Murder in the Sentier

Thursday Evening

STEFAN WOKE UP in his car parked by the cemetery, broke and hungry. He realized he’d overreacted the night before when he’d run. Why hadn’t he asked the concierge what had happened to Romain Figeac?

Now, when he reached the concierge’s loge, it lay dark. Hesitant, he debated going up the stairs again … would a neighbor notice?

There was only one way to find out.

At the charred door, Stefan saw the yellow police tape, limp and dragging on the wet floor. He hit the timed light switch and his heart skipped. Right where he’d been standing the night before was a gouged hole. And there was a dent in the pillar on his right at eye level. A distinctive graze, like the mark of a bullet’s passing.

His second sense had been right. And all he knew was that he had to get out of there and not be stupid twice. Then he heard scraping from below in the stairwell.

And he ran. He headed up the stairs, onto the roof.

Stefan’s lungs burned. His pulse raced as his legs pumped. As he ran, he shed the raincoat, throwing it over the rooftop. Sweat poured down his shoulder blades.

Why hadn’t he found the exit, planned his escape route like he usually did when entering a new building? Careless, he’d grown too soft and careless. And look what had happened!

He was running for his life and hoping to God he could shinny up the slick roof tiles and climb down to that wrought-iron balcony filled with fat pink geraniums. With luck he could slip in through the balcony door, shoot through the apartment, then hotfoot it to the next street.

At least he’d kept in shape. Lifted those weights, did sit-ups at dawn every morning.

Damn geraniums … he landed, kicking dirt everywhere!

Stefan picked himself up and raced past the half-opened glass door. An old man in a hair net sat reading by dim green light. The cat in his lap hissed.

“Who are you? Get out!” the man sputtered, pushing his glasses up on his nose and trying to ward off the blow he anticipated.

But he spoke to Stefan’s wind.

Stefan slowed, cursing, unable to see in the pitch blackness. He felt his way along the raised linocrust lining the wall. With luck it would be a typical Sentier apartment—bedroom branching from hall to foyer to the front door.

He reached a smooth doorknob. Tried twisting but it didn’t budge.

Locked.

Bright light blinded him. The old man, bowlegged in too-tight long johns and with a rusty meat cleaver, stood in the foyer.

“I fought the boches, I can fight you,” he said, taking a step closer.

Stefan tried to flip the brass knob, but it stuck.

“Scheisser!”

“You are a boche!” said the old man, startled.

“Get back, old man!”

Behind them, something thudded from the bedroom.

Stefan rotated the latch hard until his fingers hurt. It turned. Then he flipped the dead bolt, ran out, and slammed the door.

He grabbed the metal handrail, guiding himself down the steep serpentine stairs, careful to avoid the light switch. Keep moving, he told himself.

Once he got to the street he’d lose himself in the sidewalk crowds or in the Metro. Then double back to the Mercedes, get his suitcase full of the disguises he’d kept for years, just in case, from the trunk.

Stefan swung open the heavy Art Nouveau—style door, its glass held by curved metal strips. Flashes of red light, reflected on the glass, came from the flic car, which sat parked in front of him.