Murder in the Sentier ali-3

by Cara Black

She nodded. “I’m sure that among the other left-wing radicals he befriended, Romain Figeac knew my mother. That’s my personal interest. I want to find her, or at least find out about her.”

  “Don’t tell me the old radical chic’s back in style?

  “As Figeac’s friend and editor, you were close to him,” she said. “Years ago he was involved with Action-Réaction, wasn’t he?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Where are the tapes and boxes containing his work?”

  Vigot recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “They’re none of your business.”

  “Everything belongs to Christian Figeac as literary executor,” she said.

  “Leave him out of it.”

  “You’re not very helpful.” She shook her head.

  “It’s for his own good,” said Vigot.

  “My mother’s name was Sydney Leduc. She was an American.”

  “You say that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.”

  “I won’t leave until you explain this.” She took the sheet of paper she’d filched from Figeac’s desk on her first unofficial visit to the atelier, the sheet that had been tucked under the typewriter, with the Tallimard logo, Alain Vigot’s name at the top, the typographical symbols, and agit888 written on it and placed it in front of him.

  Vigot studied her. He seemed to weigh his options. “I don’t know much. There was an American who spoke excellent French and German, I don’t remember her name,” he said. “She helped Jean-Paul Sartre interview Haader in prison because he spoke no French.”

  Aimée sat back. Her breath was short. “The translator may have been my mother!”

  “I’m not sure.” Vigot shrugged. “Some of them used code names. But she was at Romain’s apartment one day. Romain wanted to publish Sartre’s interview in a left-wing magazine he was starting. But nothing came of the magazine, it never got off the ground.”

  “Tell me more about this American.” She leaned closer to him.

  “You’re asking me about an afternoon more than twenty years ago with a woman whom I remember vaguely.” He moved away.

  “But you remembered she was an American.” She gave him space, afraid of looking too desperate.

  “The reason I remembered that much is that right afterward Ulrike Rofmein helped Haader escape from prison. They weren’t caught until years later.” He’d relaxed again.

  “Why did Figeac write the words agit888?”

  Vigot shook his head. “That’s all I know. Romain always said if he’d published the article the magazine would have taken off.”

  “What happened to the article?”

  “Sartre published it. That took courage, given the climate then. He looked like a toad, did you know that? Don’t think me cruel, Sartre said it himself,” Vigot said. “Just leave Christian alone, he’s had a rough time.” He gestured to the waiter for another drink and stood up. “I’m going to the rest room. When I return, you’ll be gone, won’t you?”

  His gait was unsteady as he moved past the table. He turned and looked at her, his eyes unfocused and very tired. “Leave me alone. I like to get drunk in peace.”

  SHE LEFT the café to the chorus of invitations to join the men at the bar for more bière brulée. What did it mean if her mother had helped translate an interview with Haader? But she felt there was more to what Vigot had said. And that there were boxes of Figeac’s work unaccounted for.

  Still at sea, she hurried along Boulevard Saint Germain. Back at Tallimard, she hit the kickstart on the scooter and gunned the engine. She’d counted on Vigot enlightening her as to how Figeac was connected to her mother.

  But she thought he knew more than he was telling.

  She called René on her cell phone.

  “Allô?” She heard René’s fingers striking keys on the keyboard in the background. Then an insistent low buzz.

  “Etienne Mabry wants you to call him.”

  A brief frisson of excitement hit her, then faded. Of course, it must concern Christian Figeac.

  Aimée held the phone between her ear and neck as she rode across Pont Royal. The Seine breeze whipped up her skirt, scattered the perched pigeons from the large letter N incised on the bridge by Napoleon’s orders.

  “He needs your help with”—low static, clicks—“before we go.”

  Something sounded odd. The phone line was tapped.

  “Hold on, René, I’ll be there soon.” She hung up. The office was five minutes away but she didn’t want to tell him and the others who were listening that she was meeting Christian at the bank. She stuck her phone in her pocket.

  She sped along the Quai des Tuileries, turned left under the Louvre’s arcade, and veered by the Carousel roundabout past the Pyramide.

