Murder in the Bastille (7 page)

Wednesday Night

AIMÉE PRETENDED SHE WAS playing hide and seek in her grandmother’s garden in the Auvergne. She’d tie a mothball-scented scarf around Aimée’s head, spin her around four times . . . “Count them,” she’d say, then shove her forward. Her grandmother made her keep the blindfold on.

Her giggling younger cousin Sebastien often gave his location away; under the ripe plum tree or behind the trickling water fountain. Despite her impatience, she’d stand as still as she could, until she thought she could hear the high grass shift in the breeze, leaves crackle or a branch rustle. She’d smell the aroma of an Auvergnat speciality, the soft-ripening Cantal cheese, from the lunch table.

And then she’d pounce on Sebastien. Tickle him until he begged for mercy. And then it would be his turn and they’d do it all over again. All afternoon on those warm, summer days.

She remembered the grassed-in yard bordered by crumbling stone walls; on the other side lay a muddy cow enclosure. Aimée would feel her way along the pebbly stone, the outcropping of azalea bushes, over the fallen ripe plums squishing beneath her sandals, hearing the occasional crunch of snail-shells. The drone of lazy summer bees competed with the cackle of hens.

Sort of like now. Except she was hobbling over cobblestones guided by someone she’d never seen, hearing the distant roar of cars on what must be rue Charenton pulling into the courtyard of l’hôpital des Quinze-Vingts, smelling the Seine’s scent rising on the wind, and feeling the sun’s heat on her bare arms.

“I thought we were going to the residence. . . .”

“No room at the inn,” Chantal said. “They’re full. You’re going to the old residence, now used by the staff and as an adjunct for old-timers like me.”

“Where is it?”

“On the corner of rue Moreau and rue Charenton. I’m teaching you a shortcut past the back of the Opéra and its parking lot. Pay attention. Remember. It’s important.”

“Will there be a quiz?” Aimée’s heel got stuck. She worked it out, awkwardly.

“Even better,” said Chantal, “I can just let you do this all by yourself tomorrow.”

Why hadn’t she kept her smart mouth closed?

“Landmarks, learn them as we pass them, Aimée,” said Chantal. “Later, we’ll walk along the rue Charenton. You’ll hear children at the
école primaire
on the left, that’s a reminder that you’ve passed the hospital. If the violin maker’s windows are open, you’ll smell the bone marrow glue he uses; that’s mid-block on the right.”

Aimée wished Chantal would slow down. All these sensations bombarded her. Everything became jumbled in her mind and she couldn’t remember.

“The traffic signal chirps at the corner of rue Moreau. A café’s beyond that; keep going and you’ll pass the wine bar and hit Marché d’Aligre.”

Aimée felt as if she’d walked blocks, but according to Chantal, so far they’d only navigated a walkway bordering the medieval chapel and hospital courtyard. The Quinze-Vingts had functioned as the Black Musketeers’ barracks in the 1770s. Later, under Cardinal Rohan, it had become the central eye hospital in Paris.

The throbbing in her head subsided in the warm, fresh air. Fresh for Paris, anyway. Didn’t they say more people got sick in hospitals than got better?

Maybe it was all the concentrating, striving to hear, to understand, to remember, but something troubled her, troubled her more than she cared to admit.

The whoosh of a swinging door, stale air on her face, and the aroma of unwatered dried-out house plants greeted her.

“We’re going down the hallway, then to the right.” Chantal pushed open another door. “Things are chaotic. I’ll help them find you a room. Take a seat,” Chantal said, guiding her several steps forward. Aimée felt warmth again and found herself on a stiff plastic chair.

She didn’t want to be stuck in a blind people’s home. She wanted to see, she wanted them to test her until her eyes worked.

She heard a buzzing fly hit the glass window then rebound with a ping. Its wings were silent momentarily, then it buzzed, striking the glass again. And again. She felt like the fly, blinded by glass invisible to her, beating her wings in futility.

Right now, she needed to be sure the phone she’d picked up belonged to the victim of the assault. And to discover why the woman had been lured into the passage, then killed.

Aimée remembered the woman seated beside her on the banquette, murmuring into the phone. Her frightened eyes and her chain smoking.

Had the victim known the killer would be in the passage and refused to meet him? Was that why he’d called back when Aimée had answered?

