Femme Fatale

by Claude Bouchard

  “You look like you’ve had a rough day,” commented Hassan, noticing the swelling and bruising beginning to appear on the side of the artist’s face.

  “They hit me several times,” said Louie. “I thought they were going to kill me.”

  “This was the missing women’s father and the pretty redhead who visited you?” asked Hassan.

  “Yes,” Louie confirmed. “They kept asking questions and beating me to get answers. That’s why I warned you, so you would know who you were dealing with if they go see you.”

  “They were at the club late this morning with the police,” Hassan informed him. “One of the women left or lost her mobile phone at the club last night and the police traced the signal. I am curious about something though, my friend.”

  “What is that?” asked Louie.

  “I’m curious as to why this couple would know to come and question you,” Hassan explained. “How would the father of a stranger you brought to Femme Fatale know you even existed?”

  “Well, uh,” Louie started, thinking fast as his face flushed, “I had brought her over the previous week. Perhaps she mentioned the club and me to her father before returning yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes, now I understand,” Hassan said with a smile, followed by a puzzled expression. “But wait. How would she have known to tell her father where to find you? How would she have known where this studio was?”

  “I-I don’t know, Rashid,” Louie mumbled.

  “Hmmm,” Hassan mused, scratching his chin in thought. “There is a possible explanation, my friend.”

  Louie shrugged. “What is it?”

  Hassan suddenly lashed out with his foot, sweeping Louie’s legs from under him and sending him crashing to the floor before kicking him several times to the chest and abdomen.

  “I will tell you what the explanation is,” Hassan growled. “You are stupid and you are a liar. You brought a woman you knew to the club. Doing so put you at risk which explains the bruises on your face. But even worse, doing so put me at risk which explains this.”

  He followed with another half dozen kicks to the back, buttocks and legs as Louie whimpered and curled into a ball to protect his head and front torso.

  “Now, I’d like you to tell me who the lady is,” said Hassan, breathing heavily. “When you met her, how you know her, that kind of thing. I want to see how stupid you are and I suggest you don’t lie to me again. If you do, I will get angry.”

  “C-Corinne, Corinne Petit,” Louie gasped. “Sh-she paints here.”

  “Here?” Hassan exclaimed. “Here in this studio?”

  “I-I’m sorry, Rashid,” Louie pleaded. “I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

  “What did you think?” Hassan demanded.

  “Corinne asked if we knew any good dance clubs,” Louie sobbed. “Her sister’s girlfriend was coming to visit and Corinne wanted to take them someplace nice. I suggested your place and that’s when I brought her over to introduce you. I thought you might have three ladies for whatever you want them for when they did go dancing.”

  Hassan glared down at the snivelling artist for a moment then continued. “The dark haired one, Rachel, who came with you and Corinne last week. This was the sister’s girlfriend?”

  “N-no,” Louie stammered and swallowed. “R-Rachel shares the studio with me as well. She was here when Corinne asked about clubs and she came along with us.”

  “So now,” Hassan took a deep breath, “This Rachel is aware of the whole story?”

  “No, no she isn’t,” Louie cried. “All she knows is I suggested the club and Corinne was planning to go there.”

  “The young lady who visited me,” Hassan paused and laughed as he looked at Louie, “And you, with the sisters’ father must be the girlfriend. Do you know where she is staying?”

  “Probably at Corinne’s sister’s apartment,” Louie guessed, cautiously relaxing as the worst seemed to be over. “But I don’t know where that is.”

  “Don’t worry,” Hassan smiled. “We’ll find it.”

  “Uh, let me know if I can help somehow,” Louie offered, hoping to make amends.

  “There is one thing you can do to help,” said Hassan, holding his hand out to help the younger man back up.

  “Anything,” Louie replied, accepting Hassan’s help.

  Hassan pulled Louie up halfway then kicked him in the back and let him drop to the floor.

  “I want you to tell me,” said Hassan, “Exactly what the father and girlfriend asked you and exactly what you told them.”

  * * * *

  Leslie had somewhat regretted returning to Dominique’s apartment almost as soon as she had walked in. She had occupied some time by giving Chris a call to apprise him of the situation and he had urged her to keep him posted, promising to be available at a moment’s notice if help was required. Leslie was aware that Jonathan could easily get hold of a plane and fly them down if needed so she knew her colleagues were, in fact, only hours away.

  She had tried to read a bit to get her mind off things but had found herself gazing blankly at her ereader several times and had eventually given up. A walk to further familiarize herself with the neighbourhood had allowed a half hour to pass and permitted her to locate a grocery store, drugstore and other retailers she would likely have to visit for food and other essentials in the coming days. She had stopped at a terrace and ordered a glass of wine but had soon felt melancholic sitting there alone, not knowing where Dominique and Corinne were and what they might be enduring. She had quickly drained her glass and headed back to the apartment.

  Overall, her outing had been unsuccessful in distracting her, the exception being a gentleman who had slipped into the elevator just as the door was closing upon her return. He had nodded and smiled and as they had reached the fourth floor, he had grinned sheepishly then admitted to his destination being one storey below. Lost in his thoughts, he had forgotten press the appropriate button upon boarding the elevator.

