Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis (22 page)

Wednesday Night

“OPEN WIDER,
MON CHÉRI
,” Jadwiga Radziwill said, putting the foie gras–coated cracker into Bibo’s waiting mouth.

Panic-stricken guests rushed past her down the Hôtel Lambert’s wide stairway. Candles flickered, their melting wax dripping onto the linen tablecloths. But it was a shame to waste the trays of caviar-dotted blini and the endive shoots filled with
crème fraîche,
she thought.

“Madame, please allow me.” A waiter offered her his arm. “It is time to evacuate.”

She raised her eyebrows. Not bad, this one. What was it about a man in a tuxedo?

“A little late, young man,” she said. “Like closing the barn door after the horse has been stolen.”

“The bomb squad fears other bombs will, er,
may
have been set, Madame.”

“Set?” She shook her head. “If they had been set, we’d have been vaporized into mist floating over the Seine by now. This wasn’t a professional job, you know.”

“Madame Radziwill?” Deroche, the CEO, bent and kissed her gloved hand. “You are a legend, and now I’m honored to meet you in person.”

She knew him right off—suave, distinguished, and with the roving eye of a roué. And the man in power. Her favorite kind.

“Monsieur Deroche, my compliments on the hors d’oeuvres,” she smiled. “Bibo approves, and he’s very selective.”

“
Merci
, at least someone’s enjoying them. But in the interest of your safety, please, let this man escort you outside.”

“The excitement’s over.” She sighed. “A little crisis,
non,
a turbulence like on the airplane when a minor bumpiness occurs and then,
voilà,
all is once more smooth. Wouldn’t you concur, Monsieur Deroche?”

Deroche raised an eyebrow, giving a dismissive wave to the waiter. “Why do you say that, Madame Radziwill?”

She showed him her best profile and smiled. “Bombs, seeking attention, pointing the blame—aah, I recognize the hallmarks of my day.” She sighed again. “But wonderful champagne. Vintage,
non?
”

He refilled her waiting flute.

“And you’re still bewitching,” he said. “Now, you haven’t shared this observation of yours, have you, Madame?”

But of course he’d noticed the journalists hovering at her side, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to talk to her.

“Chopin insisted that a shovelful of Polish dirt be placed in his casket at Père-Lachaise,” she said. “We Poles birthed anarchism. Being contrary is part of my heritage.”

“Won’t you let me take you to dinner?” He glanced at the security force checking the room. “When I finish up here.”

She took a deep swallow of champagne. Then another. “The journalists were fascinated when I explained that the danger had passed. Of course, as a former chemistry professor, I know that if a bomb in a hot kitchen had been meant to detonate it would have done so, and this landmark with us inside would have been vaporized.” She fluttered her mascaraed lashes and paused for effect. “I’m dining with some of them later.”

Deroche sat heavily in the chair next to hers. He was straight as a rod, but his eyes darted about. Her words had struck home.

She couldn’t remember the last time a powerful man had squirmed in her presence. Or when she’d last felt this quiver of excitement. Now she’d make him grovel.

She fanned herself with a linen napkin. “We owned this hotel once, you know. It was Prince Czartoryski’s former residence, the gathering place for Polish aristocrats exiled from Warsaw by corrupt mercenaries working for the tsar. ”

“That occurred more than a century ago, Madame,” Deroche said in a frosty tone.

“Governments, corruption . . . some things never change, do they, Monsieur?”

She enjoyed his barely suppressed wince. He’d love to throttle her, she knew, if he could have gotten away with it.

“But I am available for dinner tomorrow,” she said. Bibo loved dining in four-star restaurants.

She noticed his calculating eyes as he gauged her potential value. Then she saw something else.

“Of course,” he said. “But between you and me . . .” He leaned forward, his voice edged with titillation. “Is it true you persuaded your lover General Von Choltitz not to burn Paris despite Hitler’s orders?”

She stifled a yawn. Always that tiresome question when people felt emboldened enough to ask it. “Semantics, Monsieur Deroche. The bombs were set. I just persuaded him not to ignite them. It is an important distinction.”

She fed Bibo another foie gras–spread cracker.

“I’m sure you have to do—what’s that phrase?—damage control.” She stood, Bibo in her arms. “Merci, quite an exciting evening. Tomorrow then; somewhere we can arrive fashionably late?”

