Murder in the Bastille (4 page)

Wednesday Afternoon

MATHIEU CAVOUR LATCHED THE door behind the dwarf. His hands shook. Shook so much he dropped the old-fashioned key and had to get on his knees to find it between the stones. The pressure, the hiding, running a business . . . he couldn’t take it.

And now this.

His anxiety of last night came back.

He’d awakened in his chair in the atelier, startled by a noise, and shot bolt upright. Sweat had dripped down his shoulder blades. Slanted moonlight had made patterned rectangles on the courtyard’s uneven cobbles.

Then he had heard the scrape of the gate, like before. Fine, he’d get the furniture piece ready. Ignore the guilt he felt. The less he knew or thought about it, the better.

Then the sounds of a struggle had come from the passage, like in his nightmares. The last time he’d heard that sound the serial killer, the Beast of Bastille, had claimed another victim. What should he do? He couldn’t very well call the
flics
and risk exposure.

His restoration work paid the bills and kept the timbered roof over the shop. Barely. Never mind where the pieces of furniture came from or who they’d once belonged to.

When would his contact come? He’d left the metal gate open . . . but one never knew. He paused near the half-open window, his undershirt damp. The struggle had come from the small, paved inner courtyard.

He had held his breath. His hand had quivered as he tugged the limp lace curtain. He had taken a deep breath and parted the lace.

In the courtyard, a man stood in his bathrobe rocking a crying infant. Mathieu had heard cooing as the man soothed the bundle in his arms under the honeysuckle. So the screams had wakened the baby, too.

It must have been teenagers fighting, he told himself. Those sulky ones who hung around the pizza place, an upholsterer’s before the old boss died and Mirador Development had snapped up the building.

He had wanted to go down and check the
cave
. Make sure the piece was safe. But the old stairs creaked and the doors were rusty and stiff. The years had taken their toll. His knees had protested. And the shadowy cobwebbed basement corners, damp stone and crumbling brickwork, were things he avoided even on sunny, warm days.

He had found a Lizst piano concerto on the transistor radio on his work table. Had kept the volume low, hoping he’d fall asleep. But his eyes had stayed glued to the window until long after the baby’s cries quieted and a rosy dawn had painted the jagged Bastille rooftops.

How would telling the dwarf about it help the woman now?

Mathieu should have known, he realized later, that it was a warning. A foretaste of the next day. When the past opened like a fresh wound.

Wednesday

“BONJOUR,
” SAID A VOICE from the shop interior.

In the workshop, Mathieu paused, stretching the band of ash to fit in the grooved notch. He lifted his foot from the foot pedal, halting the rotor blade saw. Sawdust and the smell of freshly sawed wood filled the dusty space.

“Suzanne . . . Suzanne, someone’s in front,” he said, as the metal saw teeth ground to a stop.

But no answering footsteps came from his assistant’s desk.

Where was that girl? She’d gone on an errand more than an hour ago.

“A moment please, and someone will help you,” he called out. He dabbed glue mixed with wood resin in the crack, stretched the wood taut, and slid it gently in place. After wiping off the excess, he sanded the rough edge until no distinction could be felt, as though it were one piece with the wood.

“Delivery!” Another voice shouted. “I need a signature.”

Where was Suzanne? He had an art nouveau rosewood desk drawer to repair and the façade of a console to finish filing. . . . He couldn’t do that and run the shop too. He’d gotten behind since his apprentice Yvon had gone on vacation.

“Oui,
” he said, wiping his hands on his stained apron and peering over the reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Shall I deliver at the rear as usual, monsieur?”

Mathieu went to the front shop, signed the receipt and stuck it on the counter. He dimmed the chandelier, a remnant from his grandfather’s day, and assumed the customer had left.

But when he looked up he saw a slender older woman, wearing a tailored black suit, her blunt-cut steel grey hair brushing her shoulders. She watched him from behind the marble-topped mahogany commode.

“Exquisite!” she said.

Her fingers traveled over the marquetry wood decorated sides.

Though she spoke French well, he detected a slide in her sibilants. She stood, sleek and stylish, carrying a designer tote bag over her arm.