  It bothered her that their phone line was tapped. A lot.

  She squeezed her brakes before the Number 39 bus threaded the narrow grime-blackened arches to cross rue de Rivoli, almost flattening her against the Louvre’s portal. She inhaled a big breath of exhaust.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ALAIN VIGOT LOCKED his office door and set the silver flask on his polished cherry-wood desk. He lifted it up quickly. The flask had left an oval of spilled Scotch and he wiped it up with his sleeve.

  Beside the window overlooking the publishing house courtyard near Saint Germain, framed book jackets filled Vigot’s wall. In the place of honor stood the photo of Figeac receiving the Prix Goncourt. Figeac, oblivious of his own talent, had taken it for granted.

  But for Alain, as his editor, it had been the ultimate triumph—the writer he’d discovered and nurtured, baby-sat through drinking bouts, the birth of a son, disastrous political choices, a failed marriage and bitter divorce—to see him so honored.

  He stared at the box of Romain Figeac’s work. Inside lay partial manuscripts and dog-eared photos from Tallimard’s banquets honoring Figeac. The last one had been an affair to remember. Jana, Figeac’s movie star wife, once the darling of Godard and the New Wave cinema, was there with her entourage of radicals. Jana had gone from being his muse to orchestrating his downfall. And her own.

  Bored and restless when not working, Jana treated her son as if he were an untrained puppy when she even noticed him. Her cocaine-and-champagne lifestyle took a toll on her looks, yet she remained a temptress who drove Figeac crazy. Crazy in love with her. The miscarriage and her suicide five years later on its ghoulish anniversary had ended Figeac’s writing, as far as he was concerned.

  Alain conceded he’d been jealous of her … the self-absorbed bitch. Figeac had even banked her terrorist lover’s loot for her, the loot of the supposed father of the child he’d always claimed was his.

  Earlier that day Alain had submitted his resignation to Tallimard. He knew the time had come to withdraw from the world of publishing, which was being transformed by electronic books and on-demand publishing. Who knew what else they’d dream up? It was not Figeac’s or his world anymore … the bottom line was what counted. Not literacy or literature. Who even used pen and ink anymore?

  He’d burn the contents of this box personally. Let Figeac be remembered as the great writer he’d been, not the alcoholic hack who’d become obsessed with his wife’s terrorist lover. But first he’d read what was inside the manila envelope Figeac had sent him before he killed himself.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  RENÉ LOOKED UP as Aimée walked into the office.

  “Christian Figeac cancelled your meeting,” he said.

  Disappointed, she walked toward her desk. Christian had given her big checks yet reneged on their deal. Was he in more trouble?

  René wore a headset while working at his terminal. He pointed to the phone on her desk. The red light blinked; she picked it up.

  “Oui?” she said.

  “Frésnes Prison visiting hours start at two P.M.,” Morbier said. “Prisoner number 3978. Today.”

  Aimée looked at her watch. “But it’s …”

  “Up to you,” Morbier interrupted. “The prisoner’s scheduled for transi
t and my contact’s retiring tomorrow.”

  “Give me that number again,” she said, snatching a pen and writing the numbers on her palm.

  “I’m taking Marc,” he said. “We’re leaving for Brittany en vacances.”

  “Merci,” she said, but Morbier had already hung up.

  Apprehensive, she looked past the paperwork on her desk at René. “The phone’s buzzing worries me, René.”

  “Maybe it’s time to check for bugs, the wireless kind,” he said, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. “Exterminator is my middle name.”

  She grabbed her jacket, tried it on, then threw it on the chair.

  René’s eyes narrowed to green slits.

  “Problems?”

  “What do you wear to prison?”

  “Depends how long you’re staying,” René said. “Short-term, the linen works. Long-term, a jumpsuit with stripes. Why?”

  “I’m visiting Jutta Hald’s former cell mate,” she said, scanning the faxes. “I’ll knock this out later.”

  René gestured toward her linen jacket. “You mean we’re postponing the sushi?”