Wednesday Night

AIMÉE TWISTED HER arms free of her jacket, and, kicking her legs in the Seine’s sediment-laden cloudy water, rose again to the surface. Gasping for air, she was carried away by a swirling eddy. River grass entangled her arms.

She kicked with all her might against the sucking wake of the boat. Then a cold water current swept her away. She spit out the brackish water, inhaled and dove again. Her arms caught in the branches of a submerged tree, her breath almost gone. She struggled until she snapped the branches and shot to the surface.

Spluttering, this time she inhaled frigid air layered with diesel exhaust. Her leg brushed something hard, mossed stone, and she grabbed on. She realized she’d travelled down current to the stone legs of Pont Louis Philippe. On the bank, a yellow glow flickered. The fires of the homeless? Or of the clochards?

Shouts mingled with the sound of rushing water that filled her ears. A figure stood, calf deep in water. Then a cresting wave from the
Bateau-Mouche
slapped her up against the stone bridge support.

She had to try for the bank, battle the current, and pray she’d make it. She climbed partway up the support, slipping and scraping herself on its ridges, then dove. She kicked as hard as she could. The current seized her and she battled, kicking harder. Her hands hit something. She grabbed at it and missed. Someone held out a tree branch to her. She caught it and felt herself being pulled toward the shore. Her face smacked into the embankent and then arms held hers. Limp and spent, she was dragged, knees scraping, onto the water-filled walkway. She was soaked and freezing, in a little black dress that clung to her like her skin.

“Can you walk?” Krzysztof panted.

Where had he come from?

She heard the whine of a Zodiac outboard motor. Searchlights scanned the black turgid water. The Brigade Fluviale. This would not be a good time to renew her acquaintance with Capitaine Sezeur.

“Quick . . . kk.” Her teeth chattered. She got to her feet, slipped, and grabbed Krzysztof’s arm. She made her frozen bare feet support her. Licks of firelight came from one of the half-boarded-up arches of a sewer drain. Someone had to be in there.

Krzysztof pounded with his fists on a piece of warped board half covering the sewer’s dank opening.

“What do you want?” The words were slurred. The board was scraped back. Smoke and flames haloed the face of a man with a white beard and flushed face. “Too late.” He hiccuped. “I gave at the office.”

“Hurry up and let us in.” Krzysztof didn’t wait for an answer and tugged the board away; he helped Aimée to step inside and climbed in behind her.

“You young have no manners!” the man said. “Eh, show some respect. Did I invite you?”

In the high-vaulted sewer cavern, flames came from a raised blackened-metal barbecue grill that radiated heat. Aimée waded knee deep in the cold water, then climbed an improvised staircase of wooden crates to a bunk made from an old door chained midway up the wall to iron rings. At least it was dry. A scratchy transistor radio tuned to the weather channel echoed through the tunnel.

She noticed the open can of Sabarot lentils bubbling on the grill, its odor mingling with the smoke and damp. It was like camping in flood conditions. Bottles of unlabeled wine sat on wet boxes near an old pair of rubber boots.

Her arms shook; chills ran up her legs from her numb feet. She’d lost her shoes. Good Manolos, too. And she had to get out of this dress.

The old man squinted. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

Sweaters and blue work pants were piled behind her. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Monsieur. I’d like to buy this blanket and some clothes,” she told him.

“Everything’s for sale . . . except my
vin rouge
.” He grinned; his red-rimmed eyes were bloodshot. “Funny time for a swim,” he said. He jerked his head back. “She’s rising tonight. There is a lot of runoff because of the unseasonable heat. I’ve never seen her swell like this in February. The river will hit a record, for sure.”

His words suggested he knew the Seine. An old sailor who lived under the bridge now?

Money, ID . . . her bag—she’d left everything in the kitchen of the Hôtel Lambert. All gone now. Her heart sank. She had no money with which to pay him.

“Here. I picked this up,” Krzysztof said, setting her bag down. He climbed up next to her on the improvised bunk.

“Fast thinking.” She pulled the none-too-clean blanket around her, peeled the wet dress off under it, and rubbed herself dry with the coarse wool. Her fuchsia silk Agent Provocateur bra stank of the river.

