Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

Wednesday Early Evening

KRZYSZTOF RUBBED HIS goose-pimpled arms in the chilly lab. He stared at the row of labeled chemicals. Easy, so easy. He’d seen recipes for explosives on the Internet using HTH, the swimming-pool chlorination compound, Vaseline, and simple table salt. Concoct an explosive, plant it at the oil conference reception, threaten to detonate it unless they canceled the agreement. It should be easy.

Stop . . . what was he thinking? Violence against one of the hydra-headed corporations who polluted the world? Disable one and another would spring into its place. There had to be another way. He wished he knew what it was.

NIGHT THREW SHADOWS over the farm compound as Krzysztof entered the dark kitchen. It was deserted. The only evidence of the red-haired artiste was her welding torch on the scorched floor by her twisted pipe sculpture. Art—she called that art?

He climbed into his sleeping bag in the corner, exhausted. His cell phone bit into his side. He took it out, turned it on . . . no messages. His mind drifted in the enveloping down bag’s warmth.

Voices, guttural and low, invaded his dreams. “Explosives enough for a nice little scare.” Then low laughter. He blinked. A dim light from the artiste’s studio cast oblong shadows on the table. He realized that he wasn’t dreaming.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. Saw beads of rain on the shoulders of huddled figures in raincoats. Craned to get a better look. Two men, crouching, The taller one stood and left. Krzysztof caught only the outlines of the other’s face; he was blond and hawk nosed. The face looked familiar, he’d seen him before but couldn’t place him. Then footsteps, the slam of a door, and the man was gone.

Krzysztof got to his feet, stiff from sleeping on the floor, and walked into the studio. The redhead, a shawl around her lace halter top, was stuffing something into the pocket of her torn jeans.

Cold drafts whistled under the warped window frames. Her welding torch was hooked onto a dark green gas canister, her protective visor was on the floor.

“Who was that?” Krzysztof asked.

“Quoi?” Her gray-speckled eyes darted from side to side. “How long have you been here?” she asked irritably. She put her hand over her jeans pocket but not before he saw the wad of francs.

Scattered pieces of copper wire snaked across the floor near metal pipes and smudges of black powder, like a clump of ants. He stiffened. Gun powder. How could he have been so naive?

“Long enough,” he said. “You’re making pipe bombs.”

“What’s it to you?” She combed her fingers through her red curly hair, caught it up, and twisted it into a knot. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“You made the bottle bombs, too.”

“Art expresses itself in many mediums.”

“And set me up.”

“Phfft, not me. I manufacture to order only. Clients do what they want with what I make for them.” She gathered her shawl around her shoulders. “Boring. Instead of a militant, you’re just a scared little boy.”

“You pay lip service to art and politics, ma rouquine,” he said, disgusted. “But you’re just in it for the money.”

“We’re all in it for something.” She grinned. “Nice photo of you in the paper. You’re wanted, rich boy.”

He clenched his hands in his pockets, felt the balled-up Metro ticket. What was it with women searching for thrills? The old Polish woman, and now her.

“We can’t stop environmental pollution with pipe bombs,” he said. “Those men—give me their names.”

“Why’s it important?”

“They framed me.”

“Then shouldn’t you be the one running?”

He pulled out his cell phone. “The Ministry of Sanitation’s eager to shut this place down. By the time they arrive, I’ll be long gone.”

She bent and picked up her straw sack from the floor. “Big talk. Good night, sweet prince.”

He shuddered. “What?”

“Great piece in the paper. Says you’re in line for the nonexistent Polish throne.”

He grabbed her arms, twisted them behind her.

“I like it rough.” She rubbed her denim-clad legs against him.

He snatched some wire from the floor and looped it around her wrists several times. She squirmed and twisted, trying to kick him. He dumped her bag out on the floor and the contents scattered over the clumps of black gun powder. Eyeliner, a copy of Le Deuxième Sexe by Simone de Beauvoir, and a Moroccan leather wallet. Inside it he found an expired École des Beaux-Arts student card; a receipt from Sennelier, the art store on Quai Voltaire; and a social services card for unemployment benefits. She was on the dole.

“Nice little side business for you.”

“Not everyone lives off a trust fund,” she said. “I couldn’t buy supplies and live on the stipend they give me for art school.”

And he was supposed to feel sorry for her?