But Aimée still had a sneaking suspicion that
she
had been the killer’s target. She thought back to the odd sense she’d had that there was someone lurking in the hospital corridor. A foreign presence. Was it the killer, checking up to see if she’d survived?

She needed René’s help. Help from a sighted person she trusted. And her vulnerability overwhelmed her again. Stuck depending on others, hating every minute of it. She’d be a sitting duck if the killer wanted to attack her again. And if the rest of her life panned out like this, she didn’t know what she’d do. Lying in a hospital bed when there were things to find out . . . she had to do something concrete.

She remembered the woman’s Violet Vamp nails, in contrast to her own, chipped Gigabyte Green. The dress and jacket with mahjong tiles for buttons . . . her pulse quickened. The same jacket she’d worn. She had to go to the boutique and question the owner. But how?

Aimée heard snoring, a slow wheezing grunt, from somewhere on her right.

“Time for dinner yet?” a gruff voice asked, snorting awake.

Was this a blind resident?

“We’ll soon find out when Chantal returns,” she said.

“New resident?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Food’s awful. We regulars pay a little extra and get curry on Thursdays from Raj. He runs the South Indian hole-in-the-wall across the street. His papadams reign supreme. As good as I remember in Pondicherry.”

The mention of food made her realize she hadn’t eaten this morning.

“I’m Aimée Leduc, and I would shake your hand if I could see it.”

“Follow my voice,” he said. “Turn toward the warmth, lean, and stretch your hand.”

Bingo, she thought, as a large, warm paw gripped hers. And for a moment she felt connected. Connected to others like her, for the first time since the attack.

“Lucas Passot,” he said. “I lodge here courtesy of a close encounter with the #86 bus on my way back from the cleaner’s last year. Ruined a good suit, too! The
salopes
tell me I’m lucky my gimpy leg wasn’t reinjured. At least my left eye has some peripheral vision.”

“The doctor keeps running tests on me,” she said. “But a vein in my head burst. . . .”

“Don’t let the jargon throw you,” he interrupted. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They keep our medical dossiers and tell us what they like.”

Disturbing, but she knew the dossier part was true.

“I’m temporary,” said Passot. “When my skills come up to snuff, so says the mobility teacher, I’m back in my apartment.”

“They do that here?”

“The main residence takes independent tenants only,” he said. “But here we have a small mobility program. Of course, it all depends on funding.”

Aimée felt ignorant but figured she might as well ask. “What kinds of things do they teach?”

“Exhilarating stuff: dressing, calling 36 99 for the time, caring for clothes, how to shake hands, how to hear the newspaper read by a telephone service, and cane skill
s.”

Overwhelmed, she sat back.

Would
she
have to use a white cane?

“They like those regular paychecks, these overeducated and overfed lemmings . . .”

“Running your mouth as usual, Lucas!” Chantal’s voice cut through his words. “
Tiens!
Do something useful for a change, eh?”

Aimée wished she could have something to eat and then a rest. Following a conversation between people she couldn’t see felt as if she were tracking the ball at a tennis match, an invisible ball.

“Why not relax, mademoiselle?” Lucas said, his voice near her ear. “Right now you’re bobbing like a cork. That much I can see, and you’re making me dizzy. Don’t worry about following with your head. Most people think you’re enthralled with their scintillating conversation if you just close your trap and listen. Relax. And wear dark glasses. That way you’ll be mysterious and captivating.”

Instead of blind and mistrustful?

“Trust me.”

“Why would she trust a blind old fart like you, Lucas?”

And for the first time since the attack on the passage, Aimée laughed. Deep and from her gut.

“See! See Chantal . . . I’m good for something,” Passot said.

“Forget yourself for a moment, Lucas, if that’s possible,” she said. “First, this TGV disaster, and now I hear that
flics
have taken Mathieu Cavour to the Commissariat.”

“Did he forget to pay his quarterly taxes or a parking ticket?”

“It’s about the woman they found murdered outside his atelier,” she said.

Aimée’s ears tuned in. “Tell me.”

“I met poor Suzanne, his office manager, when I was buying rabbit at the Marché d’Aligre,” Chantal said. “She told me that Mathieu had to close the shop. The
flics
took him in for questioning.”

Aimée wondered if he had witnessed something, or if he was a suspect.

