Murder in the Bastille

by Cara Black

  She opened the door partway and undid the chain. Her foot stuck behind the doorframe and she stumbled.

  Clumsy . . . still so awkward!

  A breeze sliced by her face and a splintering, cracking noise accompanied it. Her body trembled.

  “Salope!” said a man with an accent she couldn’t place. His sour breath hit her in the face. Then a sharp, stinging slap knocked her against the wall.

  She tossed the open nail varnish remover at the man and ducked. And then she remembered the match . . . had she put it out? A fire hazard. Stupid.

  From somewhere on her right came a yelp of pain.

  Her arms were grabbed, then she felt a sharp shove in her back. Hard. She was airborne. Flying across the room. Good thing she’d flung her arms out to break her fall. Instead, they caught on a cold metal grille over cool fresh air.

  The window was open.

  She screamed. Panic overwhelmed her. A hand covered her mouth, then another big push shoved her hips over the grille. She tried to hook her legs onto the smooth metal, to cling to the bars. The next push and her legs went over. Blood rushed to her head. Good God . . . couldn’t someone see her from the street?

  She screamed again. And again. The air was chilly. Dank with humidity. Was it night?

  The scraping of the bulldozer in the street sounded close. Too close. She was hanging halfway out the window.

  Why didn’t anyone see her or hear her? Was it dark? Or the bulldozer too loud?

  Terror flooded her. Her fingernails scratched wood and she dug in, hugging what had to be the outside shutter. Clinging for dear life, her feet scrabbled, slipping and scraping the stone.

  She had to hold on. Her fingers burned from the abrading stone. Her silk pajamas flapped in the wind. She couldn’t climb back into the room. She would have to take her chance with the concrete below. How far below?

  “Help me!” she yelled once more.

  Couldn’t anyone hear her? Each time she scrabbled her legs for purchase, her knees hit something hard. Somehow she found a toehold with her bare feet in the metal grille guard.

  She kept screaming for help. Why didn’t anyone notice?

  And then she became aware of gray fog, like a steamy vapor, crossing before her. And it felt so natural . . . because it was. She saw the fog from the Seine.

  Her pulse leaped!

  She blinked over and over. She could see. Furred yellow globes appeared and she realized they must be streetlamps. A foggy, grainy quality overlay what seemed a dark hulk of trees and what had to be car headlights on the street below. Dots of red and orange lights bordered the bulldozer.

  And then darkness descended. It was gone.

  She swung her leg on top of what felt like a stone ledge, reached out, and pulled herself up. Was this another window? Powderlike soot and crumbling concrete bits came back in her hand. What felt like a tin gutter was below her feet. She stepped onto it. It skidded and came loose. She grabbed at the nearest thing, some kind of rough weatherbeaten molding, and held on, trying to find the windowsill. Somewhere, a window slammed shut. She heard smashing and a crashing noise.

  She felt a thick rock slab and then an indentation, like a little vest-pocket balcony. Nothing more. Merde. On her knees crawling now, and nowhere to go. Except to back up. Scarier than inching forward. Her hands, bloodied or wet from the moist railing, slipped. She smacked into a stone wall and clutched a shutter. A creaking and a ripping noise came and she clung for dear life.

  Her hands slipped . . . how far were the cobblestones below? She’d never know because she wouldn’t be able to see the ground rushing up at her. Her heart hammered. She didn’t want to die.

  Where was Mimi’s room? There had to be a ledge. All buildings had ledges under the windows. Didn’t they?

  Wind whipped around her legs. Her fingers throbbed. If the building was as old as the Quinze-Vingts there’d be stone cornices. Where were they?

  She felt rusted pipes, grabbed them and hugged the façade. Wires snapped off in her hand and she lost her balance. Her leg slid, then her foot jammed against sharp roof tiles. Fear flared up in her. She couldn’t hold on any longer.

  “Somebody help!”

  She heard a voice.

  Raising her leg, she kicked as hard as she could. A wooden shutter banged away and glass splintered. Fine slivers beaded her calf.

  “Don’t move, I’ve got a socket wrench aimed at your head,” she heard Mimi threaten.

