Murder in the Bastille (17 page)

Friday Afternoon

BELLAN CROSSED THE HOTEL courtyard, whose dark stone walls were covered by ivy and climbing roses, to find the room listed as Iliescu’s residence. He followed the hotel clerk, a short squat woman who walked with a cane. If Iliescu sold bad Ecstasy, Bellan wanted to find the drug before anyone else did. And confiscate it.

Lemon trees in old washtubs tilted on the cobbles. Bellan’s interest grew as the woman, who leaned heavily on her cane, climbed the winding metal back staircase. There was a certain rundown charm about the place. Reaching the third floor, the woman turned the room key and a door creaked open.

“Iliescu’s room,” she said, stepping inside. She looked around, then beckoned Bellan to enter.

Bellan’s nose crinkled at the room’s stale smell. It had been closed up for a long time. The only personal touch was the pile of dirty sweatsuits on the floor.

“My uncle rented rooms by the month on this floor until the sixties, the rest were . . .” she cleared her throat, “on a more temporary basis.”

A brothel before they’d been outlawed in 1948? Now a rent-by-the-hour prostitute’s hotel? No questions asked, Bellan figured. So it would feel safe and convenient for a dope dealer like Iliescu.

The tall, half-shuttered windows faced south to the narrow street. A maze of alleys really. Shafts of sunlight slanted across the wooden floor, dust motes dancing in their light.

In the afternoon sun, it was apparent that the march of time had dulled the glint of period wall sconces. The pre-war floral wallpaper was smudged and worn; the heavy-legged writing desk and the metal runged bed hadn’t been changed since the forties, Bellan figured. He felt as if he’d stepped into a time warp.

The hotel clerk’s eyes narrowed. “My
tante
Cecile lived here until last spring,” she said. She buttoned her mohair sweater vest, worn despite the heat, and wiped her nose with a tissue. “
Tante
slipped on the icy street during an early thaw. God took her in her eighty-third year. She managed the hotel until the day she died.”

No wonder it had an old lady smell. Hard to get rid of after all those years.

“Sorry to hear that, but I need to look around,” he said, flashing his badge.

The woman shook her head. “What’s the
quartier
coming to these days? Full of crime and overpriced boutiques! My grandfather moved here because it was cheap; he carted his own charcoal and drew water from the well. They’ve cemented it over now.”

“When did Iliescu rent the room, madame?”

“Yesterday, but he left almost at once.”

She seemed awfully knowledgeable. Most non-star hotels made a point of not knowing their tenants’ movements or whereabouts.

“How do you know that, madame?”

She stood back, her hands on her ample hips. “I was cleaning the filth out, wasn’t I?” she jerked her cane toward the room across the hall. Halfway ajar, the door showed a scene of upside-down chairs and general upheaval. “A pigsty. Must be what they’re used to where they come from, some Slavic way of living. Not in Paris, I told them, and kicked them out.”

“Did Iliescu have any visitors?”

She nodded. “Nobody I saw.”

Loud buzzing came from the courtyard.

“That’s the Reception buzzer. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hotel to run,” she said, heading out the door. “Lowlifes, all of them.”

Disappointed, Bellan searched the room.

All he found were several bodybuilder-type magazines. He searched the desk, cracks in the wall, the floors for any loose floorboards. In the back of the armoire, he found a yellowed and tattered old programme from the Balajo, the club on rue du Lappe. It bore a photo of Edith Piaf and Jo Privat, the well-known accordionist.

But no drugs.

He raised the window sash. From across the way, a piano
étude
trilled, the notes rising and falling over the passage.

What was he missing?

And then he saw it.

“21, Port de Plaisance, 16:00” written in pen on the window’s wooden frame. He recognized the odd curlicues of the numbers. Like Iliescu’s writing on his palm.

The same funny curlicues.

Bellan copied the address. Wasn’t that the dock where pleasure boats moored in the Bastille?

Friday Afternoon

RENÉ HEADED TOWARD PLACE MAZAS to meet Serge at the morgue. A gray metal Métro bridge spanned the Seine, looping just behind the morgue’s back gate. René wondered if Métro passengers on high realized what they viewed, in close proximity, for a brief few seconds.

