Murder in the Sentier ali-3

by Cara Black

  The taxi stopped.

  Stefan shook his head. “It means so much to talk with someone. Really talk. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  He got in the taxi, shut the door, and it sped off.

  GREAT! HE fed her a morsel, then he was gone. But not before she got the number, 2173, of the Taxi Bleu.

  She walked down rue du Louvre toward her office. The name Stefan repeated in her brain. Where had she seen it? Think, she told herself. But nothing came.

  Taxis passed, their blue lights signaling they were free, but she kept walking. Who had murdered Idrissa’s kora player and why? Could Stefan have been involved? Think harder.

  Christian said she was in danger. Had the musician been killed to warn Idrissa, or by mistake? And that got her thinking about how Idrissa had disappeared after she’d asked her about Romain Figeac. People hid or disappeared to avoid bills, spouses, jealous lovers, revenge. Or to keep secrets.

  She mounted the stairs to her office, flicked on the light. She opened the window onto rue du Louvre and the night sounds: footsteps, the hee-haw of a distant siren, snatches of music from an open car window.

  She called Taxi Bleu. But the dispatcher wouldn’t give out the location the taxi had driven to until she’d given him the police number she sometimes used for occasions like this. Morbier’s police number. Montmartre cemetery, the dispatcher finally told her.

  She’d gone there to pay for Liane Barolet’s mother’s crypt. Coincidence or …? Something fit here … but what was it? Think! It was as if something stared her in the face.

  Cool breezes drifted in, carrying the scent of the Seine.

  Her eye rested on the photo of her with her father, the one taken the day before she went to New York as an exchange student. He’d treated her at Angelina’s on rue de Rivoli to the famous hot chocolate so thick one used a spoon.

  Then Aimée saw the old Interpol posters fluttering on her wall. One of the black-and-white photos caught her eye. She peered closer. With a jerk, she sat up. She realized she was staring at Stefan.

  A younger Stefan, without glasses and gray hair. Very seventies and quite cute.

  It said, “Stefan Rohl: wanted for kidnapping and accomplice to murder of a policeman.” There was no statute of limitations on murder: He was still wanted.

  Thursday Night

  STEFAN FELT RELEASED, as if the years had lifted and he was floating. It had all bubbled out of him, and it had felt so good. So liberating. He hadn’t told her everything but he’d told her so much. And she’d wanted to hear, like her mother had.

  His years of living like a mole were over.

  But Jutta’s killer was trying to flush him out. He had to come up with a plan.

  “Where to, Monsieur?” asked the taxi driver.

  “Montmartre,” he said.

  The driver gave a knowing look. “The ladies, eh?”

  “The cemetery.”

  “But it’s closed this time of night.”

  Stefan rolled down the window. Lights from the late-night cafés in Les Halles, snatches of conversation flashed past.

  “That’s right.”

  The driver would log the destination as Montmartre cemetery but Stefan always parked a few blocks away.

  The fountain spraying in front of hulking gothic St. Eustache church and the circus posters brought the memories back. Back to the afternoon twenty years ago, when they’d planned the heist and kidnapping.

  The sun had blazed in a sky enameled blue. The gang had joined bourgeois families and older couples at the zoo on a typical Sunday in Vincennes Park. He often wondered how people would have reacted if they’d known wanted terrorists strolled in their midst, eating spun sugar barbes à papas, standing beside them in the run-down zoo. Marcus, his arms draped around Ingrid, had insisted on feeding the monkeys, who looked so sad.

  The braying of an elephant was carried on the wind with the animal smells: dense and musky.

  They’d bought tickets for the bumper cars at the cheesy fun fair. Ulrike, he’d noticed, stood apart, watching children beg reluctant parents for one last ride. She thrust a roll of tickets into a startled mother’s hand and walked away.

  Mallard ducks rippled in V formation from the grasses toward the small man-made island, the Ile de Bercy. He remembered the island well. At the dock, Marcus paid and they commandeered two rowboats and rowed to the island. They found Jules and Beate with other Action-Réaction members, sitting under a spreading willow. The group greeted them with roasted chicken and bottles of wine on a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, picnic style.

