Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

Wednesday Afternoon

RENÉ FUMED, TAPPING his short fingers on the Citroën’s steering wheel in time to the baroque chamber music on France2. He sat stalled in traffic at Porte de Vincennes with no reception on his cell phone and looming trucks sending waves of rain over the windshield. His seat was customized for his height. He adjusted the knob that extended the accelerator pedal to ease his aching leg.

Five centimeters did it. Eased the twinge in his right leg. But nothing alleviated the low back pain radiating down his legs after the fall he’d taken at the dojo last week. Even though he had earned a black belt in karate, it still happened.

Not that he’d ever let on about that to Aimée. Or that he hoped they’d become more than partners. He repressed that thought.

He planned on buying a stroller in which to push Stella instead of carrying her. But looking at the dashboard clock, he saw that, due to the unexpected traffic, it was now too late to shop. And all this driving and dampness had exacerbated his hip dysplasia.

A sickening crunch and he lurched forward, feeling a sharp twinge in his chest as it hit the steering wheel.

“Merde!” Just what he needed . . . a fender bender. He punched the seat in frustration. Whoever had hit him better have insurance. He switched off the engine, took out paper and pen and his umbrella.

“Not even a dent,” said a red-haired trucker in a rain-beaded slicker after peering at the Citroën’s bumper.

He’d see for himself.

The trucker grinned at him as he took in René’s height. “Where’s the driver, petit?”

“There’s a long scratch on the chrome.” René pointed it out, containing his anger. His 1968 Citroën, specially customized, had a huge slash on its bumper. “See.”

“I said, where’s the driver, little man?”

“I hope you have insurance,” René told him. “And I’m the driver.” He wrote down the truck’s license plate number and the model. “Your license and registration, please.”

The truck driver bent down and peered under René’s umbrella. “You must be a dwarf flic!”

Horns tooted in the pouring rain. Traffic had started to move. Angry shouts came from the cars behind them. The upright row of budding cypresses lining the highway glistened and swayed in the wind.

“Et alors, I only tapped you,” the trucker said with a short laugh. Dismissively, he rubbed his hands, big meaty ones, the skin bulging over a wedding ring. “Quit making a big fuss.”

René didn’t relish arguing on the expressway in the beating rain, his Italian shoes and the cuffs of his suit pants getting soaked. “Have it your way. I’ll deal with your firm and mention your rudeness to your supervisor. I doubt that he’ll be happy to hear about the damage and your attitude, Alphonse.”

The truck driver poked René’s shoulder. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s stitched on your jacket lapel. And I’ll know where you live, your hobbies, and your bank balance in an hour or so.”

“That’s harassment,” the truck driver said. His eyes darkened. “What kind of freak are you?” He raised his fist and took a swipe at René.

René jumped back into a puddle and slipped. Pain shot up to his knee. Even though he was a black belt, with his leg pinned behind him at this angle no kick could save him. He clutched the bumper, made himself get up. He tried to will down his fear. A fight in the rain on the shoulder of the wet highway—no way could he win with his leg already throbbing in pain. Right now he couldn’t afford an injury: the Fontainebleau contract, Stella. . . .

He darted a look at the truck’s windshield and saw pictures of children hanging from the visor. Since childhood he’d had to learn how to deal with bullies. Now he fought back the only other way he knew.

“Alphonse, I’ll find out your children’s names, their school, the teachers you have parent conferences with,” he said. “Computers, Alphonse, I work with computers and it’s all there, if you know where to find it.”

For the first time the driver looked unsure. Cars passing them in the next lane rolled down their windows. “A giant and the petit making a big jam,” someone laughed. A siren wailed from the other side of the road, red lights from a police car reflecting in the puddles as it slowed down.

The truck driver hesitated. “Hey, let’s talk this over. No need to get them involved.”

René knew any trucker involved in an accident lost his job. Zero tolerance.

“So, Alphonse, I waited six weeks for this customized bumper. You want to hand over the eighteen hundred francs that I paid for it and call it quits?”

“What do you mean?” Alphonse’s eyes narrowed at the mention of money. Scratch the surface and no doubt he was just one generation removed from the land belonging to a frugal farm household.

“Make it nineteen hundred, so it ships faster. Cash.” René pulled out his dead cell phone. “Or I’ll make a report.”

The truck driver reached under his rain slicker, pulled out a wad of francs. “That’s all I have.”

“Not enough, Alphonse,” René said, thumbing the wet bills.

“I’ll check what I have in the truck.”

René climbed back into his car with fifteen hundred francs in cash and four hundred francs’ worth of ticket de resto restaurant coupons. Not bad; he’d eat out more often.

He took off his wet shoes and blasted the heater and defroster. At least he hadn’t had to resort to a punch to Alphonse’s middle. As if he could have managed it with his throbbing leg.

He tried his cell phone again. Still no reception. He’d canceled drinks twice this week on Magali, his sometime girlfriend and clubbing companion. He didn’t think she’d understand why he’d rather change a diaper than go to a rave. He couldn’t understand it himself.

Traffic moved, then halted. He turned off the radio and, to keep his mind off the pain in his legs, switched on the alphanumeric police scanner under the dashboard. A birthday gift from Aimée, only installed last weekend. He hadn’t yet had time to crack the scrambled frequencies used for high alerts and terrorist attacks. So far, all he could decipher was the coded flic lingo on the unscrambled channel. They all watched American télé and liked to throw in veiled Columbostyle references. Or what they figured were Columbo style.

Horns blared behind him. A big space had opened up between him and the car ahead. He brightened up when he saw the cars on the off-ramp moving.

“ . . . bleeder . . . units in the area, respond 41 Quai d’Anjou . . . refresh that sir, victim . . .” came from the police scanner.

René let in the clutch, shifted into first.

“ . . . scene secured . . . awaiting the Big E.”

The medical examiner, of course. He leaned over to turn up the volume.

“ID intact . . . Édouard Vavin, 32 rue Rocher in the ninth . . .”

Vavin . . . could it be their Vavin who lived in the now-gentrified old Jewish district near the Freemasons lodge?

“ . . . work address, according to ID, 6 rue des Chantiers . . .”

René’s clutch ground, and the car jerked and stalled. Aimée had met Vavin there. That was Regnault’s office address.