The nineteenth century redbrick building, bordered by the expressway to Metz, looked more like a school than the Insti-tut médico-légal, the central morgue. Built on the Seine to receive bodies sent downriver, it proved a macabre curiosity stop for
fin-de-siècle
Parisians eager to view cadavers. In 1909, a handcuffed Houdini had jumped off the morgue gates into the Seine, emerging long minutes later with freed hands, waving.

René parked his car by the wide, massive gate. He saw a van drive through. Within, men in white labcoats hosed down the courtyard and two men sprayed their short white boots.

René cringed. He didn’t much like contemplating what they were cleaning up.

At the gate Serge, his pea-coat buttoned and a navy cap low over his eyes, slapped a man’s back. They laughed. And in a few seconds, Serge leaned through René’s passenger door window. René took the rolled up racing newspaper, Paris Turf, that Serge thrust at him.

“A hundred francs says Josiane in the eleven p.m. race and the Beast by a long shot in the five a.m.,” said Serge, poking his head in, “but that’s if I was a betting man.”

“
Merci,
” said René.

Serge turned toward a man in a trench coat.
“À demain,
Inspecteur.”

“Tomorrow’s your turn to buy coffee,” said the man. “Don’t weasel out of it this time, saying you’ve got an autopsy.”

Serge laughed and waved as the man went by. But his eyes weren’t smiling.

”I did some homework,” said Serge, turning back to René, lowering his tone. “Lambert’s the best optic trauma specialist, at least in Paris. I just spoke with him. Asked about Aimée’s prognosis. There’s not a lot to do besides monitor the optic nerve, run tests, and work on reducing the inflammation. If and when that subsides, then they’ll assess the damage. Let’s pray it’s not extensive.”

“Tell me what that really means, Serge,” said René.

Serge sighed. “I’m sorry, René. We put men on the moon and orbit satellites, but we don’t know the idiosyncrasies of brain stems. Or their reactions. Don’t count on things getting better, René.
Alors,
it’s so hard to say this,” Serge stumbled. “Better plan for the worst.”

René’s head felt heavy from the weight of his words.

“But I can’t tell that to Aimée,” said René. “She needs hope.”

Serge smacked the car’s hood.

“That’s why I work with those who don’t need explanations any more.” Serge looked away, shaking his head. “This shouldn’t have happened. But I’m being honest, René.”

“Me, too,” he said lifting the parking brake and shifting into first.

René drove back to the quai and opened the racing pages. Serge had been busy. Inside lay photocopies of the daily intake and outtake log of the morgue since Monday. And it made his head spin.

“ALL
Ô
? ”
S A I D Aimée, sitting up in bed.

“Serge photocopied the morgue log,” said René. “I’m trying to figure it out. But the handwriting’s terrible.”

“Good job. Look at Tuesday, under white female, late thirties or early forties found in . . .

“
Voilà.
Estimated time of death: eleven p.m.,” he said. “Of course Serge said as much. Don’t you remember . . . the astrologer Miou-Miou predicted Josiane’s time of death?”

“René, hurry up. Read the rest.”

“Further on, at five a.m., body parts of white male, early twenties deposited from a charred automobile. Vaduz!”

“Does it give any time for the accident?”

“Non.”

“René, look for an attached police report. Sometimes they submit it with the body. A blue sheet. The writing on the photocopy will be fainter.”

She heard René inhale, the rustle of paper as he thumbed the attached sheets.

“Most of these seem like copies of lab requisitions. . .wait a minute,” he said. “In the middle of the sheaf one’s labelled Commissariat de 11ième arrondissement. It’s just legible.”

“
Tiens,
Serge’s a genius,” said René. “This report states that a black 1989 Peugeot was reported stolen at ten-thirty p.m. Monday night. A couple attending a film near the République Métro saw a man breaking into their car. He fit Vaduz’s description. They couldn’t catch him and he drove away. The same car was involved in an accident later.”

“
Voilà,”
she said. “Vaduz didn’t attack me.”

“But he could have driven from République . . .”