The delivery truck’s brake squealed in the rear cobbled passage. Over the open skylight, a flurry of blackbirds fluttered from the flowering honeysuckle. “My assistant’s disappeared, but if you’ll look at our catalogue while I deal . . .”

“Please, go ahead.”

By the time Mathieu guided the chestnut planks to the rough pine pallets, Suzanne, breathless and red-faced, appeared.

Mathieu’s lips turned down in disapproval. “Suzanne, clients, deliveries and how I can work when . . .”

“Monsieur . . . the police line,” she said, hanging up her jean jacket, scooping up the mail, and hitting the answering machine playback in one swoop.

Suzanne had a head for figures, unlike Mathieu. And when she appeared, she smoothed the office into routine and organization with an effortless charm. He ignored her bare midriff-tops, pierced navel, and penchant for Bastille club DJs who picked her up after work.

“Another strike?” Mathieu sighed. “Who is it this time?”

“
Mais .
. . they’re setting up police barricades,” she said, her eyes wide. “Didn’t you hear?”

Mathieu gripped the desk. His mind flew to the furniture.

“A woman murdered in the next passage; they say it’s the Beast of Bastille.”

The serial killer? Was that what the dwarf had been asking about?

“I had to prove I work here before they would let me into the passage,” Suzanne said. “They’ve started questioning everyone.”

What if they searched . . . found the furniture?

“Monsieur . . . excuse me,” the woman said.

Mathieu looked up. He’d forgotten about the elegant woman in the showroom.

She stared at the commode taking up most of the window space. Her hair fell across her face, and she flicked it away with a graceful movement of her long fingers. Her other hand rested on a black wooden cane.

“My great-great-grandfather’s work, the last one left,” Mathieu said. “I like to display the family’s tradition. It’s on loan from a client. My great-great grandfather kept the business going after the Revolution. Figured tradesmen needed furniture even if
aristos
didn’t.”

“A smart move, yes?” the woman said.

Or, as he remembered the saying attributed to his great-great grandfather, “They needed to park their rears to count the money.”

Was she a client?

“Suzanne, my assistant, can show you samples.”

“Perhaps this is a bad time . . .” An unsure look crossed her face as she reached for something in her bag.

Honor your clientele
. Hadn’t his father drummed that into their heads?
Artisans must respect clients
. Mathieu preferred to stay in back and work, but he knew craftsmanship wasn’t the only thing that kept the shop door open.

He smiled and stuck his ruler in his blue work coat. “Madame, I welcome special orders. Please sit down.”

She ended many of her sentences in the old style with a questioning
yes
. She must be in her seventies, but her complexion could be that of a woman half her age. Wherever she came from, they took care of themselves.

He gestured toward a rosewood chair, brushed a speck of sawdust from the seat.

“For just a moment, but I’m afraid it’s not what you think. I feel guilty taking you away from your work, monsieur,” she said, sitting, resting the cane against her leg. “People tell me I’m chasing what is long gone, but my lawyer gave this to me.”

She pulled an envelope from her bag. “This list came to us from the Comte de Breuve’s estate. Evidently he’d gone bankrupt and the state took it over upon his death. On it, Monsieur Cavour, were some pieces owned by my family: paintings, sculpture, and furniture. Some of these had been in my family for generations. But they disappeared years ago, during the war. They’ve never been seen or heard of again. Now this list has come to light.”

Cold fear rooted Mathieu to the spot. His mouth felt as dry as the sawdust beneath him.

“Rumor had it, Goering liked my father’s collection. So much so, that he appropriated it for the Reich. Between the Reich and Goering’s coffers there was little distinction. According to other rumors, there is some question as to whether the collection ever made it to Germany, on a specially built freight train. Many think the pieces never left France, yes?”

“Madame, why do you come to me?” Mathieu asked, gripping the edge of the work table.

“Yes, of course, I’m bothering you with this old story. Please hear me out. In the account books we saw the Cavour shop name, and know you are respected
ébénistes
. The Comte’s files went back to when your grandfather, then your father, and perhaps even you, worked on his pieces.”