  “Mimi! Help me. Someone’s trying to kill me,” she screamed. “Let me in!”

  “But . . .”

  “Hurry up, it’s cold out here and I can’t hold on much longer!” Fear clutched her as her fingers loosened. Slipped. This was it. Her life was over. Then a hand pulled hers and her knees scraped over the shutters. By the time she was inside Mimi’s room, she knew what she had to do.

  “I must have scared him away,” Mimi said.

  “Call building security.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Er, how do I do it?”

  “The only security we can call is that loafer in the front gate. Try 37 on the wall phone.”

  * * *

  AIMÉE WAS perched on Mimi’s bed, with a blanket over her feet, when footsteps sounded in the hall. Stopped. Then came a pounding on Mimi’s door.

  “Nom de Dieu,” said a high-pitched voice. “Quelle catastrophe!”

  Aimée opened the door. “Someone broke down my door and attacked me!”

  “But property can’t be destroyed like this.”

  Aimée choked.

  “Where’s security?” she asked. “Who are you?”

  “The Matron, I’m responsible here,” said the woman. “The hospital administration only gives us conditional use. You’ve had some party going on with your hall neighbor, eh? But now you’ve ruined it for us.”

  “Don’t you understand? Someone attacked me in my room and could still be there, although he’s probably gotten away by now.”

  Aimée knew there were kilometers of corridors, underground links to the hospital, the Chapel and several administration buildings. With people all dressed in scrubs and walking around wearing masks, it would have been easy for her attacker to avoid detection.

  “Smashed chairs, broken windows . . .” the matron’s voice trailed off. “Who gave you permission to have a room on this floor?”

  “Chantal brought me here. But you don’t understand . . .”

  “She has no authority,” said the matron. “I did not authorize you to sign in. We have strict rules. Our funding and insurance depend on upholding them.”

  “I heard Aimée screaming and someone thrashing around next door, breaking things,” said Mimi.

  “The attacker might still be here,” said Aimée.

  “All I see is a mess you created,” the matron said. Aimée heard her sniffing. “What’s that smell? Drugs. . .?”

  Did she mean the acetone smell of the lemon nail polish?

  “Where’s security?”

  “Allez-y, you’re out of here!” the matron said.

  Wasn’t she the victim here? But it was hard to argue with an irate woman she couldn’t see. More footsteps came down the hall.

  A shiver passed through her.

  “What have you done now?” Dr. Lambert’s voice asked.

  Where had he come from?

  “Luckily I trip a lot, since I can’t see. That’s what saved me or the damage to my door would have happened to my face.”

  “Matron, the door’s obviously been forced,” Dr. Lambert said. “Let’s make sure security’s on the way.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” she said, her tone completely altered.

  “I heard him bashing things,” said Mimi, “I turned on my Books on Tape, hit the wall, then yelled. I must have scared him away.”

  “But I want it known this woman was in residence without my knowledge, much less my authority or consent,” said the matron. “Someone’s got to pay for the damages. I won’t take the blame. Why
should my competence be put in question?”

  “Please understand, this TGV accident threw everything into chaos . . . a huge overload of cases, not enough beds,” he said, trying to soothe her. “We’ve bent the rules a bit, but no one will point any fingers, I assure you.”

  Aimée couldn’t believe his reaction. “I’d call this a police matter. Don’t you have security cameras here?”

  “At the hospital entrance, so I’m told,” Mimi said. “Not here. Look, Aimée’s been attacked. Why blame her!”

  But the matron must have already bustled out of the room.

  “Where are my things?” Aimée asked. What if the attacker got her laptop and phone! “I have to check. Please help me.”

  “Someone’s got to clean you up,” he said, “again!”

  Her fingers throbbed where she had scraped them. She prayed she could still use a keyboard.

  Dr. Lambert called for a nurse to medicate and bandage her hands. Then he left the room, but Aimée heard him talking with the matron in the hallway and greeting security when it arrived.

  As soon as the nurse arrived, Aimée had her search the room. “Tell me what you find.”

