Murder in Saint Germain

by Cara Black

  Good God, she hoped it wouldn’t take her that long.

  Dark green baize shelf borders, matching the lampshades on the long study tables, protected the bookshelves from propped ladders. The upper walkway, with its wrought-iron railing, ringed the open-plan galleries. Floor-to-ceiling books, and a world-famous rare books collection. René would have loved this place. Dechard must have been in heaven there.

  Armed with René’s notes, she felt as ready as one could when it came to searching for a needle in a centuries-old haystack. She copied down the titles of Jules Dechard’s and Gaston Badot’s theses. For good measure, she copied down the title of the incunabulum, L’Ocean des Histoires.

  She set her card and bag down at her assigned seat, 066. Inhaled the lingering scent, the distinctive perfume of old manuscripts and worn leather spines. Her cane-back chair crackled as she sat down. Among the students and researchers at the tables, stillness and a quiet prevailed, punctuated by the turning of pages.

  The head librarian, Saget according to his name tag, gestured her over to his imposing reference desk. “Your requested items are going to require time to process.”

  How long would this take? Hours? Days?

  Time for Système D, the Parisian way of getting things done by getting around the rules.

  Flirting, her old standby.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, smiling. “They’re buried in the archives, in the bowels of the building, and haven’t been seen since 1979. Or maybe 1799?”

  He pulled his glasses down from his forehead.

  “Come on, or am I right?”

  “Actually, mademoiselle, in one case, the rare book has not been requested since 1984.”

  She stifled her surprise. That was the year Jules Dechard had submitted his thesis—René had filled her in on the details. Was it a coincidence that no one had even looked at the book since then?

  “Alors, as it happens, this incunabulum appears unavailable at the moment.”

  “Unavailable meaning . . . ?”

  “We keep these rare documents stored in the climate-controlled incunable archives,” Saget said. “Books such as these, printed prior to 1501, are highly delicate. Fragile.”

  Mon Dieu. “How long does it take to get them?”

  “As long as it takes, mademoiselle.” Spoken like a true fonctionnaire. Then he winked. “But the other two items you requested have been consulted more recently.”

  He left to check, and she returned to her assigned seat at the window fronting the Pont des Arts. Off to the right lay the Point Neuf, bright in the warm summer sun. In school she’d learned Marie Curie’s husband, Pierre, had been run over by a horse and carriage where the rue Dauphine met the quai de Conti. A widow with two small children, Madame Curie continued her experiments. Compared to Marie Curie, Aimée thought ruefully, she had it easy. Only one child to feel guilty about leaving behind while she tried to get her work done.

  She opened her notebook. By the time she’d sketched out her next step, the library page had stopped his cart in front of her carrel and hefted two bound manuscripts onto her table.

  She opened Jules Dechard’s 1984 thesis. The pages were remarkably crisp and fresh. She read the gist of his work, which seemed to be based on a medieval book written in Latin. Merde. Latin had never been her strong suit.

  She skimmed through the thesis’s third chapter, which was entitled “Fifteenth-Century Religious Art Interpretations in Lyon.” At least she understood that. Interesting, too, if you were an egghead.

  Clipped to Gaston Badot’s thesis, which had been completed in 1983, was a note to the effect that his thesis was simultaneously being submitted for review to the Sorbonne’s French literature department; he’d gifted this then-unreviewed copy to Bibliothèque Mazarine since its subject dealt with an incunabulum in their archives.

  She wondered if this was a long shot. René had mentioned hundreds of publications. If only Dechard weren’t being so obstinate and secretive when they were trying to help him. Opening Gaston Badot’s thesis, she ran her finger down the table of contents. Blinked. Chapter four had the same title as Dechard’s third chapter. She flipped to the chapter and started reading. Blinked again. Double-checked, trailing her finger under the words. Mon Dieu . . . How could this be? Word for word, the same.