Bile stuck in Mathieu’s throat. If he told her the truth, or what he knew of the truth, he’d lose everything; the atelier, the building where he’d been born, and his business: the business he struggled to keep open and out of the tax man and developers’ reach.

“I’m so sorry to hear of the Comte’s passing,” said Mathieu, trying to keep his expression neutral. “He was a patron and good client for us. What about the other craftsmen required by his large collection?”

“I’m an old woman,” she said. “And foolish to have hope. So many have told me. But one piece was special. The pieta dura commode.”

Mathieu stiffened.

“This was my father’s favorite. He’d recognized it in some pawn shop. Furniture from Versailles, lost in the Revolution. Papa had an eye. He said what caught him was the marble ‘the color of his little girl’s eyes.’ My eyes. And he had to have it. They say it’s worth a lot now, but it’s not the money, you see. It’s that papa thought of me when he bought it. And that’s all that’s left. They took my father and family and everything else.”

The old woman’s large eyes brightened. Still beautiful, and a curious topaz amber color. Remarkable.

“The lawyer says I’m foolish but if I found it again, I wouldn’t keep it. Those things aren’t meant to be kept by one person, one family . . . something this beautiful belongs to all. I just want to see it again. Feel the marble, oil it, like papa taught me. That’s all.”

She leaned forward, emitting a delicate floral scent. “I had to come to your
atelier,
yes? See for myself the pieces you work on. Smell again that furniture oil odor I remember from childhood; yes, it’s the same. Our house was filled with it, too. Funny, the things that stick in your memory. I remember it as a time when the sun seemed like a big lemon and it shone every day.”

Mathieu was torn. “I wish I could help you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m taking your time and rambling,” she said, with a small shrug. She handed him her card. Dr. Roswitha Schell, University of Strasbourg, Professor of Art History
.
“I’m semi-retired and teach part-time. But I’m boring you, yes?”

“
Non
,” Mathieu said, averting his gaze. He knew the pieta dura commode, better than she could imagine.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a conversation with a cultured woman. These days he rarely left the
quartier
. Too much to do. His niece berated him for working so hard and he’d reply “That’s how we were raised. I was born over the shop, measured chair rungs from when I could count.”

But the Cavour name, the skill and secrets handed down from father to son since 1794, would end with him if he didn’t continue with his plan. He wouldn’t let it happen.

And Mathieu realized those eyes had shifted . . . perplexed. She’d thrust something at him, her cool fingers brushing his arm. Soft like a butterfly’s wing.

“Forgive me,” he said, trying to look away. But he couldn’t.

“But these photos . . . perhaps they could jog your memory. Maybe you’d seen the piece before at the Comte’s, yes?”

But Mathieu turned away.

“Monsieur?”

Elegant and cultured and kind. Like the Comte.

“Art’s not cerebral, there’s more than that,” she was saying. Her voice rose, lyrical. “The indefinable something from the soul that most of us strive for. Few achieve it, much less describe it.”

Why wouldn’t she stop talking? And then, quiet. He looked around, afraid of her accusing glances. But admiration and something like awe shone in her face.

“You must think me a blathering fool!” she said. “But I see, you’re an artist. You, of all people, must realize how much it means to me.”

A pang of guilt pierced him.

She lifted a small folder. Inside were photos from a lost time; black and white images of a young boy in a sailor suit, a serious-looking girl with long braids holding his hand. They stood in a room surrounded by museum-quality furniture, Impressionist paintings on the wall.

Conflicted, he turned away. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you. But I don’t know how.”

“Monsieur, forgive me, I’ve offended you,” she said, “I’m sorry this came out all wrong. I’m grabbing at a thread from more than fifty years ago.”

He saw her to the door and watched her make her way through the courtyard.

Nothing must threaten his arrangement. Nothing. Even though the pieta dura commode sat in his cellar, refinished and ready for the auction house.

Wednesday late afternoon

AIMÉE FIDDLED WITH THE bandages around her neck. The stiff awkward bulk bothered her. Her hair clumped in sticky strands from the gel she’d combed through it. Or thought she had. She never realized combing hair could be such an art. And how hard it was without sight.

She heard a familiar gait cross the linoleum: Morbier’s slight shuffle. His right foot was half a size larger than his left, so even though he wore an extra sock on it, one shoe flapped.