“That’s your rationale for making bombs?”

He took the wad of francs from her pocket. Folded inside the fifty-franc notes he found a business card—blue, half torn. On it was written: Wednesday 19:00 G. He glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. Ten past seven. And took a deep breath as he noticed part of a logo on the card. Sloppy. Or arrogant. Or both.

“Halkyut Security bought pipe bombs from you ten minutes ago? Ma rouquine, you’re big-time.”

She kicked him in the shins.

He doubled over in pain. But he grabbed the copper wire, caught her espadrille-shod feet, and bound them.

“Who’s G?”

“Haven’t you heard of the G-spot?” There was mockery in her eyes.

He limped to the corner, stuffed his sleeping bag into his pack, and shouldered his rucksack.

“Last chance to tell me.”

She twisted on the floor, thumping her heels.

He walked to the door, turned the doorknob.

“He’s called Gabriel,” she said, “that’s all I know. A pickup man. Never makes a direct buy.”

“Liar, you have the francs in your pocket! Where’s he taking them?”

“Get these wires off my feet,” she said. “Who knows? It’s business, they don’t tell me.”

But she knew. He hit the light switch, plunging the studio into darkness.

“Wait!” Her bound feet kicked the floor. “Undo the wire.”

He edged toward her. “I’m waiting.”

“They’re not even rigged with a timing device. They’re just for show; they won’t go off.”

“He pays money for pipe bombs that won’t go off? Right!”

“No one’s dumb enough to light the fuse and stand there! That’s the only way . . .”

“Good luck. As far as the terrorist squad goes, you’re implicated. An accomplice.”

Her lip trembled, her arrogance melted. For the first time, he saw fear in her face.

And it came back to him where he’d seen the blond mec, Gabriel: at the peace march. Of course, a security firm would use amateurs and handmade explosives to lay a trail leading toward MondeFocus.

“Merde! I’m squatting here, they cut my social service benefits. Where do you think I get money for food?”

The truth for the first time. For a moment he felt sorry for her.

“You won’t tell on me, will you? I took care of you, made you feel good.”

Pleading. To think he’d almost slept with her. Disgusted, he set the francs on the floorboards out of her reach.

“I asked you where he went.”

“You’ll untie me?” Her eyes were on the money.

He nodded.

“A town house on the Ile Saint-Louis.”

“Which one?”

“Hôtel Lambert.”

He froze. He’d worked there at catered parties. The baron hired impoverished aristos as help. It amused him. And paid for Krzysztof’s living expenses.

“You think I live on a trust fund? Titles don’t come with trust funds. Get real, ma rouquine, you’re not the only one who has to grub for money.”

He slammed the door shut.

“Salaud!” Her voice echoed as he ran through the courtyard.

JADWIGA RADZIWILL, WEARING a fifties-style cocktail dress that he supposed had fit her once, stood at her apartment door.

“Entrez.” She held the Chihuahua in her arms. His teeth bared as he emitted a low growl. “Bibo, arrêtes!” she said. “Our prince has come.”

Right, and he’d left his white horse outside. “Mind if I pick your brain?”

The eye makeup crinkled in the crow’s-feet of her powdered face. “Only my brain?” she asked, disappointed. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sheltered a political fugitive, young man!” Her blood red painted lips grinned. “A little excitement keeps us young, eh, Bibo?” She nuzzled the foul-smelling little dog in her arms.

Krzysztof stepped inside and was surrounded by the smell of dust and heat. Dark oil paintings hung between crowded bookshelves. He doubted whether she ever opened a window. The place needed ventilation, especially because of the dog.

A spinning Japanese candle-lantern on the table sent swirling stars over the velvet draperies and the fissures in the cracked ceiling. Second thoughts crossed his mind, but he didn’t have many options.

“Your exploits sent your uncle into apoplectic shock, I imagine, young man.”

He didn’t want to think of his uncle right now. He was too absorbed by the accusations against him and by chagrin at his own naïveté.

“Like the old days.” Her thickly mascaraed eyes gleamed as she bent in a mock curtsy, her joints creaking. “Now sit down. Put your hands over the crystal ball. I read the future, you know. My forte.”

He didn’t need his fortune told to know how bad things looked.