“They’ll be looking for you in that,” she said, eyeing Krzysztof’s dinner jacket and handing him the sweaters. “Give me the tuxedo jacket.”

“You shouldn’t have thrown the pipe bombs in the river,” Krzysztof said angrily.

Surprised, she looked at him. “What . . . let the bombs blow up in my face?”

“All we needed to do was cut the fuse.”

“What?”

“I tried to tell you—wax fuses are waterproof. But by plunging the pipe bomb into the water you must have set the explosion off.”

“Your anarchist friend told you that?”

Krzysztof nodded.

Great. She’d never live this down, if she didn’t freeze to death. She’d blown it in both the figurative and literal sense. Now everyone, from the bomb squad to the terrorist brigade, was after her.

Dampness oozed from the sewer cavern walls. She shivered, wondering if she’d ever feel warm again. Krzysztof took her cold hands in his and rubbed them, then wrapped them in a woolen sweater.

“It’s already been fifteen minutes,” he said. “If we don’t get going, they’ll find us.”

Only fifteen minutes? It felt like hours. And if the Brigade Fluviale took them in, she couldn’t count on hot tea, a warm blanket, and congratulations. More likely they’d be sent for questioning by the terrorist brigade and make a protracted stay in jail.

“We have to get out of here.”

She handed the man a hundred francs, looking at the lentils that were cooking on his fire.

“Food and wine’s extra.”

“Non, merci.”
How could he eat surrounded by the reeking sewer odor?

He sat on a box and raised his bottle, his dripping legs dangling. “
Salut.
Nice and intimate, eh?”

She heard squeals in the background. Rodents.

“All the comforts of home—dry, too—when she’s not rising.”

The man had to be desperate to live in an old sewer drain; the river reached a quarter of the way up the walls when it was in spate.

The blanket’s warmth and her rising internal body heat kicked her mind into gear. The man’s radio got reception; would her phone work? She had to check on Stella. She tried it. But she couldn’t get through.

“Anyone else live here, Monsieur?”

He shook his head.

A loner. And the cavern reeked of drains and mold. But as they said, any port in a storm.

“What’s your name?”

“Jules . . . first mate of the
Scallawag
. Dry-docked. At your service.” He made a mock bow and teetered on the door’s edge.

“Aimée Leduc,” she replied. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

“Can always tell a lady,” he said. His eyes closed and he nodded.

Engines whined from outside. Krzysztof leaned down and slid another piece of wood over the sewer opening. His eyes were anxious.

It occurred to Aimée that Jules would know the homeless people who were sheltering nearby and the local
clochards
.

“Jules, I’m looking for Hélène,” she told him.

He snapped awake. “Eh? I keep to myself, I keep my distance.”

Aimée nodded reassuringly. “Seen her around?”

“I don’t fraternize with that bunch down there.”

“Where?”

“Near the bend.”

If only she could find Hélène, talk with her. “So, tell me . . .”

Jules shrugged. “I know nothing. I keep myself to myself.”

“I have to get out,” Krzysztof said before she could press the old man further. Fear shone on his face as he observed the rising water. “Now! I feel trapped.”

Claustrophobic.

“I can’t swim.”

Aimée scanned the embankment walls for the opening to another drain. All these sewers crisscrossed under the island. They’d find a manhole exit eventually, but with Jules’s help it would go faster.

“Jules, can you show us a way out?”

“That’ll cost you,” he said.

Their refuge was growing more expensive every minute.

“The package deal includes a flashlight,” he said.

Several mismatched, cracked rubber boots were piled up over by the wine. ”Throw those in, Jules?” she asked.

But he’d gone ahead, shining the flashlight beam over green fungal configurations on the walls that oozed slime.

She picked out a mismatched pair of right and left boots—one red, one blue—and stuck her feet into them. She draped the blanket like a shawl over her tuxedo-clad shoulders and lowered herself down the box staircase to follow the flashlight.

Scurrying and squealing came from the darkness ahead. Now the water level was lower as it was borne away by runoff tunnels that slanted toward the Seine.

Krzysztof hesitated.

“I don’t do well with rodents,” Aimée said. “You go first.”

Compared to the rushing Seine outside, the water in the tunnel flowed slowly and steadily but it was putrid and foaming. Chill emanated from the lichen-encrusted walls. The sewer was divided; the main branch had secondary connections, all leading to a collection point. The tunnels, built partly of brick, partly of stone, formed a vast underground network.