The breeze had stopped flowing through the window. He must be crossing on her left and have taken in her hospital gown and seen the chart at the foot of the bed.

“There’s food on your tie, Morbier,” she said, facing the window.

The footsteps stopped. “Can you see?”

“You always have food on your tie,” she said. “Grab a chair.”

“I spoke with the nurse. She didn’t say much,” he said. “How bad is it?”

Was that concern in his voice?

She let a big silence fill the space. Morbier, a master interrogator, knew how to wait.

So did she.

Trolley cart wheels wobbled and squeaked in the hallway. Lunch was over; maybe it was medication time.

“That bad?” he asked finally.

“You mean, can I see anything?”

“That’s a start,” he said.

He wasn’t one to deal well with emotion. If at all.

“Or will I ever see again?” She threw her leg over the bed, reached for what she thought was her comb on the tray. It clattered to the floor.

She heard him grunt as he bent down for the comb.

“The neurosurgeon’s procedure saved my life, but the lack of oxygen or the bleeding from the blows to my skull obscure where a weak vein ruptured.”

“Say it so I can understand, Leduc.”

“They call it complications of treatment.”

“Aha . . . clear as Seine mud.”

She agreed.

“Someone attacked me in the passage,” she said. “The force of the blow caused a weak vein wall in my brain to burst.”

“And the prognosis?”

She heard him rifling through his pocket, the crinkle of paper.

“The doctor’s becoming repetitive. ‘Just wait and see.’ ‘No pun intended,’ he says.”

She wished her relationship with Morbier was different. For a moment, she wanted Morbier to throw his big arms around her. Hold her. Tell her it would be all right and that he would make things better. Like he had once when she was little and her father was away on stakeout. After school, she’d tripped and split open her knee on the Commissariat’s marble step. He’d scooped her up, held her to his scratchy wool jacket, dried her tears with his sleeve and cleaned her knee while telling her stories about his old dog who loved strawberries and would fall asleep standing up.

She wasn’t a child anymore. And she might not ever be all right. What if the blindness didn’t go away?

“Got a cigarette, Morbier?”

“Didn’t you quit?”

“I’m always quitting,” she said. “There’s one in your pocket, isn’t there?”

“Why do you think the Beast of Bastille attacked you?”

“Did I say that?” She lay back and stared into the blankness, imagining what he looked like; the pouches under his alert brown eyes, his jowly cheeks, the socialist party pin worn in his lapel, a used handkerchief . . . she felt a thin stick wedged in her hand, then heard the sound of crinkling.

“Suck.”

“Morbier!” She smelled lemon. She aimed and hit her lip, then tasted a sour Malabar lollipop.

“Better than coffin nails,” he said. “So talk to me.”

“Sergeant Bellan questioned me already. I might feel like sharing, if I knew the murder victim’s name.”

“This case belongs to the special detail for the 11ième.” That’s what Bellan had said. But Morbier must know some- thing since he’d answered the phone there. However, as always, he’d make her pay for his information. “Not my fiefdom,” he said.

If only she could see his face!

She’d give him an edited version.

“Look Morbier, here’s what I know, maybe you can open your mouth after you listen to me,” she said. “In that trendy resto, Violette, I incurred the wrath of my big client, Vincent. Next to us sat a woman, wearing the same Chinese jacket I’d paid the moon for, talking on her phone.”

She told him the rest.

“Now tell me. Who was the woman killed on Monday night? Which passage was she found in?”

Morbier hesitated. “Like I said, this isn’t my case.”

“I heard the old woman who found her interviewed on the
télé,”
Aimée said. “The old woman gave out more details than you.”

She heard tapping on the linoleum.

“Keep this to yourself. The victim was found in the cour de Bel Air,” he said. “The courtyard next door to where you were attacked.”

“Those passages and courtyards all connect somehow, don’t they?”

“Nice theory,” he said. “But who knows?”

Since she couldn’t see his face or body language she had to listen more closely to his words. “They’ll find Vaduz. Don’t worry,” he said.

“What worries me, Morbier, is that it’s not him.”

