

She’d struggled with the zipper in her leather skirt that morning.

“My new concierge, Madame Guegnon, told me. She buys them in bulk at the Carrefour.”

Before she could recover he stood up. “I must get the train tickets; I’m taking Marc to Brittany for les vacances.”

A doting grandfather? Morbier certainly was full of surprises.

Guilt flooded her. Morbier’s daughter, Samia, a young half-Algerian prostitute, had been killed by the underground before Aimée could protect her. The image of Samia’s eyes open to the rain in the Belleville alley, the red bullet hole in her peach-colored twinset, flashed before her.

Marc, her honey-faced son, attended Catholic boarding school and had made his first Communion under the proud eyes of his grandfather, Morbier.

Her face reddened. Determined, she pushed her guilt aside. “I’ll keep my cell phone on,” she said. “You know the number.”

BACK IN the Leduc Detective office she tried Etienne Mabry again.

Still no answer. And none at Christian Figeac’s apartment.

Worried, she wondered if he was still in custody.

She looked up from her computer terminal as René entered, wearing a tailored straw-colored linen suit, wiping perspiration from his large forehead.

“Diuretics!” he said. “The humidity’s equal to the temperature and the doctor prescribed diuretics!” He unbuttoned the linen jacket, tailored to his four-foot height. “I need another glass of Evian!”

She passed him bottled water and one of the Baccarat tumblers, the only glasses they had left from her grandfather’s time.

“I heard you borrowed money from Michel. But I’ve learned that his uncle Nessim needs extra laundry service,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We need to play it safe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nessim’s wholesale fabric business needs outlets besides the Deauville casinos in which to launder money.” René shrugged. “And Michel’s couture is one of them.”

“But I want to help Michel.”

“So do I,” he said. “A lot of questionable bankruptcies are declared in the Sentier. I wouldn’t want Michel to be a victim of his uncle. We should see what security his computer system needs.”

René pushed up his shirtsleeves. “The Société Générale’s account is overdue. They owe us but the manager keeps stalling me.”

Insurance companies were the worst when it came to paying for contracted services.

“It takes two weeks to authorize issuance of a check.” René tugged on his goatee, something he did when worried. He mounted his orthopedic chair and swiveled to face his computer screen.

She gathered up papers and stuffed them in her black leather backpack.

“In the meantime, rent’s due,” René said, looking at the pile of bills on her desk. “What’s our Media 9 contract status?”

“Pending,” she said, pointing to the thick folder labeled MEDIA 9 on his desk.

“Attends, let me look at Nessim’s business structure,” he said.

“There’s tons of legalese. I’ll have to decipher it after I return.”

“Return?” He peered at the dated Post-Its on the pile. “This was due yesterday.”

She paused, feeling guilty. “Désolée, René, but these things …”

He tugged his goatee. “It’s more than that, about your father, Aimée. All that time poking around government departments, then the trip to Berlin. I thought you’d pick up the slack when you returned. Now, this new wild goose chase …”

“René, I know I need to be here more, helping you out.”

Remorse assailed her. But she couldn’t postpone investigating this lead to her mother.

She stood up, paced to their office window overlooking rue du Louvre. Below, leafy lime trees shifted in an arid breeze, throwing shadows over a roadwork crew. Her hands shook. She didn’t want René to see.

But he did. “What’s wrong?”

Aimée hesitated. “It’s worse than bad.” She told him about Jutta Hald, her suspicions concerning Romain Figeac’s suicide, and her mother. “I can’t stop now, René. This woman was murdered almost in front of me. And there’s news about my mother. After all these years, I have a chance to find out what happened to her.”

“I know, but …” He looked away. “But you borrowed money from Michel and we need it!”

“Yes, of course we do,” she said, conflicted. With Jutta gone she might as well use the money, think of it as a temporary business loan. “And we’ll use it for the business. We’ll survive, we always do.” She pulled out all but five thousand francs of the fifty she’d borrowed from Michel. “Here, this should help.” She stuffed her laptop in her bag, then made for the door. But she had to make him understand. She turned around. “René, you know I have given everything I have to the business. But for once, this has to come first.”

René’s eyes flashed. “Dot-coms court me, Aimée,” he said. “All the time. Offering me nice sign-up packages, stock options. The works.”

Shocked, she sat down. She’d had no idea. She felt stupid. Of course they would, but she’d been too distracted to notice.

“What are you saying, René?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, his goatee quivering.

He slid down from his orthopedic chair, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the office door. She’d never seen him so upset.

“René!”

No answer. She ran into the hallway after him. The wire-cage lift rumbled and creaked below her. She ran down the spiral steps, her high-heeled sandals clattering, meeting René as he opened the curlicue-work metal door.

“Look, René,” she said. “We’re in this together, I need you. Please understand….” She wasn’t prepared to tell him she simply couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Friends honor commitments, it’s that simple.” René snorted. “Your mind’s been somewhere else.”

So he’d noticed.

She was obsessed: her mother, Jutta, the terrorists. Yet, René had always been there for her, time and again in the past. She knew she was jeopardizing their relationship.

She hung her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She rocked on her heels. “I’ll catch up. I promise. Forgive me, partner?”

His green eyes fluttered and he dusted invisible lint from his trousers. “Writing code all day bores me but I like to pay the rent and eat out once in a while.”

“We’ve got receivables. Like you said, people owe us! I’ve sent them warnings, next step is the collection agency. They cough up when they get that red-bordered notice.”

She took a deep breath. “Hungry?”

René gazed at the sushi bar opposite them on rue du Louvre. “Are you buying?”

She nodded.

“Later,” he said, looking at his pocket watch. “I have to meet our bank manager about a loan.”

“A loan?”

“To tide us over until we get paid.”

René was smart. Now she should make a dent in the pile of work on her desk. Upstairs, she filled Miles Davis’s water bowl, then tried Etienne Mabry’s number again. Still no answer.

The door opened. “I forgot my briefcase,” René said, looking pointedly at the papers on her desk.

Aimée returned the look as she stuck her detailed Paris Plan into her leather backpack.

“Going someplace again?

“I have to find Etienne Mabry so Christian Figeac can get out of jail.”