“Where’s his shop, Chantal?”

“Where it’s been for two hundred years, in Cour de Bel Air.”

“By the Passage de la Boule Blanche?”

“You might say that,” Chantal said. “They connected once.”

Aimée tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. What if the man had attacked her, realized his mistake, then dodged into the next passage where the other woman had gone to escape him? Or something like that.

“But rumor says it’s the Beast of Bastille,” Lucas said. “So, has Mathieu been leading a double life?”

Chantal made a
phfft
sound of disgust. Then air whooshed by Aimée: Chantal had probably thrown up her arms or fanned herself.

“Mathieu Cavour and I were at the
école maternelle
together on rue Sedaine,” she said. “The men of his family have been craftsmen for hundreds of years. He’s no more the Beast of Bastille than I am. It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know how old Mathieu Cavour is,” Aimée said. “But the man who grabbed me was strong and had wine on his breath.”

And the memory came back to her, his wrist . . . what was it . . . cufflinks?

From outside the window, she heard the hee-haw of sirens echoing off the stone walls.

“What do you mean?” asked Chantal, her voice incredulous. “You were attacked?”

“And it wasn’t the Beast of Bastille!”

“
Mon Dieu,”
gasped Chantal. “Mathieu doesn’t drink. Never has.”

“Only sadists attack the blind,” said Lucas, his voice trembling. “I’ve met my share. I beat them off with my cane. They don’t bother me twice.”

A buzzer sounded several times. “Excuse me,” said Chantal. “The matron of the Residence must be busy. I’ll see who’s at the front desk.”

Chantal returned a few minutes later, other footsteps and male voices accompanying her.

Aimée felt awkward and vulnerable. She wished she could see who was there. Hot breath came close to her ear.

“A trustee tour!” Lucas whispered. “We get a lot of tours when funding deadlines loom.”

So that was it.

“We hold singing practice on Thursdays,” Chantal was saying. “Our choir performs in the Chapel. Last year we attended the Bach choral in Prague. Snagged second place and an invitation to perform at the fall concert in Budapest.”

Murmurs of approval met this statement.

“In such important ways, you board members enrich our lives,” Chantal said.

“Chantal lays it on thick, but she got them to spring for new pianos,” Lucas whispered. “She’s working on them now to donate a minivan! If not, at least a voice coach.”

“What a wonderful avenue of expression for your residents,” said a low voice, smooth and warm: the cultured accent of proper and formal French.

“Monsieur Malraux, thank you for your help!”

“Big benefactor of the Opéra Guild, that Monsieur Mal-raux,” said Lucas, pulling her closer. “He’s an art appraiser affiliated with Drouot, the auctioneers. Not only that, eh, he owns a
hôtel particulier
near here, prides himself on being a
Bastoche
, you know, born and bred in Bastille,” said Lucas. “But he’s not like the working-class
Bastoches
I know.”

Aimée’s grandfather had frequented the weekly Drouot auctions where anything from Madame de Sevigné’s pearls to the mundane contents of a bourgeois apartment were subject to the auctioneer’s gavel. A jumble of unsorted items that could conceal a treasure or junk.

Aimée knew that prestigious art appraisers were appointed, not allowed to have commercial affiliations. “He’s a
priseur
?”

“His parents were. Malraux specializes in period furniture,” whispered Lucas. “He lends pieces from his collection for the Opéra stage sets.”

“
Bien sûr.
We will help with voice coaches,” said Monsieur Malraux. “After all, the Opéra’s in your backyard, so to speak.”

“Merci
, Monsieur Malraux,” Chantal said.

“Of course,” another voice said. “We’re all part of the Bastille community. Superb idea.”

“Let me introduce a longtime resident, Lucas Passot, and our newest, Aimée Leduc,” Chantal said.

“We’re going to teach her the tools of the trade,” said Lucas. “Important survival skills like avoiding open freight elevators in the morning at the wine bar by Marché d’Aligre.”

Laughter greeted Lucas’s remark.

“Madamoiselle Leduc, excuse my bluntness,” said Monsieur Malraux, “Chantal’s told us many residents here have been blind from birth while some have suffered an illness. What, may I ask, brought you here?”

Aimée felt she had been put on the spot, expected to perform for people she couldn’t see.