“I left the resto at ten-thirty,” she interrupted. “Somewhere, I have my receipt with the time; I needed it, to bill Vincent. So Vaduz couldn’t have attacked me if he was stealing the car. It’s doubtful that he could have killed Josiane in the next courtyard.”

Aimée paused.

“I’m trying to add all this up. Make a timeline.”

“Go on,” said René.

“If we can make the connections, I’ll call Bellan and demand that he reopen the case.”

“And Vaduz certainly couldn’t have attacked you in the Residence,” said René, his voice mounting in excitement. “He died early on Tuesday!”

“
Bon.
So according to the police log,” she said, “Monday night Vaduz stole a car at the same time I was attacked in Passage de la Boule Blanche.”

“But Serge attached another police report,” said René. “It’s not blue either.”

“Which states . . . ?”

“A man resembling Vaduz, identifiable by those horrible teeth, driving the stolen Peugeot, hung out at a café near Porte la Chapelle. Then he took off with one of the local drug dealers named Barzac.”

“That’s not so good,” she said, worried. Dope dealers were notorious for bending their stories. Especially if the dealer was caught with dope. “The drug dealer probably cut a deal.”

“Meaning?” asked René.

“If the dealer’s mentioned in the report, the
flics
interviewed him. So his testimony can go either way,” she said, “depending on what he’s up for. And how the
flics
prefer he testify.”

“Then what does it matter?” said René. His voice sagged.

“Are you all right, René?” Was she being insensitive, pushing him too hard? She’d heard fatigue before in his voice.

She was obsessed, but she didn’t want to use him at the cost of his health.

“I’m fine,” he said. “What about the MRI . . . what did the doctor say, the one you went out with for a drink?”

Pause. Should she tell René the way he’d kissed . . . the little, growing fantasy of regaining her sight and cooking the doctor dinner after a long day in the hospital? Dinner? . . . She didn’t know how to cook.

“He likes watching sunrises.”

She heard the rustling of paper.

“Look, we’re banging up against a brick wall, Aimée. That’s what I mean. The
flics
want to pin the blame on Vaduz; satisfy the victims’ families’ thirst for justice, and ensure the Préfet’s smooth retirement. They’ll ignore this,
non?
It’s easier for them to place the blame on Vaduz and pretend you’re crazy.”

“We need to talk with the café owner, René,” she said. “Feel like a drive?”

AIMÉE FELT the car shudder as René downshifted and parked. According to Morbier, Porte la Chapelle’s reputation as a cesspool had grown worse in the two years since she’d been there; it had high dope traffic and East European prostitutes had set up shop under the concrete Périphérique and along the rail lines shooting up from Gare du Nord.

“It’s called Café des Roses?” asked René.

Aimée nodded. Then she wished she hadn’t, as resulting fireworks flashed in her head.

“Nice name for a fixer-upper,” he said. “Broken shutters, cracked pavement, peeling paint. And that’s just the outside.”

“So, no stars in the Michelin guide,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”

“The café’s across from a
serrurie
, with a big green key for the locksmith sign. That’s the only other functioning business.”

“Handy,” she said. “All the times I’ve locked myself out, I wish a
serrurie
had been nearby.”

“Several young men wearing dark windbreakers are standing out front of the café,” he said, “and on the pavement. The rest of the buildings are old, Haussman-era, with windows bricked-up.”

Rundown and anonymous. Like much of the area had become.

She heard him turn the ignition off.

“Cars stop,” René reported. “These men go to the windows, hold brief conversations.”

“Then what, René?”

“One just drove off.”

“Drug dealers,” she said. “Let’s have an espresso.”

“ME , I worked the counter that night,” said the café owner, who had a northern, Lille accent.

A former truck driver, Aimée figured. Many bought cafés upon retirement or when their backs gave out from crisscrossing France in 18-hour shifts, 52 weeks a year.

“My wife came down with
la grippe
. White-faced and weak. I sent her upstairs. Busy. That’s all I remember. Worked my feet off all night. My corns still ache.”

Aimée’s hand circled the espresso cup. She knew her hesitant entrance, gripping René’s shoulder, had brought them immediate attention. She heard the skipped beat of conversations, felt the weight of eyes on them. Heard a few guffaws from the corner.

