Murder in the Marais (Aimee Leduc Investigations, No. 1)

by Cara Black

  "Ich b-b. . .bin He. . .Helmut. HELM' MOOT," he stammered as he held her small white hands on his mouth, kissing them.

  She pulled her hands away immediately and said seriously, "Enchante, HELM'MOOT."

  "Enchantee, S-SARAH." He bowed as low as he could with his knees crunched beneath him.

  A faint odor of decay clung to the cavern walls pocked with bits of bone. Damp chill crept from the darkness beyond the candlelight.

  "I w-won't hurt you, S-SARAH," he whispered. "N-never."

  His night shift at the Kommandantur began at midnight, and he left her just in time to walk the few blocks there. Eighteen families on her street had been turned in by a collaborator, she'd said. He had promised to search for her parents but that would be an exercise in futility.

  Everyone had boarded convoy number 10 bound for Auschwitz.

  The only thing he could do was save her. If he was careful. Fear, gratitude, and a promise of safety might be all she had now. But he would wait.

  Every night before his shift he visited the catacombs. His loneliness would evaporate as he climbed down and met Sarah's face. Hopeful and grateful.

  In 1942 all the detainees from Drancy prison had been required to send home a cheerful missive before being herded into the trains. The next week he'd found the card from her parents and brought it to her. Ecstatically happy, she'd hugged him and cried. Quickly she'd sent her one extra blanket to the prison.

  Hartmuth knew he could never tell her the truth. Sarah would not understand why he lied. It was all he could do to bring the food with his meager army pay swallowed in bribes. The evening his Kommandant visited the opera, Hartmuth had slipped into the office at the Kommandantur where Missing-Active Search files were kept. He'd crossed out her name, the only thing he knew to do to save her.

  MONDAY

  Monday Morning

  MARTINE SITBON, AIMÉE'S FRIEND since algebra class in the lycee, sounded tired. Her graveyard shift at the newspaper Le Figaro had fifteen minutes left.

  "Ça va, Martine? Got a minute or two?" Aimee said.

  "Well, Aimee, long time no hear," came the husky voice. "Is this a friend-in-need-is-a-friend-indeed call?"

  "You could say that and I'll owe you dinner big-time," Aimee chuckled.

  Martine yawned deeply. "Hit me now before I fade; you're keeping me from the warm body in my bed, about whom I'll tell you more at dinner. We'll go to La Grande Vefour—the pâte and the veal d'agneau are superb."

  Aimee flinched. A meal without wine began at six hundred francs. But Martine, a gourmet, always dictated the restaurant.

  "Agreed, you'll definitely earn your dinner on this stuff. First, you still have that friend in social security?"

  "Bien sûr! I love and nurture my connections, Aimee. I'm a journalist."

  "Great. Need everything you can get on some members of Les Blancs Nationaux. I want to know where their money comes from." She gave Martine Thierry's and Yves's names.

  Martine paused. "What's this about, Aimee?"

  "A case."

  "Aimee, Aryan supremacist types don't play by the rules. This EU trade summit is causing lots of rats to surface. Just a word of caution."

  "Merci. One more thing. Check on a non-Jew murder in 1943 on the rue des Rosiers, reported or not. And while you're at it, collaborators in the Marais."

  "As in Nazi collaborators?" Martine said. "Touchy stuff! No one likes to talk about them. But I'll sniff around if you promise to be careful."

  "Careful as lice staring at delousing powder," Aimee said.

  "Keep that smart mouth in line. I know that during the Occupation all newspapers were taken over, turned into essentially rote German propaganda. Some arrondissements printed their own one-pager cheat sheets with local info such as births, deaths, electricity rates. But I'll check on that and get back to you. One more thing."

  "I'm listening, Martine."

  "Make three reservations, in case my boyfriend wants to come."

  Aimee groaned. This really would cost.

  "MONSIEUR JAVEL, you remember me, right?" Aimee smiled brightly at the cobbler. "How about something to drink? Let's discuss our mutual interest." She held up an apple green bottle of Pernod.

  "Eh, what could that be?" Felix Javel growled, swaying on his bowed legs.

  "Arlette's murder," she said. "Maybe if we share information, things will be mutually beneficial."