  “Well, the mattress is turned over, sheets and pillows everywhere, chairs upside down.”

  “Please look in the closet.”

  “Leather jacket, shoes all tumbled about. A mess.”

  “Can you look in the drawer?”

  “There’s a laptop computer,” said the nurse.

  Thank God.

  “Tubes of Ultralash mascara, a Chanel red lipstick, lipliner, powder, and perfume bottle on the floor. A black silk teddy mixed up with what looks like red and white wires.”

  Her phone-line splicer cables. “What about my cell phone?”

  “No sign,” the nurse said. “Not even under the bed.”

  Great. Now they could get to her another way. Nothing remained private anymore. France Télécom held a wealth of information, if one knew how to crack the database. She’d done it often enough herself.

  Still, she’d had Josiane’s phone in her pajama pocket. That at least was safe. And she guessed that the assailant had wanted it. That’s what this was about. And he’d find out soon enough he’d taken the wrong one.

  She called the Commissariat and asked for Sergeant Bellan.

  “Not here. What’s this about?”

  By the time she recounted the circumstances and been transferred to the correct department, her lip trembled nonstop. She was afraid her words were no longer clear enough to be understood.

  “We’ll send someone over,” a policewoman said. “but it could take a while. A big rig overturned on the Périphérique and it’s a mess.”

  She asked the nurse to help her cancel her cell phone service.

  “I’m sorry this happened, but you can’t stay here,” Dr. Lambert was saying. “Normally it wouldn’t matter. But with the property damage and matron upset . . .”

  “I don’t care if she is. I’ve called the flics.”

  She felt a finger on her lips. Nice and warm. His?

  “I understand. Our reaction may seem callous but I’ll try and explain. The Ministry of Health’s threatened to close some hospitals. Our funding’s under review, so we all feel stretched right now. Services are tight, and the proposal to expand the day clinic’s outreach for the quartier’s underserved residents is crucial. We’d rather not make waves right now.” She felt Dr. Lambert’s arm around her shoulder.

  “I think the attacker came back looking for . . .”

  “Accommodating you here was my idea,” Dr. Lambert interrupted. “A bad one. But from now on, we’ll keep you safe. Forgive me, but you need to be checked often. The timing’s critical . . . we must monitor you closely until we know the extent of your vision loss.”

  Despite his irritating stupidity, she liked how his warm hand felt on her shoulder, his lingering Vetiver scent, even his starched cardboardlike lab coat. How smart would it be to jeopardize any chance of regaining her vision?

  And then she remembered. “But Doctor, I forgot. For an instant I could see. I saw gray fog, streetlights shining, and cars. It was so wonderful.”

  Silence. “Just don’t hope for too much. Be thankful for what little you get.”

  “But I saw again! Even if just for a few seconds . . . so it means I’m getting better . . . non? ”

  “Often that happens . . . a gray cottony film or fog?” She nodded.

  “That could be flottes, random detached tissue. Or it could be due to the easing of the pressure. Whether full vision will return permanently . . . that’s a hard call.”

  Crushed, she turned away. She didn’t want him to see her in tears. Or shaking from fear. She had to find her phone, get out of here, find a place to stay.

  “We’ll locate a bed for you in the hospital. It might be in the hallway but . . .”

  “In case you forgot, if the attacker found me here, he’d find me there. No thanks, I’ll stay with friends.”

  But who? René’s tiny studio brimmed with computers. Too small. Especially for her and Miles Davis. And too far away, as well. Martine’s boyfriend’s place, in the ultra bourgeois 16th arrondissement, wouldn’t be comfortable, now that all his children were living with them.

  Live in her office? She’d done it before, but it wouldn’t be safe to stay there.

  Martine’s cousin’s Bastille apartment was nearby, but having only been there once, she’d have to become better at navigating before she could get there, much less live in a strange place.

  Outside she heard the bleating siren of a police van. She imagined the white police car, the flashing blue lights and red arrows striping the side. Was she nostalgic for the flics now? Pathetic.