  Flipping through other chapters, she realized Dechard had copied Badot’s thesis almost verbatim in three sections, even down to the chapter titles. Pages in Gaston’s thesis had been folded and showed telltale creases. To her eye, the pages looked as if they’d been copied recently.

  She closed both theses, gathered her things. She’d seen enough. Jules Dechard had seemed so honest, but here was proof he’d plagiarized another student’s work. Built a reputation and career on work that he’d stolen. Was that what this was all about? How had he never gotten caught?

  At the librarian’s desk, she turned on the charm again. “Would you be able to help me with one more thing, Monsieur”—she’d forgotten his name, stole a glance at his name tag—“Saget? Would you be able to tell me who last checked these out?”

  “Let’s see.” He flipped through the pages of the request log until he found the entries, one above the other. “It says Jules Dechard.” He turned the log for her to see. The date was for Thursday of the previous week, with a time stamp of 3:15 p.m. The name Jules Dechard was printed in block letters that looked nothing like the meticulous handwriting on the Post-it he’d given her. She peered at the signature. An illegible scribble. Anyone could have scribbled it. Even Chloé.

  “Merci for your help.”

  Fifteen minutes later she’d found Dechard’s office dark, the door locked. Frustrated, she knocked on Michel Sarlat’s open door.

  “Professor Dechard’s out today, désolé,” he said, his voice attentive. “May I take a message?”

  Had Dechard taken a turn for the worse? “Alors, he’s ill?”

  An evasive look behind the half smile on his round face. “What’s this regarding, mademoiselle?”

  None of your business, she almost said. Instead she smiled. “As you know, la directrice hired me to help with IT issues.” True. “My job’s to improve routing efficiency and avoid firewall breaches like what happened yesterday.”

  He’d participated in Email Security 101 and nodded his pink-tinged face.

  “I’d appreciate knowing if he kept office hours last week.” The sign announcing office hours on Dechard’s door read tuesday and thursday, 2-5. If he had kept office hours last week, it would be impossible for him to have been the one to check out the theses at Bibliothèque Mazarine at three-fifteen.

  “Did you check with our department secretary?”

  Aimée smiled again. “I would, but she’s gone for the afternoon.”

  “Asseyez-vous,” he said, offering her a seat. “I’ll check the department’s agenda. I’ve got it right here.”

  Aimée’s gaze kept getting pulled to his small feet. Today they were encased in soft leather loafers. She caught a wave of the lime scent of Eau de Sauvage as he reached, deftly for a man of such girth, toward an upper shelf.

  She gave his desk a quick glance, took in two files, one labeled annual report.

  “Voilà.” A moment later he’d opened the leather-bound agenda. “Last week Jules attended an art symposium in Geneva. He returned Friday on the train and kept office hours that afternoon instead.”

  So he hadn’t even been in Paris on Thursday. Someone other than Dechard had requested the theses and used his name. Who but the man across from her?

  She debated. Should she probe him with questions, try surveilling him for more information—no, that didn’t work with her current babysitting situation—or straight out accuse him?

  “And you, monsieur? Where were you last Thursday at three p.m.?”

  He smiled meeting her gaze. “Why, mademoiselle?”
r />   “My job’s being curious,” she said, returning his smile. “I’m charting computer traffic.”

  “I was here in my office. Where else would I be?”

  “Checking out Professor Dechard’s thesis at Bibliothèque Mazarine?” She spoke fast to get him off balance.

  “Why would I do that?” he said mildly, but something shifted behind his eyes. “I am already very familiar with Professor Dechard’s work.”

  Now the gamble. “Maybe because you’re threatening him?”

  Sarlat blinked, rolled his swivel chair back. The wood floor creaked. “You know about the threats? Alors, I’ve been threatened, too. I’m scared. There’s something going on, and Dechard refuses to tell me. If I’m implicated in it and he goes down, so do I.”

  That seemed like it might be true, since they worked so closely. And she’d seen the recent threats that had come in to Sarlat’s email address. Yet she’d also seen those earlier, cryptic emails between Michel and the blackmailer. This smelled.