She wore calfskin gloves, like old coquettes did to hide their veined, age-spotted hands. And she kept her powdered face away from the light. He spied a black rotary-dial phone with the old prefixes on it. Like one he’d seen at a flea market.

“May I use your phone?” he asked.

“If you have a drink to celebrate,” she said and headed to her drinks table.

He’d make it short so the flics couldn’t trace it. He took a deep breath and dialed Hôtel Dieu, the public hospital. A nurse asked him to wait.

Several departments and clicks later, a sleepy voice came over the phone.

“Gaelle?”

“Oui . . . ?”

“I’m sorry. It should have been me,” he said in a rush of words.

“Did you . . . ?”

Was someone there in the hospital room, listening?

“Non, the bombs were planted. But Brigitte accused me.”

“They missed my skull, if you can believe it.” He heard a lisp. “I just lost some teeth.”

Machines beeped and wheels rolled over the floor in the background.

“I’d never set off bombs; you have to know me better than that. We’re going to do this by peaceful means, but . . .” He paused. “The pollution reports, everything, all our evidence was stolen from MondeFocus.”

“Tell Nelie. She’ll know how to compile it again.”

“I can’t find her.”

“There’s a certain doctor’s report. I don’t know details. She went to her uncle’s to get the proof.”

He almost dropped the phone. “You didn’t tell me . . . but she’s disappeared.”

“No time. Remember at the demonstration how she was trying to get our attention?”

He just remembered Orla shouting.

“Krzysztof . . . find Nelie.”

Did she know that Orla was dead?

“Mademoiselle,” a voice said. “Who’s on the phone?”

The line went dead.

“You disappoint me, young man.” Jadwiga stood next to him with two shot glasses of a cloudy drink smelling of licorice. “Your cause can only succeed if you make a big bang. A quiet protest is no use at all.”

He took the glass. Sniffed.

“You like absinthe?” she asked.

Absinthe had been outlawed for years.

“The wormwood inside rots your brain,” Krzysztof said.

“Na zdrowie.” She toasted and downed the shot glass, a gleam in her eye. “Delicious. Gives one courage.”

“And hallucinations,” he said.

She tugged at her yellowing string of pearls. “Only if one drinks enough.”

He had no intention of doing that. But courage, that he needed, and he drank it. His throat burned; his eyes watered and smarted.

“You’ve had too much of this,” he said, setting the glass down. “A thug’s taken pipe bombs to the oil conference reception at Hôtel Lambert—”

“Aaah, but you know, it’s just as they say,” she interrupted, “there are only three ways to get into society: feed it, amuse it, or shock it.”

She poured herself another shot of absinthe, raising her painted eyebrows at his expression of disgust. “Not my words, Oscar Wilde’s.”

“With your anarchist background, you can help me,” he said, scanning her bookshelves for The Anarchist’s Cookbook. He trusted the Internet only so far. “You can explain how to defuse a pipe bomb!”

“Now why would I do that, young man?” Instead of the excitement he expected, she seemed disappointed.

“Adventure,” he said.

She shook her head. “And miss the best catered affair in Paris?”

The old woman wanted to crash the reception.

“Bibo’s hungry, aren’t you, mon chéri?” She picked up the bulging-eyed Chihuahua.

Ridiculous, this old woman and her foul-smelling dog wouldn’t get near the door while he might be able to blend with the catering crew and get inside.

“There’s no time,” Krzysztof said. “Look, I know the caterer, I can talk my way in. If you could diagram how to disconnect the fuses—”

“So naive, young man,” she interrupted in a bored tone. “I can get in the side door unobserved. But I need an escort.”

“Wait a minute.”

“The concierge consults me. She comes for readings every week,” she said, gesturing toward her crystal. “She swears by me.” Jadwiga pulled out a compact, checked her face, and powdered her nose. “Everything’s in my head, young man. We never wrote anything down about explosifs. Too dangerous, you know. We’ll talk on the way.”

She grinned, reminding him of a cat who’d swallowed a mouse. Sated for the moment but ready for more.

No time to argue. He shrugged. “Let’s go.”

“Not like that, you’re not.”

She took his hand, led him to an armoire, opened the creaking door that smelled of mothballs, and displayed a hanging tuxedo.

From an old lover of hers?

“A little loose in the hips, perhaps,” she said, eyeing his waist with a smile. “But it should do.”