Murder in the Bastille (22 page)

Saturday Evening

“LET’S FIND WHERE JOSIANE was meeting Brault,” said Aimée.

Out on cobbled rue de Lappé, Aimée gripped René’s arm.

The early Saturday evening sounds in a quartier thronged with nightlife flowed around them. Laughter and voices spilled over the narrow street. Young voices, those who’d come into the Bastille for a good time. Later, surly and sullen with drink, they’d straggle home. Get sick in the Métro.

Some rollerbladed with gorilla masks, weaving in formation over the garnet-pink bricks outlining the old Bastille prison. They circled the Bastille column, passing the Café des Phares where patrons debated philosophy and solved the world’s problems on Sunday mornings
.

The Bastille attracted them as it had since the days of the Bal Musette. Sophisticated ones might attend raves outside Paris in abandoned warehouses. But the tradition continued from the 30s, when movie stars and
aristos
had gone slumming on rue de Lappe. Despite the changing face of the
quartier
, working-class types still danced to the accordion, cheek-to-cheek, and everyone drank.

“Brault said it’s down from the Balajo,” she said. “What do you see?”

“Number twenty-four’s next to bar à Nenette,” said René. “There’s a wooden door covered with graffiti, leading to a courtyard.”

“Let’s go visit,” she said.

“
Attention!
” said René.

Too late. Her legs hit a metal marker, short and rounded. She crumpled onto the damp, cobbled pavement. Good thing she’d thrown her arms out and landed on her knees and spread palms.

“Where did that come from?” she asked, rubbing her shin. Her legs must be black and blue all over with the way she’d been bumping into things. She wouldn’t have a whole pair of stockings left. Better stick to wearing pants.

“I’m sorry,” said René. “Bollards dot the walkway, to prevent cars parking.”

She knew in the old days they prevented carriages running into the building.

“These resemble chess pieces, pawns,” said René.

That was what she felt like. A pawn in life’s game. Advancing from square to square but ending in a stalemate.

She heard the unmistakeable crowing of a rooster from inside.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Uneven cobbles greeted them. The crowing grew louder and the strains of an organ grinder accompanied it. A pocket of life, unchanged and utterly Parisian, part of the passages and courtyards honeycombing the Bastille.

“Lost your way, monsieur
et
mademoiselle?”

“Er . . . you could say that,” said René.

“But you might help us,” said Aimée. “Do you make organ grinders here?”

“And the sheet music,” said the man who’d offered to help them. “With the holes punched in them so the platen can ‘read’ the notes.”

“Do you know Josiane Dolet? I’m asking because she was meeting a friend here on Monday night.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Anyone here who might?”

“Hard to say. A few of us live here. The others work in the ateliers in the day. I’m alone here now.”

The clucking of hens came from nearby.

“Who owns the chickens, monsieur?”

“They belong to Ravic, the ironsmith.”

“He still works in iron?”

“
Mais oui
,” the man said. “The iron forge stands behind the chicken cages. He’s closed today. Gone to his niece’s wedding.”

“Merci
for your help, monsieur.”

Another dead end. She turned and tugged René’s arm.

They walked past the chickens. Strains from the organ grinder’s tinny music rose behind them.

And then it clicked. Of course. She turned back, grabbed René’s arm.

“May I ask, monsieur, does Ravic work with lead?”

“All kinds of metal. Not just iron. He supplied me with a lead compound for my new handle. My old one wore out.”

“Wouldn’t that be heavy?”

“Not that heavy.”

Her ears perked up.

“Not that heavy?”

“Ravic uses thin leaded sheets,” he said. “Mixed with some alloy, for strength.”

“Does he supply craftsmen in the area?”

Silence. Did he shrug or shake his head?

“I’m sorry but I can’t see you.”

“Mais oui
,” he said, a chuckle in his voice. “He supplies everyone.”

“
Merci
, monsieur.”

Buttery smells wafted from somewhere as they reached rue de Lappé. René told her to wait, then she felt something warm put in her hand.

“What’s this?”

“A Bastille
pavé,
a cobblestone,” he said. “At least that’s what the boulangerie calls them.”