  Before he could hesitate, she nudged herself between him and the door leading out the back of his shop. She was determined to find out what he really saw in 1943. Despite the Gallic genius for evasion, she counted on the Pernod to loosen his tongue.

  He shrugged. "As you like. I don't have much to say." He scrubbed the back of his neck with a grayish flannel washcloth as he led her down the narrow hallway lit by a yellowed bulb. Sliding off his shoes, he indicated that she should do the same before entering a parlor sitting room.

  This room, suffocatingly warm due to a modern oil heater, smelled of used kitty litter. A Victorian rocker plumped with threadbare chintz cushions sat in front of a sixties greenish chrome television set. A bent rabbit-ear antenna sat on top of it. Cascading strands of blue crystal beads formed an opaque curtain that hung from the door frame to the floor, separating the small cooking area. Javel returned from the kitchen balancing a tray with two glasses and a pitcher of water. Aimee willed herself not to get up and help him while he laboriously set the rattling tray on a scrubbed oak table. She pulled a small tin of pâte out with the bottle and his eyes lit up.

  "I have just the thing to go with that," he said.

  He clinked past the beads again, carrying a chipped Sèvres bowl full of stale, damp soda crackers. Aimee watched him set out embroidered lace-fringe linen napkins and picked one up.

  "These are almost too beautiful to use," she said, noting the ornately intertwined A and F.

  "Arlette did these. The whole set is still stored in our wedding chest. I don't have guests much, figured might as well use them."

  "You knew Lili Stein," she said. "Why keep it a secret from me?"

  Slowly he mixed the water with Pernod until it became properly milky. He rubbed some pâte on a cracker. "Why are you snooping around?" he said.

  "Doing my job." She moved her chair closer to his. "Lili's murder is connected to Arlette's."

  He chuckled and poured himself more Pernod. "The prewar Pernod absinthe got made with wormwood and ate one's brain away."

  "Who killed Arlette?" she said.

  He drank it down and poured himself another glass.

  "Aren't you the detective?" he said.

  "But you have your own theory," she said. "Something you saw that the flics didn't?" she said.

  Surprise flitted briefly across his face.

  "What did you see?" she said, excited by the look in his eyes.

  A long, loud burp erupted from deep in his stomach.

  "Buggers," he said. "Beat me."

  "Why? Why did they beat you, Javel?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You're a Jew, aren't you?"

  She shook her head. "What if I was?"

  "I don't like your type," he said. "Whatever it is."

  "Then don't vote for me at the Miss World pageant," she said.

  He smeared pâte on more stale crackers and shoveled them on the plate.

  There had to be some way to reach this concrete-headed little man. "Aren't you afraid, Javel? I mean, you mentioned hate attacks and random neo-Nazi violence in the Marais. But you don't seem very nervous to me."

  He sputtered, "Why should I be?" He poured himself another glass.

  "Exactly. Especially if you knew that Lili's murder had something to do with the past."

  "Leave me alone," he said. "Go away." He turned, his mouth twitching.

  "Tell me what you saw."

  He shook his fist in the air but still wouldn't look at her.

  Now she wanted to shake it out of him.

  "Look, I know you don't like me but holding it in won't bring Arl
ette back! You want justice, so do I. And we both know we have to find it ourselves. Right? Did the flics do anything but beat you?"

  She couldn't see his face. Finally he spoke, his back still turned toward her. "Everything started with that damned tinned salmon," he said.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.

  "Stuffed in her wardrobe. Everywhere," he said.

  "Black market?"

  He turned and reached for his glass. She slowly poured him another. Rachel Blum's words spun in her head.

  "Arlette sold black-market food. She was a BOF, right?" she said.

  Shaken, he looked up. "I haven't heard that term in years." He sighed. "She graduated to petrol, watches, even silk stockings. I told Arlette these things were too dangerous."

  "Did Lili help her?" she said.

  Saliva bubbled at the corner of his mouth.

  "Where was Lili? Did you see her?"

  "I tried to apologize," he shrugged. "But there were so many bloody footsteps. All over."

  "Why were you sorry? Did you and Arlette argue?"

  He nodded.

  "The footsteps went upstairs?" Aimee asked. "You thought they were Lili's?"

