Murder in the Bastille (23 page)

“It’s me,” said Dr. Guy Lambert. “Can I come in?”

She slid the chain back and let him in.

A warm hand cupped her shoulder. “
Ça va?”

“Never better,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a huge smile. “Madame Danoux’s not here.”

“But you’re the purpose of my visit,” he said, taking her hand. “We were talking about dinner, remember?”

She liked his hands; the warmth and the way his fingers tapered. Slender yet strong.

How could she have forgotten?

“Notice any changes in your vision?”

“More of the same: swirling dots and pebble patterns or a grayish net. Is this what it will be like?” she said. “It makes me dizzy like a whirlpool that never ends. Nauseous.”

“That could persist for a long time,” he said. “Nothing happens quickly, I’m afraid.”

His voice moved. Where was he?

“Except for how I feel about you.”

Had he said what she thought she heard?

“What do you mean?”

“You’re always getting into trouble,” he said.

“Everyone needs a trademark.”

But he didn’t laugh. She sensed him standing next to her. And all her consciousness settled on his hands enveloping hers.

“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.” His hands traveled up her arm, to the place where her shoulder met her neck. “I’m getting to like keeping you out of broom closets and safe from attackers.”

Was this some rescue fantasy he had? His words didn’t feel as welcome as she thought they would. But his warmth and the faint scent of Vetiver did.

From somewhere in the street came the muted clash of cymbals, the thunder of a kettle drum, and the clear peal of a tenor’s voice.

“Opéra tonight,” he said. “
Don Giovanni
.”

“Believe it or not,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight.”

“You’re boasting.”

Maybe she was. “Boastful or not, it’s the way my life’s played out. No one’s ever wanted to take care of me except my father.”

Her hand brushed a stiff plastic rectangle of his badge, then the cold metal of his stethoscope.

“On duty, Doctor?”

“Just on call, until morning.”

“So that means?”

“I’m at the mercy of my beeper, but we can have dinner,” he said.

“Hungry?” She felt for his warm hand.

And she wanted to be close to him. Right now.

“Famished.”

“Feel like appetizers in my room?” she said, turning and pulling his stethoscope. “That’s if I can find it.”

His footsteps stopped.

What was wrong?

“
Attends
,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” She let go of the stethoscope.

“I know about people in your condition,” he said. “You feel grateful but . . .”

“I’m not people. I’m me.”

Pause.

“There’s the doctor and patient relationship to consider . . .” he said.

“But you’re no longer my doctor,” she said. “You referred me to a retinologist. Remember?”

Another pause.

“Is that it? A quick jump under the duvet?” he said, his voice low.

Was that anger in his voice?

She sensed him moving away.

Great. She wanted to curl up and disappear. What in the world had she done? Thrown herself at this man who smelled delicious, whose touch thrilled her?

Merde!
She deserved some kind of medal, ruining her chances with a man in record time. Talk about faux pas. Why had she done that? Acted so desperate with her doctor!

Better salvage a scrap of dignity and see him to the door.

“Bet you thought I meant it, didn’t you?” she said. “I was testing you.”

“Liar.” His scent wafted in front of her. He pulled her close. “But you’re beautiful. Banged up knees, spikey hair, and all.”

She didn’t expect that.

“You’ve as much as said I’ll never see again.”

“What does that matter?”

“A lot.”

“To you,” he said. “But you have to get over that hurdle. Move on. Try. You’ll be happier when you do.”

Could she be happy without seeing?

This felt all mixed up and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time a man
refused
to sleep with her. Time to take her wounded vanity and climb into a hole.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said.

“Enlighten me.”

“Before medicine, I studied literature,” he said. “Scribbled poetry. You make me think of Byron’s lines . . . ‘She walks in beauty like the night.’ ”

Out in the night, a police siren wailed.

“I wish I wasn’t so attracted to you,” he said.

Now she was more confused than ever.

And then suddenly he was kissing her like last time. Her leg wrapped around his and she held him tight. He pulled her down onto the horsehair sofa.

His scent was in her hair, his lips brushing her neck. She gripped his back. And that’s when his pager went off, beeping near her elbow.