  “Why blackmail him?” she asked.

  “Me? Never.”

  “I know you’ve received messages from the same person who’s blackmailing Dechard. I think you’re involved.”

  “Involved?” He arranged and rearranged the papers on his desk. His hands shook. “I offered to help, but Dechard refused.”

  Was he protecting Dechard? Did he know about the plagiarism?

  “Help him with what?”

  “He’s secretive. Look, I don’t know. I’m afraid. It’s cutthroat here. Academia’s a minefield, and things have just gotten worse since I applied for the department chair position Dechard is vacating. I think someone is trying to sabotage my application. Ruin my career.”

  “Who?”

  Michel shrugged uncomfortably, looked at his small leather shoes. “Who knows?”

  You know! she wanted to shout. Why wouldn’t any of these people tell her what was going on? How could she help them?

  She needed to learn more about the other man who was attacked at Galerie Tournon. Did he have a connection to both these professors? She hoped he came out of the coma. Maybe then she’d get a straight answer.

  “Look, mademoiselle, I have to finish this article.” Michel Sarlat nodded toward his office door. “Perhaps we can talk more some other time?”

  A bad feeling dogged her all the way to Sybille’s office.

  Sybille looked especially petite behind her huge desk in the whitewashed office. She was wearing a soignée cream linen shift and just the slightest kiss of blush.

  Aimée took out her laptop. Opened the emails Saj had discovered. Sybille pulled down her polka dot frame reading glasses to scan what Aimée showed her.

  “Quelle horreur,” Sybille said.

  “What’s he so afraid of?”

  Sybille’s lipsticked mouth turned down. She shut her office door. “Depends on whose opinion you listen to.”

  “Start with the thesis he wrote in 1984.”

  “I didn’t know him then. He hadn’t married my sister yet.”

  Aimée sensed Sybille knew more than she let on.

  “Let’s make it simple,” said Aimée. “Why do you think your brother-in-law’s being blackmailed? Plagiarism?”

  “Does it matter why?”

  “Don’t you know the lawyer hired me to find out?”

  “All I know is our school’s being audited. We can’t have a professor’s name dragged through the mud right now.”

  The woman was giving Aimée nothing. Misdirecting.

  “Secrets are the gifts that keep giving,” said Aimée. “Why doesn’t Dechard just expose the truth? Then the blackmailer will have nothing over him.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Aimée had had enough. “You’re right. Too complicated for me.”

  She powered off her laptop, stuck it in her bag.

  “Non, wait.” Sybille ran to the door. “There’s been an internal audit here at the school. They discovered a shortfall. In our terms, that means missing pieces in the collection.”

  Things turned over in Aimée’s head. “Do you mean you’re afraid your terminally ill brother-in-law appropriated works of art . . . ?”

  Sybille didn’t reply.

  Aimée let the silence hang as long as she could, running through possible scenarios. “Is this somehow related to Professor Dechard’s graduate thesis, the one he plagiarized? Or is it some kind of cover-up?”

  Sybille wiped her polka dot readers with the edge of her scarf. Nodded.

  It still didn’t make sense to Aimée. “Why does anyone care fifteen years later? When he’s about to leave his job?”

  Sybille’s phone trilled.

  “What’s going on, Sybille? What artwork has gone missing?”

  She raised her palm to Aimée and answered the phone. “Oui? They’re what?” Sybille’s face crumbled. “Tell them to wait.” She scribbled on the back of a juried submission form.

  A knock. Outside the glass door, Bette, the lapdog assistant, waved a paper.

  “Merde, the auditor’s here,” Sybille said. “I’ve got to meet him right now.”

  Bette knocked again.

  “Please, Aimée, talk to Jules.” In a whiff of Guerlain, Sybille was gone.

  What could Aimée do? She called the lawyer to ask for Dechard’s mobile number. Voice mail.

  Great. Stupid not to have asked Sybille.