  Leslie entered the apartment and as she dropped into the couch, her mood a combination of worry, exasperation and despair, her phone trilled.

  “Bonjour, Henri,” she answered. “Any news?”

  “Nothing about my daughters, unfortunately,” Henri replied. “However, Prefect Dubois did give me a call to assure me he had assigned a team of four officers to investigate.”

  “Did you tell him about our discussion with Louie?” Leslie asked, “And what he told us about Hassan?”

  “Yes, I did,” Henri admitted. “When I saw how seriously he was taking this matter, I felt I should put all chances on our side and give the police as much information as possible. Louie’s painting will unfortunately be disturbed again as the police are on their way to the studio as we speak.”

  “Serves him right,” Leslie scoffed. “I have no sympathy for that idiot. I hope he’s arrested and charged in all of this.”

  “He’ll have a few rather difficult days at the very least,” said Henri. “In the meantime, we’ll have to exercise our patience and let the police take the lead.”

  Leslie sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that but I guess you’re right, though this waiting is already driving me crazy.”

  “Monique and I both feel the same,” Henri assured her. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  “I don’t know,” Leslie admitted. “I’ve been trying to keep myself occupied but I can’t concentrate on anything.”

  “Why don’t you come back here,” Henri suggested. “You can have dinner with us and at least the three of us can worry together.”

  “I’d like that,” Leslie replied, “But I don’t want to impose.”

  “Nonsense,” said Henri. “Besides, if Dominique found out we left you alone while she was missing, we would never hear the end of it. Now, do you want me to come pick you up or would you rather drive over yourself?”

  “I’ll drive myself,” said Leslie. “What time would you like me to come over?”

  “As soon a
s you can get here,” Henri replied. “You can park by my car like this morning.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  * * * *

  “Bonjour, Hassan,” said Maurice when his call was answered. “I’m back with Armand near the Petit residence. The redhead is here now… She went back home for a while. I even know which flat it is… We’re not sure but she stopped to buy a bottle of wine on the way so we think she’s here for dinner… Sure, if that’s what you want, we can take care of it… If we have to, that’s not a problem either… I’ll tell him.”

  He cut the connection and glanced at Armand who sat smoking as he tapped the rhythm on the steering wheel to a song playing in his head.

  “Hassan wants me to go wait for the lady back at her apartment. You’ll wait here to see what’s going on and stay with her when she leaves.”

  “My cooler is full,” Armand replied, jerking his thumb towards the rear of the van, a Mercedes Citan, “I have an empty jug to relieve myself and my cigarettes to keep me company. I can stay here all night.”

  Maurice nodded. “Très bien. Let me know what’s going on.”

  “Of course,” said Armand. “I’ll let you know when to expect us. What do we have planned for the lady?”

  “We’ll take her,” Maurice replied, “Unless that becomes too much of a problem. If that’s the case, we’ll kill her. See you later.”

  * * * *

  Leslie’s second visit with Monique and Henri had started on a fairly relaxed note, given the circumstances, with some good wine to help relief the stress and some family albums to encourage both laughter and tears. However, a call Henri received on his mobile just as they were sitting down for dinner brought sombre news which darkened the atmosphere.

  “That was Morel, one of the officers we met at the club this morning,” Henri announced. “He and his partner went to pick Louie up at the studio for questioning and they found him dead.”

  “Louie is dead?” Leslie exclaimed. “How? What happened?”

  “His throat was cut,” Henri replied, “And he seems to have been badly beaten before being killed.”

  “It must be Hassan,” said Leslie. “Are the police going after him?”

  “For now, they are treating it like any murder investigation,” Henri explained. “They can’t simply run over to arrest Hassan because of information we forced Louie to give us.”

  “But we already think he’s involved or responsible for the kidnapping of your daughters and probably other women,” Leslie argued, “And now the one person who had information about that turns up dead.”

  “I know you’re upset, Leslie,” said Henri, “But we agreed to let the police do their job, just a couple of hours ago. Let’s give them a chance.”

  Leslie nodded and they proceeded to eat their meal in silence though none of the three demonstrated much appetite. Once they were done, Leslie rose to help clear the table but Monique waved her back to her seat before gathering the dishes and heading to the kitchen.

  Once she was out of sight and the clattering of plates and cutlery at the sink confirmed she was out of earshot, Henri spoke quietly.

  “I must ask you a question, Leslie, but I’m not sure exactly how to go about it.”

  “What is it, Henri?” said Leslie. “Just go ahead and ask it.”

  “Very well,” Henri replied, taking a deep breath. “It’s about Louie.”

  Leslie waited a moment then urged him on. “What is about Louie? What’s your question?”

  “We were apart for a couple of hours this afternoon,” said Henri.

  Leslie held up her hand to stop him. “You want to know if I killed him? No, I didn’t. I went back to Dominique’s apartment. I made a call from her landline to Montreal which you can verify. Then I went for a walk and bought a glass of wine at a terrace. Let me get the receipt. It’s in my jacket pocket.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” said Henri. “I believe you and my intention was not to make you angry.”