  “It’s imperative that you stay nearby,” Dr. Lambert said. “The way things look right now, it’s difficult to schedule another MRI, which you need. I’ll have to try to fit you in when there’s an opening. Can you pay rent?”

  “If need be. Why?”

  She heard him tapping on a cell phone. Then his voice.

  “Madame Danoux, ça va? Still need a boarder? Bon . . . one of my patients. . . . You are a lifesaver, merci!”

  * * *

  AIMÉE, HER laptop and bag hanging heavily from her shoulder, walked with Chantal to the rear entrance of the rési-dence. They caught a taxi which dropped them off on rue Charenton, just a block away. But she’d had the taxi circle the area several times until she felt safe. Chantal helped her count out the francs for the fare. Each bill was folded differently, so she could distinguish its denomination.

  “You’ve got more to learn, Aimée,” Chantal said. “We’ve got to get your orientation scheduled. But luckily you didn’t end up on the cobblestones. Things could have been a lot worse, eh?”

  True. But her lip hadn’t stopped trembling. Thank God Chantal couldn’t see that.

  “Chin up.” And with that Chantal left her on the second floor landing of a building that smelt of old cooking oil and musty corners.

  “Crap!” seethed a soprano voice.

  “But Madame Danoux, you mustn’t sell the lace panels,” said a middle-aged woman’s voice. “Such intricate work, remnants of a past time. Nostalgia passes over me when I think . . .”

  “Nostalgia for what?” Madame Danoux’s voice interrupted. “Nostalgia is when you want things to stay as they were. I know so many people who stay in the same place. And I think, my God, look at them! They’re dead before they die. Living is risking.”

  A complete contrast to Mimi, Aimée thought. She had lifted her bandaged hand to knock when the half-ajar door swung open.

  “Who’s there?”

  The woman must be looking Aimée over, deciding whether to let her in . . . despite Dr. Lambert’s introduction.

  Aimée took a deep breath, wishing she could see who and where she was. “Aimée Leduc, Dr. Lambert’s patient.”

  Aimée wondered if her hair stuck out, if her black boots were scuffed, if the seam of her leather m
iniskirt was misaligned, or if the bag of salvaged belongings on her arm bulged open. “May I come in?”

  “We’ll talk later, Madame Danoux,” said the middle-aged woman. A chair scraped over wood. Footsteps clicked away.

  “Of course, I need a tenant,” Madame Danoux said, her words measured and careful. “Such a saint, that man, Doctor Lambert. I help him whenever he asks. You know, he saved my husband’s eyesight after that amateur botched a simple cataract operation.”

  Unsure, Aimée remained in the doorway. Where was that chair . . . was there a rug to trip on . . . tables to run into?

  “Thank you, if you could tell me . . .”

  “Come inside, make yourself comfortable,” Madame Danoux said, her voice edging away. “I’ll just see to some tea. You take tea, of course . . . I require it for my throat, must have it.”

  And then she’d gone. For a moment, Aimée wondered if the woman knew she couldn’t see. . . . Wouldn’t she have guessed from the doctor’s call?

  She reached behind her, closed the heavy door, then played back in her mind the conversation she’d overheard, the chair scraping and the direction in which Madame Danoux’s voice disappeared.

  Cautiously Aimée edged forward, her arm outstretched. Dr. Lambert had given her a cane but she refused to use it. A lingering scent of roses wafted from her right; dribbling hot air warmed her wrist. She figured the purring cat signaled a chair by a window with a southern exposure, still containing the heat of the day.

  Hammering came from below, the whine of a saw and then a soaring contralto voice.

  “No, no, no! The emphasis falls on the half-note!” A piano key was pounded repeatedly. “Zut! Go home and practice. That’s all for today.”

  Then she heard the flipping of a radio channel, quick and impatient, then what sounded like a grainy radio interview. The tinny sound came from the AM radio:

  “Joining us this evening on Talk to the People is Michel Albin, sociologist and author of The New Violence: France in the 90’s.”

  Just what she wanted to hear, a paperback sociologist spouting his theory and hawking his book!

  “Monsieur Albin, since the early nineties the crime rate has soared. What’s happened?”