  She was wasting precious time and had too many things to do. She’d grab his number from Sybille’s computer which she’d left on.

  Aimée found Jules’s contact information in Sybille’s digital contact list. As she was tapping Jules’s number into her phone, an email popped up with TIME SENSITIVE: Michel Sarlat Application in the subject line.

  Not her business, but . . . she clicked it open. It was a plea from the board to push forward with prioritizing Michel Sarlat’s application for the art history department chair position, which needed to be filled by the end of the year, even without Jules Dechard’s recommendation. Aimée scrolled down and read the email from Sybille the board was responding to, in which the directrice had assured them the recommendation was coming but Jules Dechard was unwell and needed more time to complete it, if they could just be patient.

  Aimée considered this. What was the relationship between Jules and his colleague? They had both been threatened by a blackmailer. Was Michel covering up his supervisor’s plagiarism in hopes of securing the department chair? But if Michel was helping Jules protect his reputation, why hadn’t Jules already completed his recommendation of his loyal professor? And why had he hired Aimée to find strange emails that led back to Michel?

  And here Sybille was making promises on Jules’s behalf. Was the directrice of École des Beaux-Arts going behind her brother-in-law’s back?

  This all stank to high heaven.

  But a signed contract and a retainer meant Aimée would finish the job. She forwarded the email to Saj, then another thread about the audit and school’s missing art works, then looked at the time. Forget calling—Dechard’s flat was minutes away off rue Visconti.

  Sparrows twittered in the lush green foliage outside Dechard’s flat. Footsteps. Aimée saw Michel Sarlat cross the stone pavers, on his way out. She stepped behind an overhang of lilac vines, watching Michel consult a card, his phone to his ear.

  Merde. What if he’d told Dechard about her visit? Her questions and accusations?

  When Michel was gone, she mounted the stairs and knocked on the door. A grey-haired cleaning woman answered, broom in hand. “Monsieur Dechard’s not here.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “The monsieur asked the same thing.” She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “But he was going to leave me a message,” she lied. “It’s for our appointment.”

  “Y
ou? A message? I gave the envelope to that monsieur.”

  An envelope? She put it together now. Michel was handling the blackmail for Dechard.

  “Where was the monsieur going?” Aimée asked. “Was there an address on the envelope?”

  The cleaning woman shrugged again, pinned a stray hair up into her bun. Not only did she not care; she smelled like cheap soap.

  “Did he say anything else? Anything at all? Please, help me.”

  The cleaner sighed. “I heard him on the phone when he first arrived. He mentioned the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. But I told him the rue Jacob’s a mess. So much construction.”

  Aimée threw a merci over her shoulder as she ran down the stairs two at a time. If she could catch him en route, maybe she could figure out what was going on.

  Ahead, on rue Bonaparte, she thought she caught sight of Michel’s wide figure. Then she lost him in the crowd.

  She skirted around the partial blockade on rue Jacob, ignored a catcall from a construction worker in green coveralls, and jogged past a stalled bus.

  She looked right, then left. No Michel.

  She dodged passersby on rue Bonaparte and caught sight of Michel’s back ahead. Then it was gone again.

  Reaching the corner at rue de l’Abbaye, she spotted him to the left, standing behind some tourists brandishing a Danish-French dictionary who were blocking the narrow pavement, taking pictures of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés church spires behind them, pointing to the stone arches, struts, and medieval bric-a-brac.

  About to cross the street, she saw his brown sleeve flap as he vanished into a building opposite.

  Perspiring, she buzzed open the door. Inside she saw one wall of the foyer composed of medieval architraves—an ancient nun’s cloister according to the plaque on the wall. A growling Russian wolfhound was crouching in the foyer. The hairs on her arm rose.

  “Down, Petrus. Arrête,” said a highly made-up woman of a certain age, tugging his leash.

  Aimée wondered what it cost to feed a dog as big as a pony. His hot drool splattered on her open-toed Valentino sandals. Miles Davis was ten times better mannered than this giant.