  “Désolée!” She slapped her cheek. Sometimes she forgot to eat. Or that other people did.

  “Here’s Christian’s check for fifty thousand francs,” she said. “Should tide us over.”

  René whistled.

  That should mollify him and take care of some bills. “Don’t forget to deposit it.”

  “I suppose you’ll be eternally grateful to me,” René said, pulling off his headset.

  “And treat you to sushi every week.”

  AIMÉE BOARDED the dark pink Metro line for Porte d’Orleans. She hadn’t had time to ask Morbier who this prisoner was and what she was in for.

  She exited on the péripherique side and found bus number 187, the only public transport to Frésnes Prison.

  Most of the bus passengers were African or of Arab descent, and female. An older French woman, haggard and bleary-eyed, pounded on the folding bus doors as they closed. With a shrug, the driver let her on. Women clutched babies and prisoners’ laundry bags, as they tried to get past the folding strollers.

  The ride wound past turn-of-the-century bungalows interspersed with “affordable” housing. Drab and uniform. A close commute to Paris was the only redeeming feature Aimée could see.

  On the way she wondered why her mother had grown enamored of the radicals’ cause and joined them? Had she been on the run for all the years since? She shuddered, wondering if her mother had bombed and murdered innocent people.

  Frésnes finally appeared. The grimy hundred-year-old brick structure was forbidding, and encased in multiple walls. As she stepped off the bus, birds twittered in the hedgerows. The leaves of tomato plants and pastel tulips waved in the breeze by the warden’s house.

  She walked past the guarded gates in tandem with women lugging toddlers and pushing strollers laden with shopping bags. She felt sorry for those with children who were making this long journey. And she could imagine doing it in the rain.

  Miniature vegetable gardens lined the walks of the guards’ accommodations. Prison food was notorious for starch and carbohydrates; most inmates puffed out due to the diet and lack of exercise.

  Frésnes was an all-purpose prison that handled mostly inmates serving sentences of under five years as well as those awaiting sentencing. She’d heard it said that seventy to eighty percent of the prisoners were nonwhite.

  The visitors shuffled into the central salle d’attente, a large room with gray floor tiles and light yellow walls, lined with lockers that could be rented for one franc each. She filled out her visiting application and sat on one of the hard benches.

  Posted on the wall was the list of items forbidden to the prisoners: hardcover books, caps, scarves, ties, work outfits, and blue clothing, since the guards wore blue. No leather gloves. She imagined this was to discourage escape attempts over barbed-wire fences. No ski masks, military fatigues, bathrobes, towels, or peignoirs. She wondered about that. No djellabas, kumaros, or boubous, the colorful African dress. No parkas, ski clothes, or shoes since the prison factory made shoes.

  Under the allowed list she read: bags with handles, clothing, and plastic bags.

  And then her group lined up to receive their visiting permits. Since this was a weekday, only a forty-five—minute visit was permitted. Each visitor furnished a photo ID to the guard.

  One by one they walked through a metal detector. After everyone passed they went through another yellow door and sat down to wait in a dirty banana-colored room, this time for about twenty minutes until guards summoned them to an underground tunnel. The air in it reminded her of her grandmother’s cellar, drafty and laced with mold.

  The tunnel, partly painted with a mural by prisoners, was cold and peeling from the damp.

  Aimée shivered and not just from the cold. She wondered how she would talk to number 3978, a woman who’d shared Jutta Hald’s cell before her release.

  She’d been lucky that Morbier had acted quickly. The permit said number 3978 was still in Centre National d’Observation but due for transfer back to the Clairvaux facility that night. Aimée had no knowledge of her crime. All she knew was that Clairvaux held those serving long-term sentences and lifers.

  She was directed toward the CNO section and entered a dim visiting booth. Behind her, the fluorescent strips in the hallway provided the only source of light. She sat on a stool at a small wooden table, the surface of which was gouged and carved by the feel of it. The door closed, leaving her in a space about three feet wide and ten feet long. Her breath caught as the key turned in the lock, a sound that was hard and ominous.