  He raised his eyebrows.

  "Javel, Lili saw what happened. Why didn't you ask her?"

  He shook his head. "She was gone. There were so many footsteps by the sink."

  "Lili wasn't there? Maybe hiding somewhere?"

  His eyes had narrowed to slits. She was afraid he was about to pass out. She took a gulp of Pernod to combat the pervasive ammonia smell from the kitty litter.

  "Javel," she said loudly and tiredly. "Tell me why."

  "I told the inspector." He spoke more lucidly, unaware of the tears trickling down his cheeks in thin silvery lines. "They beat me bloody at Double Morte. Called me a cripple. Said I couldn't get it up and laughed at me. First inspector got too greedy for a black-market collabo."

  "What was his name?" Aimee asked.

  "Lartigue. Run over by a Nazi troop truck accidentally, they say."

  "Lili knew who killed Arlette, didn't she?" she said.

  He shoved the empty glass towards her and she poured him more Pernod with a generous dash of water.

  "Rachel said Lili knew," Aimee said. "Come on, Javel, who else would know?"

  He shrugged, then leaned forward. "That Yid collabo who slept with a boche." He whispered, squinting his eyes, "With her bastard baby." His shoulder sagged. "Had the same eyes."

  "Same eyes?" Who was he talking about?

  "Such bright blue eyes for a Jew!" he said.

  "When was the last time you saw her?" Aimee asked excitedly.

  His head landed heavily on the table. Passed out. Only when he was snoring did Aimee tuck the crocheted blanket around him. She put milk in a bowl for the missing cat, rinsed out the glasses in his dingy sink, and shut the door quietly behind her.

  Monday Evening

  LE RENARD, "THE FOX," was a relic of Les Halles in the fifties. Somehow it had missed the wrecking ball that had swung on rue du Bourg Tibourg when they razed the old central market of Les Halles. There, Violette and Georges served their famous soupe a l'oignon gratinee at 5:00 A.M. for the few fish sellers who still plied their trade nearby.

  Aimee had arranged to meet Morbier here. After Javel's information, she counted on getting Morbier's approval to set her plan in motion.

  She entered the haze of cigarette smoke and loud laughter. Georges winked as she smoothed down her black dress, inched her toes comfortably in the black heels, and adjusted her one good strand of pearls. She slid around the corner of the zinc bar to kiss him on both cheeks.

  "Eh, where have you been? The snooping business keep you too busy to shoot the bull with old flics?" Georges teased with a straight face.

  "I had to raise my standards sometime, Georges, my reputation was getting tarnished," she threw back affectionately.

  Morbier perched at the counter, poking in his pants pockets for something. He found an empty pack of Gauloises, crumpled the cellophane, then searched his overcoat.

  "Any chance of Violette's cassoulet for me and this one?" She nudged Morbier as she said it.

  Georges smiled and said, "I'll check."

  Aimee motioned to Morbier. "I'm inviting you."

  He feigned indifference. "What's the occasion?"

  "It goes on the business account," she said. "Under purchasing information."

  He chuckled as he lit up a nonfiltered Gauloise blue. "You can try."

  They edged towards a booth with cracked brown leather seats. Dingy and comfortable, a cop hangout with good food. Several others from the Commissariat nodded and raised their glasses of le vin rouge in mock salute as they walked by. She recognized several from her father's time. A table of men in pinstriped suits were busily arguing and slurping Georges's signature dish. Bankers, stockbrokers from the Bourse, even a famous designer would roll up here. Many a time, Aimee had seen the prime minister's chauffeured Renault out front while he came in for a bowl. It was that good.

  "No dice on the forensics. Lili Stein's file has disappeared upstairs." He tore off a piece of crusty baguette.

  "I need to know when she was killed."

  "Formulating some theory that I should know about?"

  "Just a theory," Aimee said.

  "Like what?" He lifted the edge of the white tablecloth and wiped his mustache.

  She frowned and tossed him a linen napkin.

  "Nothing points directly to the LBN. The swastikas I saw at the meeting were different from what was on. . ." Aimee stopped. She remembered the bloodless lines carved in Lili Stein's forehead and heard the bland voice from the Auschwitz=Hoax video. Burning anger rose in her throat.