  “Welcome to a Sunday in the country,” Jules grinned. The afternoon held a luminosity, a quivering glow, that he still remembered.

  Probably the one time they’d been happy together.

  No fights or rivalries. That surfaced later.

  “Your idea inspired us, Stefan,” Jules had said, to his amazement.

  “That wealthy man in your hometown, Laborde, the industrialist you told us about, he’s our target. Not only is he a munitions-making shit, he’s a wealthy one, too.”

  Alarmed, Stefan realized he’d once talked about his boyhood in Mulhouse after smoking too much hash. How the only swimming pool around after the war had been at the château. Granted, a modest manor house, but for Mulhouse a point of pride.

  During a battle over the Rhine, the Allies had bombed the château, and left a crater in the yard. The count had made it into the pool. As a boy, Stefan had sneaked over the wall when the count was away and gone swimmming with his friends. But when Laborde bought the property, he’d wired the fence and brought in dogs. Rumor had it he owned mines in Africa.

  After they’d eaten, Jules had given Jutta a notebook to write in. By the water, Beate and Ingrid fed a baguette to the ducks.

  “Laborde has skeletons in his closet,” Jules said. “He collaborated with the SS. Rumor has it he was part of the Milice, involved with the Vichy government. Not to mention he ships arms to Africa and gets paid in diamonds.”

  “The Revolution is coming!” Ulrike’s eyes flashed. “Fascist capitalism must be overturned. The proletariat deserves the spoils, not the merchant of death.”

  “We’ll turn the money into tools to finance our cause, to help our oppressed brothers and sisters in prison, in the tenements,” Ingrid said. Beate, her long hair falling to her waist, joined her and nodded.

  Jules diagrammed the house layout in the dirt.

  “We kidnap him, open the safe, then rendezvous at the farm,” said Jules. “Jutta’s working on the new passports, IDs, and cars, and Action-Réaction is providing the escape network.”

  Marcus sat cross-legged and pulled out a map, outlining Laborde’s movements.

  “His wife and children stay in Nice for the summer,” he said.

  “On the weekends, he drives to Mulhouse, where he keeps a minimal staff.” Marcus looked up, grinned. “We ambush him here on the N66, the small road he takes.”

  Jutta took notes. Stefan wondered how they’d found out this information.

  “Since you know the lay of the land, you can guide us inside the château, Stefan. Then you can take your swim, eh,” said Jules, his eyes slitted in amusement.

  Stefan’s spine prickled. “But I’ve never been inside!” Verrucht! They were crazy! He wanted nothing to do with this, yet an irrational part of him wanted to swim in that pool. That exotic turquoise green kidney shaped expanse of water under the imported palms, once the talk of Mulhouse.

  “Laborde will show us in and open the safe,” Jules said. “He’ll have to. His life depends on it.”

  “Everyone has something to do,” Jutta said. She lifted up a paper. On it was each person’s name, arrows pointing to his or her assigned job.

  Perfect in theory. Events had proved differently.

  They’d ambushed Laborde’s chauffeured Mercedes on the forested road outside Mulhouse. Laborde, a stocky man with a bad toupee, had been drinking. He’d proved belligerent, kicking Jules and biting his
hand. Finally, with Stefan’s help, Jules had handcuffed Laborde’s wrists together behind his back. They gagged the driver, stowed him in the trunk, then Stefan donned his uniform. Ulrike, Marcus, Ingrid, Beate, and Jutta followed in the local blanchisserie’s truck they’d stolen.

  At the château gate, Laborde, with Jules’s gun in his ribs prompting him, told the man to open the gates and take the weekend off. The Mercedes and the laundry truck pulled up the crescent drive leading to the gray stone château and parked against a chestnut tree.

  The service staff, a gray-haired housekeeper in an apron and a butler in slacks and cardigan, stood smiling on the steps.

  “What do we do now?” Stefan asked, paralyzed.

  He heard scuffling in the back, but all he could see was Jules’s shoulders in the rearview mirror. He heard heaving and grunts.

  “Jules, what now?”

  The butler had started walking down the steps to the car.

  “What do I do?”