“
Merde!
” he said.

Non. Non, non,
she almost shouted.

“You couldn’t pretend you didn’t hear it, could you?” she asked, feeling his elbow and warm breath in between kisses on her arm.

She heard clicking as he read his message. Felt his body stiffen. “Not when a three-year-old’s spilled acid base photograph developing emulsion and rubbed it in his eyes.” She felt him pulling away, his hands helping her up. “If I hurry I’ll get there when the ambulance does.”

And in two minutes he was gone. Only his Vetiver scent lingered.

SHE WOKE up to the rain spattering on the skylight above.

And she felt safe, cocooned in the big warmth of the duvet.

Her senses were heightened. Every part of her tingled remembering his kiss, the way he hadn’t stopped. . . .

And then she heard the accordion strains of
Nini le peau de chien . . .

Again . . . like the background of the phone call on the stranger’s cell phone.

She froze.

Was the killer here? In the apartment?

But how?

Doubt invaded her. And for a moment she wondered if she’d gotten it all wrong. Made a mistake. The serial killer was alive and still . . .
non,
that made no sense.

Yet her blood ran cold.

She pulled the duvet off, crawled her way to the door. Listened.

Madame Danoux’s voice joined the chorus of
Nini
on the record. Footsteps beat a pattern on the floor as if she were dancing. The old folkdance,
la bourrée
. So Madame Danoux danced by herself on Saturday nights.

But Aimée couldn’t sleep any more. She felt for the bed, then sat down on the floor and combed her fingers through her short hair.

She’d set the talking alarm clock to wake her up, but there was no reason to wait. She called Le Drugstore, followed the procedure, and within four minutes spoke to Martin.

“It’s like this,
ma petite
mademoiselle,” said Martin, as if imparting a confirmation gift. “No news at all, nothing really.”

She figured his usual police informants had clammed up. “But Martin, you of all people have impeccable connections.”

“So some say,” he replied. She heard a pleased chuckle in his voice.

“There’s a whisper. Something to do with
Don Giovanni
,” he said. “Know him?”

“Not personally. It’s an opera.”

“My source says a Romanian caught in the 11ième for selling Ecstasy died.”

“Dragos Iliescu?”

She heard Martin expel a deep breath. Tinged with smoke, no doubt. “Why do you need me? You know already.”

“Was it bad dope?”

“The BRIF got involved immediately.”

That meant heavy duty. And Morbier was with them.

“If it’s not dope, Martin, what is it?”

“Not known by my usual channels. A mystery, they say. Probably the Romanians had a sweet deal. But they got careless, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. People got burned.”

Her excitement mounted. Where had she heard that before?

“Burned?”

“And I don’t mean figuratively.”

FROM THE the hallway, she heard water running in Madame Danoux’s kitchen.

She pushed the talking clock, which said 1:00 a.m., then pulled on the nearest things she could reach. Her leather skirt, the tight zip-up sweatshirt. She struggled into her ankle boots and felt her way into kitchen.

“Madame Danoux, are you dressed?”

“What a question! Of course, I haven’t even taken my makeup off yet . . .”

“
Bon,
” she interrupted. “Be an angel.”

“And do what?”

“Come for a drink with me,” she said, reaching for Madame Danoux’s arm. “Let’s go down the street. To the corner.”

IN THE
bar-tabac
on rue Moreau, a block away, Aimée’s hand trembled. She couldn’t lift the
panache
to her lips without spilling.

“Why so nervous?” asked Madame Danoux, beside her at the counter, yawning. She sounded petulant. “You wanted to come here!”

She gripped Madame Danoux’s warm hand. What if the killer was here tonight? But she hadn’t confided in her, she had to see if her hunch was right.

“I need to talk with Clothilde, the owner, Mimi’s friend,” said Aimée.

“Aaah, I know the one.”

“Did you see her tonight?”

“By the door,” she said. “The accordion player comes, she lets in those she likes. Then locks the door. Only a natural disaster will get you out before dawn.”

“Please, can you ask her to join us,” she said.

“Let me try and get her attention.”