The stale smell of beer, the sticky counter, and grit from the unswept floor bothered her. But not as much as being the center of attention.

“Monsieur, has Barzac been here tonight?” she asked.

No reply. Only the gush of water in the sink and gurgle of beer from the tap.

“Are you shaking your head no?”

“Look, the
flics
were here already,” he said. “Barzac talked with them. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Did the
flics
speak with anyone else?”

“Not that I saw.”

She pulled out the 20 francs arranged the way Chantal had taught her; one edge folded for 20, half-folded bill for 50. A length of the rectangle fold for 100, and a double folded rectangle for 500 franc notes.

“That’s only 10 francs,” said a slurred voice to her right. Garlic breath wafted over her.

“Take it easy, Franck,” said a voice in the rear.

“I always do,” said the garlic-breath.

She felt him lean into her elbow.

“It’s twenty,” she said. “More than enough for two espresso.” She almost added
in a dump like this
.

“You challenging
me
?”

Snickers of laughter came from the corner.

“Don’t pay attention, Aimée. Let’s go,” René said.

“What’s your hurry,
petit?”
said Franck. “The circus leaving?”

The laughter got louder.

“He doesn’t like the clientele,” she said. “Neither do I.”

“Ouch,” said Franck, his voice slurring more. It sounded like he was about to be sick.

Franck, leave it,” said the café owner. “It’s on the house. I
“
don’t take money from the handicapped.”

Her hand shot out in the direction of the owner’s voice and she felt an Adam’s apple. She hoped it was his and squeezed. Chairs scraped across the floor, voices quieted, and whoever’s throat she gripped choked.

“Like that?” she challenged.

“Let’s go, Aimée!” She felt René tugging at her bag.

She pulled the Beretta from her bag, clicked off the safety. The only sounds were the hiss of the dripping steam in the espresso machine and the rumble of trucks outside on the boulevard.

“Somebody did this to me. But harder. Now I can’t see,” she said, and let go. “But I pay my way. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“My partner’s a black belt,” she said. “If you want some action, get in line.”

No one said anything. No one laughed.

“So where’s Barzac?”

Silence.

“I start shooting in ten seconds. And my aim isn’t too good these days. But it’s effective. I can hit the espresso machine and cost you several thousand francs damage. That’s for starters. I’ll bet there’s a gray smoky mirror in front of us. I don’t like those; maybe I’ll start with that.”

Behind her she heard an
ouff
as something connected with breaking glass. “You okay, René?”

Then the sounds of someone being sick.

“I am. But Franck’s looking poorly. I showed him a new jujitsu move.”

“. . . seven seconds, eight seconds . . .” she said.

“Barzac lives above the
serrurie
,” said the café owner. “Second floor.”

Aimée threw down a fifty franc note.

“Keep the change.”

THEY WERE standing at the door of the apartment building.

“Some new pills making you feel better, Aimée?” asked René.

“I’ll feel better when I talk to Barzac,” she said.

Her instinct had made her reach for the Beretta. Thank God she hadn’t used it.

“I thought you left the gun behind,” he said.

“It makes me feel safe.”

She wondered if he understood. Maybe no one could unless they were blind.

She heard René ring the buzzers. None of the apartments answered. Wind gusted around her legs. Cold and damp.

“No lights in the upstairs windows.”

“Let’s try the
serurrie
,” she said.

“Looks like he’s about to close,” said René.

She heard knocking, the door creaked open, then René pulled her hand. Aimée heard a man coughing, the low drone of a television soap opera with a crescendo of music. A dog growled somewhere from the right. Deep and powerful.

“Be careful. Two steps,” René said. “Sorry, monsieur, are you about to close?”

She lifted her foot, felt her way.

“I’m open twenty-four seven,” said a man, interrupted by coughing. “
Arrête,
Brutus.”

The dog ceased growling.

“He’s a sweetheart, take no notice.”

Sounded like a Doberman to Aimée.

“We’re detectives, like to ask you a few questions,” she said. “I’m Aimée Leduc; my partner is René Friant.”