  A red-faced Jules stuck his face up. “He’s sick, tell them he’s sick and will go right to his room.”

  He had to move. To do something. They would know he wasn’t the usual chauffeur.

  He stepped onto the drive. The gravel crunched and shifted under his feet. He took off his cap, but kept his eyes down. “I’m the new driver. Monsieur Laborde feels unwell, his colleague will escort him to his room.”

  Surprise painted their faces.

  “Monsieur Laborde wants you to take the weekend off.”

  The butler came to the car door. “But Monsieur Laborde specifically requested us to stay, especially today. The rest of the staff will return for this evening’s dinner party. The minister called, he’s arriving at seven P.M.”

  Scheisser! They were sunk.

  Whichever idiot planned this hadn’t taken into account Laborde’s social life.

  Words tumbled from his mouth.

  “Everything’s on hold. Monsieur Laborde’s health is the most important consideration. He’ll decide later.”

  “But he sounded fine this morning….”

  “Stomach flu,” Stefan had said, the first thing that came to him. “Suddenly. I had to stop several times on the road so he could throw up.”

  “This is highly unusual,” the butler said, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “Monsieur Laborde likes to confirm the details with me.”

  The housekeeper shrugged her shoulders. “One good thing, thank the Lord, the laundry’s brought the linens.”

  She walked over to the laundry truck. At that moment, Marcus burst from the truck. He grabbed the housekeeper, who screamed. Jules rushed from the car and wrestled the butler to the steps. Marcus put a gun to the housekeeper’s head and told her not to move.

  In the midst of the screaming and fighting, Ulrike and Jutta hauled Laborde into the house. They’d agreed no one was to get hurt, but drops of Laborde’s blood trailed up the stone steps.

  By the time they’d tied the servants up in the kitchen pantry, the sun had slumped midway behind the chestnut tree. Stefan noticed the pool, cracked and dry, had been emptied.

  “Time to change plans,” Jutta had said. They all gathered briefly inside the cavernous foyer. Originally, they’d planned to spend the weekend and carefully loot the house and its safe. “We do it now, take what we can and get out.”

  “She’s right—more servants will be arriving at any time,” Ulrike said. “We’ll sort everything out later.”

  “I’ll be the lookout,” Beate said, and walked down the driveway.

  But Laborde, his toupee dropped in the gravel, had been knocked unconscious. He lay bleeding in the study where they’d carried him. They’d counted on him to point out the safe and open it. Marcus had a tantrum over the stupidity of the plans, throwing furniture about and trashing the rooms. By the time Jutta found the safe under a floor panel in the library, Laborde had groggily come to.

  “Open it,” Marcus had said.

  “You’re kidding … for punks like you?” Laborde panted, his breathing growing more labored. “Under Vichy you wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes! You don’t know trouble … you’re a bunch of spoiled—”

  “Capitalist pig, shut up!” Marcus had interrupted. He glared and stuck his finger in Laborde’s face. “Show us the safe and open it now!”

  Was Laborde arrogant or just plain stupid? Terrorists pointed guns at him but he still wouldn’t talk.

  “You idiots, the police chief’s coming for dinner this evening.

  …”

  Marcus kicked Laborde in the stomach. Over and over.

  “Stop it, Marcus … we’ve got to get out of here while we can.” Stefan stood fumbling in the dining room by the draperies Marcus had torn down.

  “Get the car ready, Stefan,” Jules said, pulling him aside.

  Stefan couldn’t look at Laborde and left hurriedly.

  Outside in the driveway he met Beate. She clutched her patchwork Indian skirt, looking as lost and scared as he felt.

  “What’s taking so long?” she asked.

  “Laborde’s not cooperating,” he said. “We should leave, forget the safe.”

  He’d wanted fun and excitement but hadn’t bargained on this.

  Neither had she, from what he could see. Sure, they all believed in the cause, especially Ulrike. But Beate seemed to be under the spell of Jules; maybe her weakness was powerful men.

  “Stefan, you’re not like the others,” she said.

  Stefan was surprised she’d even noticed him.

  “You know—” She hesitated.

  Loud shouts came from the foyer.