  "Is something wrong?" he said.

  She stopped herself. Anger would get her nowhere.

  "No. The closest hate crime in the videos I borrowed was burning the Star of David in front of the Jewish Center."

  Solange Goutal, the receptionist at the Jewish Center, had guessed right.

  "Borrowed?" he said.

  After watching the videos, she'd been relieved to see Les Blancs Nationaux hadn't recorded killing Lili. But that didn't mean they hadn't done it. Just that she hadn't found a tape, if any existed. Not only had she slept with Yves, deep down she wanted to do so again.

  "Like a lending library," she said. Her back still ached as if large logs had rolled over it.

  Morbier snorted.

  "All I know for sure is that they're sick misfits," she said.

  "Misfits. That's quaint." Morbier nodded. "They figured you were some kind of plant. And they're not sure from who."

  "Mystery is my middle name, Morbier," she said. "Nail anybody in the alcohol check?"

  "Got one of the cockroaches for parole violation. That's it," he said.

  "At least they didn't bash a synagogue."

  "You sure bring 'em out of the woodwork, Leduc."

  Just then, Georges appeared with two steaming, fragrant bowls of soupe a l'oignon gratinee. Big chunky pieces of half-melted cheese sitting on a piece of baguette floated lazily in the middle. For eons, these huge blue bowls had fed butchers, fishmongers, sellers of vegetables, cheese, and fruits in early dawn.

  "Sorry, we're out of cassoulet," Georges apologized. That was the running joke. Le Renard never had cassoulet, only the best onion soup in Paris.

  For a time, the only sound between them was the serious dunking of chunks of bread.

  "I want the records of a murder in 1943," she said.

  Georges, a blue-and-white-checked towel draped over his arm, stood by the counter. She nodded at him and mouthed "Espresso." He winked back in reply.

  Morbier shrugged. "Would this murder be related?"

  "Inspector called Lartigue investigated in 1943." Aimee plopped a brown sugar cube in her espresso. "Victim named Arlette Mazenc."

  "Before my time. What's it got to do with anything?" he said.

  She had to be careful what she told him since
her suspicions derived from information illegally obtained off the computer. Too illegal to tell Morbier.

  "I've got another theory," she said.

  "In 1943 a lot of people disappeared and there weren't exactly detailed investigations being conducted," Morbier said.

  "She didn't disappear, Morbier. Murdered. Indulge me here, check the records," she said.

  His voice changed. "Why?"

  She motioned to Georges for the check. "Because you asked for my help, remember? It's awfully odd that another woman was bludgeoned to death in Lili's building. Somehow it's connected."

  He snorted. "Connected? Not even coincidental, Leduc. If there's a link, it's all in your mind."

  "This woman, Arlette, was murdered under Lili's window. . ."

  Morbier interrupted. "And fifty years later Lili got snuffed by some Nazi type. Where's the connection?"

  "The forensics would tell us."

  Georges brought them each a thimble-sized glass of amber liquid with Aimee's change. "My brother's Calvados. Home brewed," he said proudly.

  Aimee downed it, feeling the coarse tang of the apple brandy burn her throat.

  "No wonder we never see your brother, Georges." Aimee grinned. The tart sting became a slow, toasty aftertaste.

  Morbier continued. "Forget it. I'm off the case."

  "But you have authority to get old files. Morbier, I can't prove anything yet; I need to explore my way."

  "You still haven't told me the possible connection," he said, looking up. He dropped ashes onto the white butcher-paper tablecloth scattered with bread crumbs.

  "I think Lili saw who murdered Arlette," she said.

  "So what? It doesn't explain the swastika."

  "It doesn't explain anything, Morbier, but I've got to start somewhere. Get me the file, let me prove that Lili's murder. . ."

  He stopped her. "I'm off the case, remember? Leduc, stick with computers. You're way off the track here."

  She put her elbows on the table and tented her fingers as she began. "Morbier, you never heard this from me and if you talk, I'll deny everything."

  He leaned forward.

  "But I've got an idea. It's rough, but it could tell us something," she said. "I need Luminol to test a theory about bloodstain traces left in Lili's light well. Some trace could point to the killer."