  This, she’d been informed, was a “contact” visit, with no screen or barrier between visitor and prisoner, the usual thing since the rules changed in 1980.

  A row of women in everyday clothes, escorted by blue-uniformed guards, passed by in single file, silhouetted in the doorway ahead of her. A large-boned woman with short cropped hair paused and looked inside.

  Aimée took a deep breath. Her spine tingled.

  The woman was an amazon.

  “Non, West Coast, next door,” said a guard.

  “Too bad,” the woman said, “A visit with her would be worth the mitard, the solitary hole.”

  The guard moved the amazon on.

  A wave of relief passed over Aimée. But not for long. The stool cut into her thighs and she hadn’t sat on it for more than two minutes.

  More figures walked past. From a neighboring booth came muffled laughter, in the distance she heard weeping. What seemed like a dark eternity went by before a lithe figure in worn sweats entered.

  The woman, shorter than Aimée, peered at her in the dim light then shoved a creased folder onto the table. “Tiens, if you keep insisting about my mother’s grave, I’ll show you proof I paid.”

  Surprised, Aimée rose. Her foot caught the stool, which crashed to the concrete floor. “Pardon, my name is Aimée Leduc,” she said. She extended her hand. “What’s yours?”

  “Liane Barolet,” the woman said. Aimée felt a curious grip. “Like I said, the money was paid. Here are the papers.”

  What did this woman mean?

  “You must think I’m someone else, Madame Barolet. I’m not sure …”

  “Mademoiselle would be technically correct,” the woman said.

  She remained standing as Aimée righted the stool. “Let me explain why I’ve come, Mademoiselle Barolet,” Aimée said. “It’s nothing to do with your mother. It’s to do with mine.”

  “I don’t know you,” the prisoner said, withdrawing toward the locked door. “And my socialist group meeting starts soon.”

  “Sorry, but we might as well talk,” Aimée said. “They won’t open the door until visiting time’s over.”

  It was hard to tell if Liane Barolet shrugged; her clothes were too big for her.

  “I don’t get many visitors,” she said, moving closer and sitting down.

  Now
Aimée could see more of Liane’s face. Once she’d been very pretty, Aimée imagined. The cheekbones were still prominent, the lips full, but deep lines webbed the cornflower blue eyes, etched the forehead. She had that look Jutta Hald had—wan, doughy skin on a bony frame.

  Prison life.

  “Jutta Hald told me …”

  “That pseudo Marxist?” Liane snorted.

  “Wasn’t she in the Haader-Rofmein gang?”

  “You came here to ask me that?” Liane pounded her hand on the table.

  “Jutta Hald was murdered.” Aimée looked down. She realized Liane Barolet’s hand consisted of a thumb, index finger, and pinkie. The middle and ring fingers were stubs.

  “When?” Liane asked, as she leaned back in the shadows.

  “The day she got out.”

  Aimée couldn’t see her reaction. She decided to get to the point.

  Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness. “Right before her death, Jutta showed up at my apartment. She said she’d shared a cell with my mother,” Aimée said. “She wanted money to tell me more, then she was shot.” She hoped the trembling of her lips didn’t show. “My mother’s name was Sydney Leduc. Did you know her?”

  Liane Barolet’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Mon petit, guess what? Life is hard. Then you die.”

  “Jutta said the same thing.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “I’m not asking for sympathy,” Aimée said.

  “So what do you want?”

  This wasn’t going well.

  “Look, I’m sorry this is confusing,” Aimée said. She drummed her fingers under the wooden table. They came back sticky. “All I want to know is if Jutta talked about my mother in prison.”

  “Why ask me?”

  “You shared a cell with Jutta, she was excited about getting out. She might have told you something. You’re in the system, you might have heard things. Or whether someone else knows. Then I can lay it to rest.”

  “I doubt that,” Liane said.

  Startled, Aimée looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “If you wanted to forget about your mother, you’d have ignored Jutta.”

  Her astute observation rankled. Maybe because it felt true.