Murder in the Sentier

Saturday Early Morning

AFTER THE AMBULANCE picked up Stefan, and the pompiers of the emergency squad and the forklifts had cleared things away, Aimée hitched a ride to the Commissariat on Place Goldoni. Fueled on espresso from the nearby cafe, she asked the sleepy-eyed night clerk for Lieutenant Bellan.

“Not in yet,” the clerk said.

“Hand these to him, will you?” she said, shoving several heavy, mildew-smelling Neufarama bags onto the desk.

The clerk’s nose wrinkled.

“Please, make sure these go to the robbery detail and to Lieutenant Bellan right away,” Aimée said. “But first I want them signed for and your stamped receipt.”

She walked into the dawn, which spread like a golden yolk over the Seine. When her Tintin watch showed seven A.M. she punched in Edith Mésard’s number on her cell phone.

“Bonjour, Madame Mésard,” she said. “Refresh my memory, but does the state show leniency if a fugitive wanted for twenty years gives himself up?”

By the time Aimée made it to her apartment, Edith Mésard had struck a deal for Stefan.