Jules stopped, shone the flashlight beam, and pointed. Overhead were freshwater pipes, telecommunications cables, and pneumatic tubes. Rusted wire rungs led upward. All the sewer tunnels had access through manholes to the street.

“You’ll need this,” he said, holding out a sawed-off hook. “A deposit’s required.”

Without it they would have had no way to pry the metal gating open.

She thrust fifty francs into his hand. “You open it, Jules.”

He stuck the flashlight in his belt and hoisted himself up the rungs of the ladder. Krzysztof followed and Aimée heard the wrench of metal and then a clang as the manhole cover was raised.

“Can we get out here?” she called.

She heard the squeaks of rodents and splashing, then footsteps descending.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not here,” Krzysztof said, landing in a puddle beside her.

“What do you mean? It should be easy, once the cover’s off.”

“A
flic
car’s parked right on top of the manhole!”

She shivered as a burst of frigid water gushed over her feet.

“I don’t want to drown . . . I have to get out . . . it’s too close down here.” Krzysztof’s breath came in short gasps.

“We’ll find another exit,” she said and thought hard. Hundreds of kilometers of sewers, quarry tunnels, and abandoned Metro tracks existed but they were honeycombed with water mains, and other substructures. Without a map or guide one could stumble into a warren of passages and be lost for days.

Yet the sewers followed the layout of the streets above: wide boulevards had wide tunnels and the narrow ones and the side streets were duplicated underground. All they had to do was follow the well-marked blue signs mirroring the streets above, then find another exit.

“I figure we’re under . . .” The flashlight illuminated RUE SAINT LOUIS EN L’ISLE written in white paint on the stone. “See, we’re close; we’re just a few blocks from my place.” She took Krzysztof’s arm. “We’ll get out there. It’s just five minutes away.”

“She’s right,” Jules said. But the
flics
were right overhead and the only way out was a sewer full of water and rodents. Two red eyes glared and a rat the size of a cat squealed as it struck her boot. She jumped as a rush of water hit her knees. “The freshwater valves opened,” Jules said. “It will rise another meter, so hurry.”

They slogged down the tunnel in cold knee-high water laced with chlorine and feces. The flashlight’s yellow beams played across the rising water and the rivulets running down the walls. In a stone niche sat a statue of a saint, chipped and furred with moss. The saint of the sewers? With rats this big, they needed all the help they could muster.

Panicked, Krzysztof grabbed onto a set of metal rungs and started climbing.

“Come on, just one more street,” Aimée coaxed him.

He clung, unsure, his feet slipping.

“We’re almost there.” She reached for his hand and helped him down. “I promise.”

They wound to the left and she prayed they’d find the sluice gate below her building. The ground juddered overhead. A car or truck had passed by.

“Quai d’Anjou,” she said, pointing to the blue-and-white sign. “See.”

She found openings—a few were bricked over; others were covered by ancient, decayed wooden doors, bearing almost invisible coats of arms. She counted them and tried the tenth, a medieval stone arch enclosed by iron grillwork. But bits of debris and plastic bags were caught in the grillwork and there was no way to open the doors. Next to it was a waist-high chute. “Here. Give me a boost. It’s dry—feel the grit? Sandstone.”

If she’d counted right, this was the aperture she’d explored as a child, and it led to her building’s subterranean cave—the storage area in the basement.

“A marquis’s daughter hid here during the Reign of Terror while the authorities searched the house for her,” she told Krzysztof. That was building lore, anyway.

She found a wad of francs and handed it to Jules.

“I’m going in, Krzysztof. You can stay here if you like; it’s up to you.”

Cobwebs caught in her hair and webbed her eyelashes as she crawled up the chute. She blinked and wiped them away. Grit got under her fingernails. But the flowing air was warmer and dry. She heard Krzysztof crawling behind her. And then Aimée was facing a pile of copper pipe and stacked plastic tubing.

She straightened up, stretched her legs, and climbed over the pipes. She shone the flashlight around and hit a light switch on the wall. A single hanging bulb sent harsh light over the cavern, which was lined with gated compartments piled with the stored possessions of the building’s inhabitants. Her own bin lay open, a pit dug in its sandstone floor from which wires and pipes protruded.