Around her, glasses tinkled, the milk steamer hissed and grumbled, and a woman’s shrill laughter came from somewhere farther down the counter. Aimée smelled the thick tang from a cigarette burning somewhere in an ashtray. Here she stood in a smoke-filled café and didn’t have one.

She turned toward a conversation. The barman?

“Sorry to interrupt, a pack of Gauloise light please.”

“Too bright in here for you?”

“I wish.” She’d worn dark glasses, a pair Martine had sent.

“But, I see,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I mean, sorry . . .”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everyone stumbles over those phrases. Me, too. How much?”

“Won’t your doctor get upset?” he asked.

“I’m a big girl,” she said, sliding a twenty franc note along the zinc counter.

She felt Madame Danoux’s breath in her hair. “Clothilde’s busy. That drink hit me, I’m tired. Let me take you back.”

Part of her wanted that. The other part refused. She
had
to find out who had called.

“You go ahead,” she said. A frisson of fear passed through her.

“You seem nervous.” Madame Danoux squeezed her arm. “Sure?”

“
Bien sûr,”
she said. “I’ll get help to go back.”

Her landlady left.

“Monsieur, where’s the phone?”

“End of the counter.”

“Remember a person who used the phone on Monday night?”

“Could have been anyone.”

“Someone called me, then they hung up,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort. “I heard the accordion in the background.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “When they start singing, it’s impossible to hear.”

Someone pressed a paper into her hand. “That’s sheet music.”

Sheet music? As though she could read.

“Sorry, my bus broke down. I got here late Monday,” the bartender said. “Anyone see who used the phone on Monday? Help this lady?”

“How about Lucas?” said someone at the counter. “He sees everything!”

The remark, greeted with laughter, made her want to slink away, fly a million miles off. Blindness felt like being naked in a world of clothed people. All her expressions were read, but she could decipher none.

“Give me a break, eh!”

She recognized Lucas’s voice. But he was laughing.

“Aimée Leduc? Pay no attention to these old men,” he said, clutching her elbow. “I know all the songs by heart. You don’t need to read. They’re jealous.”

“Lucas, do you know if Clothilde’s still busy?” she said, glad the dark glasses masked her eyes. Milky opaqueness crackled in the corners of her vision. Veins of shooting dull lights throbbed at the edges. Like slowly flowing lava.

Merde.
It was if the earth shifted and gravity pulled her sideways.

She clutched the rounded zinc counter, her fingers on the filature, trying to concentrate.

“Clothilde?” Lucas said, stools scraping beside him. “You give me too much credit; peripheral vision isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

This time his voice boomed over the accordion, tinkling glasses and conversation. “Clothilde!”

“J’arrive!”

The eruptions taking place in her eyes made her dizzy. Blinks of light, a lessening of the pressure on the optic nerve . . . hadn’t the retinologist said that? Maybe those pills had already reduced the swelling.

It made her yearn to see more. But deep down she feared it wouldn’t happen. Face it. She was afraid to hope.

“Lucas, your women get younger and younger!” said Clothilde.

Aimée heard what sounded like a slap on his rear. And felt the presence of a towering, perfumed woman.

“Clothilde, you broke my heart,” he said, “Now I have to go for the young ones.”

“Bonsoir,
Clothilde, I know you’re busy,” Aimée said. “But Mimi is my neighbor.”

“Mimi . . . of course!” she said.

“She mentioned you might help. Someone using your phone called me Monday night about eleven. Remember?”

“Monday,
never,”
she said. “I opened at midnight.”

Aimée’s heart sank. The counter jumped as a bottle landed by her.

“Mais non
. . . what am I saying? Monday night my accordionist started at ten p.m. He left early for an accordion slam . . . whatever that is!”

“Do you remember who was here at the counter?”

“My
habitués,
the regulars.”

“Do you know who used the phone?”

“
Chérie,
for one franc, anyone uses the phone,” she said.

Aimée expected that. And it could be true. But she suspected Clothilde ran a tight ship and had eyes in the back of her head, like any good owner would. She’d know who drank what, how to keep the regulars happy, when to talk and when to listen.