“Leduc, he’s killed five women,” said Morbier. “This case and the attack on you both fit the victim profile.”

“Which is . . . ?“

He yawned. She heard a slight snapping. He broke toothpicks when he was nervous or deep in thought.

“Why not tell me, Morbier?” Frustrated, she twisted the sheets between her palms. “Early thirties, currently blond-streaked, single . . .”

“Wrong,” interrupted Morbier. “Single like you, but all living in the Bastille area. The victims were in their late twenties, thirties, and one was a woman in her forties. Dirty blonde, tall like you. Usually a party girl. Some hung out in the Spanish tapas places, the clubs. A certain type. Showy.”

She hesitated. “I planned on staying in Bastille, in Martine’s brother’s place, while he’s working in Shanghai.”

“Since when?”

“Remodeling a kitchen and bathrooms takes forever. And fixing the electric wiring will take until the next century. René’s neighbor’s taking care of Miles Davis now . . .”

“Won the Lotto, have you?”

Why did she always forget how quick Morbier was?

“You could say that,” she said, wondering whether to tell him how she’d justified finally updating her apartment’s electric wiring and plumbing.

“
Non,
” he said. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

She visualized his thick hands held up, as she’d often seen them if she teased him.

“Tell me, Morbier, did this latest victim match the profile?”

Silence. What she wouldn’t give to see the expression crossing Morbier’s face right now!

“So I take it she didn’t,” Aimée said. “Or the fit isn’t close.”

“This victim was in her early forties. Like one of the others. Close enough,” he said, his voice tired. “Vaduz was released Monday afternoon on a technicality. Let’s give a big round of thanks to his
salope
of a supposed socialist lawyer! One of those
gauche-caviar
elite who give socialism a bad name. So Vaduz suffered a hurry-up urge to kill after his mother’s funeral. Maybe the woman reminded him of his mother. Or maybe you did.”

So Vaduz was still out of jail.

“The woman in the resto had long Purple Vamp nails, thick blonde hair.” She hoped Morbier would finish for her.

He didn’t.

“Black Chinese silk jacket . . . it’s her, isn’t it? said Aimée. “Tell me, Morbier. I’m stuck in a hospital bed.”

And she couldn’t say it . . .
blind and scared
.

“Alors,
Leduc, the victim lived above Marché d’Aligre. Next of kin haven’t even been notified, so I can’t give her name out. You know the rules. Like I said, I’m en route elsewhere.”

A chair scraped on the linoleum; Morbier must have stood in his odd-sized shoes.

“However, Vaduz was seen in the Bastille area,” he said. “So there’s location and the window of time. Let’s say he knows the victim, phones her, but gets you. It shows malice, forethought.”

No matter how he added it up, she knew it didn’t compute.

“What happened to the cell phone he rang?” he said. “We could trace the call.”

“Gone,” she said.

“The victim fits the type Vaduz chose: Close enough in looks, the right location, and method of murder.”

It couldn’t be.

“But the man on the telephone insisted she ‘forget her pride and meet him.’ He knew her, Morbier.”

“Vaduz knew some of his victims. And when he was released, he said he was going to visit his dentist in the Bastille. He had a mouthful of rotten teeth.”

“The file would show if they were acquainted,” she said.

“It’s not my case,” he said. “Right now, it’s a botched-up job from when they let Vaduz out. A real
pétard.
”

Of course, releasing a serial killer to kill again wouldn’t restore public confidence in the police.

“This sexual predator is supposed to have killed several women in the Bastille area. How come no one connected them until last year?” Aimée asked.

“Not you, too,” Morbier said. “You sound like the parents. The one this morning harangued me for an hour; why didn’t we do DNA testing, compare samples?”

“Good question,” she said. “But that would be hard, since you have no DNA repository to check it against, much less . . .”

“No funding from the Police Judiciare,” he interrupted.

“You know how that is . . . half of Brigade Criminelle don’t even have computers at their desks.”

He let out a big sigh.

“That’s why they called me in,” he said. “Last minute.”

Damage control. He’d been doing more and more of that recently.

“Like I said, it’s not my case,” said Morbier. “Bellan’s in charge. I’m supposed to be en route to Créteil.”