  “I’m not angry,” Leslie quietly replied. “I guess I’m a bit disappointed that you thought I might have acted this rashly but, in your defence, you don’t know me. If you did, you wouldn’t have needed to ask the question.”

  “I didn’t mean to trouble you or disappoint you,” said Henri. “I only thought of the possibility because I saw you were no stranger to physical confrontation. I also knew you had a knife and you clearly weren’t fond of Louie. However, I realize I took quite a leap from that to thinking you could kill someone. Leslie, I apologize.”

  “No,” Leslie replied, shaking her head, “Don’t apologize because I could kill someone. I’m certainly capable but I wouldn’t have killed Louie without your knowledge. I see us as partners in this thing so neither one of us must do anything without keeping the other aware. We have to plan together and cover each other. Otherwise we might both end up dead.”

  Henri smiled and said, “I apologize for not showing complete faith in you and I am truly happy and honoured to have you as my partner. I’m convinced we will have Dominique and Corinne back with us soon. If the police don’t get to the bottom of this, we will.”

  * * * *

  The remainder of the evening with Monique and Henri had turned into a pleasant one once the shock of Louie’s murder had been absorbed. Henri had recounted anecdotes of his security work at the Louvre, ranging from idiocies performed by tourists around priceless pieces of art to several attempted thefts over the years. Monique told childhood stories about her daughters which would have embarrassed them had they been present. Leslie, for her part, described how she and Dominique had met and become attracted to each other, already well aware of the Petits’ comfort and liberal minding regarding their daughter’s sexual orientation.

  By ten o’clock, all three were yawning, weary from the long, emotional day they had been through and knowing those coming would be just as demanding. They agreed to calling it a night and following a polite argument with Henri insisting Leslie sleep over while she refused, she bade them good night and headed back to Dominique’s apartment.

  Her ride back in the relatively light traffic along the now familiar route was uneventful and she was soon parking the scooter in the deserted courtyard at Dominique’s. A light automatically came on as she entered the building, illuminating the empty hallway as she made her way to the elevator which seconds later was whisking her upwards. The doors slid open at the fourth floor and Leslie exited, turning towards the door to her temporary home immediately to her right. With key in hand, she unlocked the door and entered the apartment, flicking on the ceiling light in the entranceway as she went.

  The sun had shone through the windows all afternoon, leaving the apartment feeling warm and stuffy. Wishing to let in some fresh air, Leslie crossed the living room to the French doors which opened to a faux balcony overlooking the tiny side street below. She turned the latch and as she placed her hands on the knobs, she raised her eyes and froze for an instant.

  The contrast between the darkness outside and the dim light within was sufficient to turn the panes of the French doors into mirrors and coming towards her at an increasing pace was the man she had seen in the elevator that afternoon.

  Turning the knobs, she pulled both doors open and dropped into a crouch at precisely the moment he reached her. Grasping only open air in surprise as he lunged, the man toppled forward as he tripped over Leslie, his shins on her back, his ribs crashing hard against the railing outside. At the same moment, Leslie pushed upward, rising from her crouched position and effectively catapulting the man’s legs into the air… and out the open doors and over the railing.

  She heard the dull thud a second before clutching the railing and looking down. Even from her fourth floor viewpoint, she was convinced the man had not survived the fall. The peculiar angle of his neck was a dead giveaway.

  “Aww, fuck,” she muttered, closing and locking the French doors before hurrying to turn the deadbolt at the main door.

  Pulling out her sw
itchblade, she quickly searched the bedroom and bathroom to ensure nobody else was laying in wait then got her phone to call Henri.

  “Bonjour, Henri. I didn’t wake you?” she asked when he answered the call.

  “Non, non,” Henri replied. “Is everything alright?”

  “Uh, I’ve got a little problem,” said Leslie then proceeded to relate the events of the preceding minutes.

  “Mon Dieu,” Henri exclaimed when she was done. “You are not hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Leslie. “The guy never had a chance to touch me.”

  “And you’re sure this man is dead?”

  “A neck can’t bend that much, Henri. He’s dead,” she replied, moving to the French doors to have another look. “Holy crap. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Henri repeated. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “The body’s gone. There’s a big wet spot on the pavement as if someone threw a bucket of water.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t dead,” Henri reasoned, “And he got up and left.”

  “Impossible,” Leslie replied. “The guy took a fifty foot dive to the pavement. One leg was bent backwards at the knee. Blood was pooling around the body.”

  “In that case, someone else was with him and picked up the body,” said Henri. “I don’t like this, Leslie. I should call the police. You could be in danger by yourself at the apartment.”

  “Call the police and tell them what?” Leslie asked. “The body’s gone. They’re going to start thinking we’re going crazy. I’m on the top floor, Henri. Access by the windows would be virtually impossible and -”

  “Someone could try from the roof,” Henri interrupted.

  “Wait a second,” said Leslie, looking up out the French doors then moving to the window at the opposite end overlooking the inner courtyard. “I doubt it. The roof overhang is about six feet wide on either side and five feet above the windows. Trying to swing from there to a closed window would be suicide.”