“It tastes more like chocolate pastry,” she said. “Delicious.”

She clutched René’s elbow as they walked, cupping crumbs with her other hand.

“What are you getting at, Aimée?” asked René.

“Do you remember what Brault said about Dragos looking for lead?”

“So what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I need to reach Vincent,” she said. “To find out. Let’s go call from a café. We’ll try another number.”

“VINCENT CSARDA, ” he answered at the first ring.

“We need to talk, Vincent.”

“Impossible. Look, sorry,” he said. “Let me call you later.”

“This can’t wait, Vincent.”

“Bad time right now,” he said.

“Your bad time’s just beginning if we don’t persuade
la Proc
to ignore your affair, Vincent,” she said, improvising as she went along.

“What do you mean?” His voice lowered.

“Having an affair is your business except . . .”

“Join the planet, Aimée Leduc,” he said. “Get back to reality.”

“It’s who you had the affair with ‘Inca,’ ” she said.

She heard rustling, as if his hand covered the phone. Mur-murred speech.

“How do you mean?”

“Kinky, threesome or however Inca liked it,” she said. “Short for Incandescent.”

“Who?”

“Those hot e-mails make it hard to convince the
Proc
you had no involvement with Incandescent.”

“Leave my business alone,” he said, his voice brittle. “Our contract has ended.”

“And to think, a moment before you apologized!” she said. “But in a court of law, as I told you, we’re still responsible. Monday’s the court date, René expects the subpoena to issue then.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“Vincent, I’ve got the software to prove it. And I will. It’s personal now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Why couldn’t he understand? Face it, he didn’t want to understand.

He kept talking. “We just settled our negotiations in Bordeaux,” said Vincent. “Those vintners take their time. I kept telling them, backing a business isn’t like aging wine. One has to move in a flash. Thank God for Martine. She’s saved the magazine.”

Hadn’t Martine spoken with him?

She took a deep breath. “After you stormed out of the resto, when I was en route to the Métro, someone attacked me. Or maybe you know all about that?”

“What do you mean?”

He sounded surprised.

“Josiane, the woman who sat next to us was killed in the adjoining passage. I’m going to find out who attacked me and murdered her. I’ve got time, since the attacker blinded me.”

The words had tumbled from her. She heard him gasp on the other end.

“You? A murder?” His surprise sounded genuine.

Aimée’s reply caught in her throat.

And a terrible thought crossed her mind. She remembered Josiane sitting and smoking at the table adjoining theirs. And her glance their way. Had her look been aimed at Vincent?

“You knew Josiane Dolet, didn’t you?”

Silence.

Was that planned . . . had there been some code between them? Or had she been about to speak with him, but thought better of it and agreed to meet him later?

“You killed Josiane.”

“You’re not making sense,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All these allegations about an affair and now . . .”

“She investigated your ties to Incandescent. The money laundering for the gun-running . . .”

“This has nothing to do with that,” he said, his voice low, filled with emotion. “Look, Aimée I’ve been keeping this quiet. One of my friends had a relationship with her. But I’m shocked to learn she’s dead.”

“Your friend? If you knew her, why didn’t you speak to her?”

“But I didn’t know her, not to talk to anyway. There’s a lot more on my mind than a friend’s estranged lover.”

“Martine was in Bordeaux, didn’t you see her?”

Wouldn’t Martine have told Vincent about the attack on her?

“Tiens! I
prepared the groundwork. Then I just missed her. Alain Ducasse had demanded a correction in the nouvelle cuisine review about to print. Another impending catastrophe
.
So she flew to Lyon, soothed him, and sweet-talked him out of it. She works miracles, does Martine.”

She knew Martine. And she believed him.

Metal clanged in the background and what sounded like knocking, then a door opening.

“I have to go,” said Vincent.

“Who killed Josiane?”

“Leave me alone,” said Vincent. His voice cracked.

“These Russian e-mails weren’t part of the Opéra advertising campaign were they?”

“Russian e-mails?”

“Why did you encrypt them?”

“I don’t contact the Russian Opéra or encrypt e-mails,” said Vincent. “Why would I?” But his voice slowed, as if weighing his words.