“Créteil?”

“‘Law enforcement in the new millennium’ seminar,” he said, expelling a loud breath. “Spare me. But that’s up in the air now.”

“Why?”

Silence. She hated it when he dribbled out bits of information then clamped shut.

“Talk to me, Morbier,” she said.

“They don’t have enough staff to handle the explosives scare,” he said. “The ministry’s pulling Commissaires and men from the arrondissements.”

She took a last lick of the lollipop and wound the damp stick around her finger.

“An explosives scare? Sounds big.”

“Huge, Leduc,” he said, a tone of finality in his voice. “You’re out of commission. So stay out of this. Don’t think about asking any more.”

Bigger than huge. Gigantic, if Morbier talked like this.

“I’m interested in Vaduz’s teeth,” she said.

“Not a pretty sight. Seems Vaduz opened his mouth, pointed to his rotting fillings,” Morbier said, “moaned about needing the dentist’s drill.”

“What about the jealous husband angle?”

“She wasn’t married,” he said. “The Préfet keeps reminding me he’s got another five days to retirement,” Morbier said. “After a stellar twenty-five year career, the Préfet wants to depart with full honors from the Mayor. So he’d like the blame for the Vaduz mess to rest elsewhere. Too bad he can’t think of where else to put it. Right now, the Gendarmerie looks like the next candidate.”

“Why?” she said. “They’re not responsible.”

“Tell that to the public,” he said. “All us uniforms look alike, and we’re all to blame. The victims’ families want justice or vengeance.”

Morbier’s pager beeped and she heard him fumble in his pockets.

“May I borrow your hospital phone, Leduc?”

She nodded. Then her aching neck protested in response.

From the brusque tone of Morbier’s conversation, she knew something had gone wrong. He hung up.

“What happened?”

She heard Morbier’s long sigh.

“Some problem in the Place du Trône,” he said, using the old name, the King’s throne, for Place de la Nation. Aimée found it ironic, since he was a dyed-in-the-wool socialist.

“But Morbier, the caller who spoke to me knew the woman he was phoning. He sounded intimate with her.”

“You told me. I’ve got to go,” he said. “The Préfet wants the case closed, clean and neat. Let’s agree on this, Leduc. Vaduz thought you were the victim. He was scared off when passers- by came down the passage. Lots of nightlife in the Bastille quartier. He’d been stalking the other woman before he encountered you. Then he found her.”

Morbier continued. “This isn’t my turf, Leduc.” He let out a tired sigh. “The powers that be are trying to nail Vaduz. He’s brutally killed five women. And they’re salivating now, talking about the ‘special accomodation’ they’ve prepared for him at the Quai des Orfèvres—a wire and iron cage for his interrogation.” Another tired sigh. “The victims’ parents are angry and tired. And five bodies later, they’re demanding blood. Vaduz’s blood, and strong police action. So unless you’ve got something concrete, Leduc, I’ll recommend they tie this up with a nice bow.”

She leaned back against the large pillows. What Morbier said was likely true. But the man who had attacked
her
wasn’t Vaduz.

“Look, you know my hunches are good,” she said. “Papa trained me. I don’t agree. No serial stalker like Vaduz has such finesse. You said he has rotten teeth, right? But I don’t remember bad breath. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Heard of breath mints?” said Morbier. “Didn’t you suffer a concussion and black out?”

“Morbier, what aren’t you telling me?”

Silence.

“Spit it out, Morbier.”

“What your father would have told you,” said Morbier. “Get the hell out of what you’re doing and stick to computers.”

His remark made her angry.

“After dining with a client, I was attacked, blinded. But it sounds like you think I invited it,” she said. She wanted to throw the phone at him but she didn’t know where it was. “It wasn’t the Beast of Bastille, that much I know.”

A sob caught in her throat. But she stifled it.

“I just worry you’re not safe. Sorry . . . don’t do well . . . it’s this hospital. . . .” his voice broke. “
Alors
, I’ll keep my ears open.”

And with that Morbier was gone.

He’d never apologized to her or anyone in his life, that she knew of. What a first . . . a hollow victory.