  “I’ll get the Mercedes,” he told her.

  What he wanted to say was, If they’re not out in five minutes, let’s drive away. Beate gave him a funny look, as if she’d read his thoughts, but just nodded. She mounted the stairs to the tall doors and went inside.

  The laundry truck’s door was open and waiting. He pulled the Mercedes ahead of it, checked the back seat. The metallic smell of Laborde’s blood sickened him. What had Jules done?

  He felt like throwing up, but the others would see. He opened the hood—anything to keep busy—adjusting a misfiring valve, when he heard gravel pop and looked up.

  “Salut!” Two women hailed him as they walked up the drive, fanning themselves in the heat.

  His heart jumped. Beate was supposed to be the lookout but she was inside!

  Judging by their stiletto heels, miniskirts, teased hair, and made-up faces, they didn’t appear to be the arriving crew of domestics. More like working girls reporting for duty.

  “The butler told us to come early, your gate’s open,” the taller one said, grinning. “Freshen up, you know. I’m Lisette and this is Tina.”

  What should he do? The less these two knew, the better. If he sent them inside, they’d become hostages, too. He pointed to what he guessed was the gardener’s cottage. “Freshen up over there and wait until the butler calls you.”

  She looked him up and down. “Nice bonus, we do the help for free when they look like you.”

  Years later, he’d heard Lisette had written a book, I Loved a Terrorist, which hit the best-seller list. He always wondered what story she’d concocted.

  He shut the car hood, ran up the steps, and careened into Beate and Jutta dragging full plastic bags across the black-and-white-tiled entrance. Ingrid skipped past them, an Uzi hanging from her shoulder, oil paintings under her arm. They reminded him of paintings he’d seen in a museum.

  “Schnell, quickly,” Jutta said, “open the trunk.”

  He heard Laborde begging Marcus to stop. Then the tinkling of breaking glass, heavy thuds of furniture falling.

  “Marcus, Jules … forget it, let’s go!”

  “Later.” Jutta pulled his arm. “They’ll join us. Let’s go. Now!”

  He didn’t need any more urging if they were going to get away before the servants found them looting.

  By the time they’d loaded the trunk and he, Jutta and Beate had g
otten in the car, the others were running for the laundry truck. Ingrid started the truck. He gunned the car’s engine and they shot down the graveled driveway. He jumped out to open the unlocked gates. People alighted from a bus at the stop down the road and walked toward them. He looked back. The laundry truck still hadn’t moved.

  “What about the others?” He wasn’t about to wait but felt he had to say it.

  “After Paris, we’ll meet at the safe house.”

  He tore down the forested road, hoping to hit the next village soon. Once there he’d pull behind a gas station, jump out, and change the license plates. He’d paint the Mercedes later, but for now that should get them to Paris.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Did Laborde open the safe?”

  Jutta shook her head. In the rearview mirror he’d seen the look that passed between her and Beate. A strange knowing look.

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “We found another safe in his desk.” Jutta grinned at Beate.

  Then they burst into laughter. “We couldn’t open it, so we just took all the drawers!”

  And for a split second his mind jumped to the present … was that why Jutta had been murdered … for the Laborde stash? Was that why someone had chased him from Romain Figeac’s apartment?

  Thursday Night

  SHE’D LET STEFAN GET away but she’d given him her number.

  She doubted that would be the last she’d see of him. He seemed so lonely. And carried such a burden.

  Idrissa Diaffa was the missing link. Aimée felt convinced of it now; Idrissa knew what Romain Figeac had been writing. And it had to do with her mother and Jutta and the Laborde cache.

  Idrissa had disappeared after Aimée had asked her about it. Then Ousmane, her partner, was murdered. Had Idrissa been the intended victim or was this a warning to her?

  Either way Aimée had to find Idrissa and get answers.

  If Aimée barged into Club Exe again, she’d get the same shrugs and evasions. Locating Idrissa in the Sentier would be like searching for a sequin on a female impersonator’s costume.

  But maybe the club could find her. Aimée punched Club Exe’s number on her office phone.

  “Club Exe …” The rest of the man’s words were lost in a deep bass beat.