“René made backup tapes,” she said. “It’s all on there.”

“You’re
folle!
Out of your mind.”

And he hung up. One thing she could say for Vincent, he was consistent; tearing up contracts, walking out, and hanging up on her. But he’d sounded genuinely surprised hearing of the attack on her and of Josiane’s murder.

Then what was he hiding? And what friend’s affair had he been shielding?

“Where are we going?” asked Aimée, as they got into the Citroen.

“Vincent’s office.”

“You want to try to make him reconsider in person?”

“Can’t hurt,” said René. “His office is on rue Charenton. Close by.”

She heard René’s turn signals beat a pattern. From outside the window came the revving of cars shifting into first gear.

“He’s scared, René,” she said. “He says his friend was having an affair with Josiane.”

“Two ends of the spectrum, aren’t they?”

“These e-mails generated a lot of steam,” she said.

“But why would Vincent kill her?” asked René.

Aimée shook her head and regretted it. The sparks behind her eyelids moved.

“The
Proc
’s assistant will meet with us before the hearing on Monday if . . .”

“How will we explain the encrypted Russian e-mails?”

“Russian e-mails . . . is that what you were talking about?”

And she described what she’d discovered among Vincent’s deleted e-mails as the car sped along.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “But when I confronted him now, he sounded surprised. Denied knowledge of them. And somehow, I believe him.”

She heard René inhale. “So someone stole his password?”

René had a good point. She hadn’t considered that.

“Or used his computer and logged on with their own. A secretary would know who had access to his office,” she said.

“But first, let’s talk with Vincent, make sure he’s being straight with us.”

But Vincent wasn’t in his office. His secretary said he hadn’t returned and didn’t know when he would.

“Who has access to Monsieur Csarda’s office?” asked René.

“Talk to Monsieur Csarda,” said the secretary, irritation evident in her voice. “Excuse me, but we’re closing now.”

BACK IN Madame Danoux’s apartment, Aimée got on her hands and knees and felt each armchair and cabinet until she found the old record player. Right where Madame Danoux had told her it would be. And Madame’s records. Her collection of old songs from the Bastille.

The floor grumbled. She clutched the nearest thing. The leg of a coarse horsehair upholstered divan. She had to calm down, remember it was only the Métro passing below in the bowels of Bastille.

René had gone to copy the morgue log and would leave it in an envelope for Bellan at the Commissariat. She didn’t want to get Serge in trouble, so they had to disguise her morgue source.

Right now she wanted to hear music. Find the old Bastille songs. The power button stuck out, like the one in her father’s old stereo set. Like on all the phonographs from that time. Her hands traveled over the plastic hood.

She pushed what felt like the turntable switch.

The record dropped onto the turntable. The needle joined it with a soft whisper. A slight crackle, then Jacques Brel’s voice soared with
When one only has love to give to those whose only fight is to search for daylight.
The guitar and Brel’s words, struck her. Moved her.

The French analyzed him. But it was his own Belgians who knew the gray streets of Brussels that he evoked, the wistfulness of old lovers who meet again.

Too much like the way she felt. She ran her fingers over record jackets, so many, dusty and peeling. In the end she put on the next one that smelled old. She put her index finger on the hole and after trial and error, the disk slipped down the tall, thin record holder.

“
Nini peau le chien of the Bastille
,” Aristide Bruant’s turn-ofthe-century
chanson
of a third-class streetwalker accompanied by accordions and a scratchy voice.

She froze. That was it . . . the song. The one her grandmother used to play, the song she had heard in the background over the cell phone. The funny title, skin of the dog . . . as a little girl she’d wondered if it meant Nini’s complexion or her cheap “fur” wrap.

Her mind raced. The same music was in the background
. . .
Nini le peau chien
. . . just like that night.

The doorbell rang. Was it René? Should she answer?

“Who’s there?”

“Madame Danoux?” asked a familiar voice.

Surprised, Aimée stood, took small steps, then bumped into the door. She felt for the lock, turned the deadbolt, pulled the door ajar with the chain still on it. Cold, stale air came in from the hallway.