Murder in the Bastille

by Cara Black

  “Let’s give it a historical perspective,” Albin said.

  “The fifties and sixties were a time of social reform and recovery from the war. The seventies were political, going into the eighties brought drugs and drug trafficking. Digicode security replaced front doorbells and concierges and Parisiens pushed minorities into the suburbs. We’re living with the results today.”

  “But monsieur, violence isn’t a new phenomenon.”

  “Violence constantly evolves, mirroring Society and depending on the period.”

  The windows slammed shut. “Blah, blah, blah, talk is cheap. That and six francs gets you an espresso,” said Madame Danoux. “We need him to tell us the country’s going to the dogs? Have some tea and I’ll show you to your room.”

  “Merci, madame,” Aimée said. “Picture the face of a clock. Can you tell me at what time the tea cup is?”

  “Three o’clock,” she said. “Sad, to lose your sight so young. Need treatment, do you?”

  Aimée nodded. Sad wasn’t the half of it. She’d been attacked now for the second time. What would the radio sociologist theorize about that?

  Somehow, she’d fathom a way out of her predicament. But right now, she didn’t know how.

  “Do you sing in the Opéra, Madame?”

  “Nodules grew on my vocal chords,” said Madame. “Otherwise . . .” she trailed off. All the what ifs in life were encompassed in that long pause. “This Bastille Opéra house was an architectural disaster. Can you believe it? The building tiles fall off. They’re keeping them in place with cargo nets in the back! The dressing rooms are notorious for being filthy. Mulitiple shows go on, so someone else has used it the night before you go in. At least, the costumes are put in place every night by staff, the makeup person comes to your room. And the acoustics are marvelous. I preferred Châtelet—more beautiful, great backstage crew and the sets: huge. But at least I’ve got my health.”

  Despite Madame Danoux’s words, Aimée felt she did miss her former profession.

  “Mademoiselle, did you know Cyrano de Bergerac lived nearby?”

  What a shift! Aimée’s brows creased in surprise. Madame Danoux was giving her an overview of the neighborhood.

  Meanwhile, where were the flics? Chantal had promised to send them over.

  Several shrill rings came from the front of the apartment.

  Aimée heard a rustling and footsteps on parquet. “So much coming and going, busier than the Galeries Lafayette!” said Madame Danoux. “Excuse me.”

  “Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked a deep voice. “I’m Officer Nord from the Commissariat. You reported an attack.”

  “Bon!” she said, turning in the direction of the voice. She wished she could see him. He sounded young. “Madame Danoux, may I impose, some tea for the officer and use of this . . .” she stumbled . . . and gestured with her arm . . . what kind of room was this?

  “Parlor,” Nord finished for her.

  “Bien sûr,” Madame Danoux said.

  Officer Nord showed her to a seat. The low hard divan cut into her back. Aimée fidgeted. She tried to concentrate. The better she explained and painted a picture for him, the more clues he’d have. What he did with them depended on how well he’d been trained.

  Aimée heard the hissing of hot water being poured as Madame Danoux served him tea, then left.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened,” he said.

  She started with the attack in the passage. Then she described the assault in the residence.

  “You know the flics treated the first attack on me as the work of the Beast of Bastille,” she said.

  “Now we’re treating it as an isolated assault,” he said.

  Good. She realized something new must have taken place.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” said the young flic, clearing his throat.

  “You’ve found the Beast of Bastille, haven’t you?”

  No answer. Had her message reached Morbier? And she thought about that night. She remembered who’d been brought into custody.

  “You’re charging Mathieu Cavour, the ébéniste?”

  Silence.

  “But why . . . what evidence did you find?” she asked.

  She figured he must be searching for a way to answer this. He couldn’t have been out of the police academy for long.

  “Look, my father was a flic. I know the score,” she said. “Give me the truth.”

  “They said you were a troublemaker.”

  “I am. But tell me anyway.”

  “Sergeant Bellan’s my superior,” he said.

  Merde! Bellan had it in for her. No wonder he’d sent a trained lackey. A nice way to show how low she rated on the totem pole.

  “. . . and Sergant Bellan’s a good one,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  It stung to say that. Especially after the way he’d badmouthed her father. But it was best for her to compliment Bellan if she wanted to learn more. When Bellan stayed off the liquor, kept his rage under control, and didn’t take things personally as he did with her, he scored high marks in the Commissariat. Word had gotten around he was up for promotion. “Of course Bellan’s good, my father trained him.”

  She hoped that sank in.

  “Would you say,” he asked, “robbery was the motive for the first attack?”

  Robbery?

  “Does it make sense for Mathieu to attack and rob someone in front of his atelier?”

  Had Bellan been saddled with a new recruit he had no time to work with? Silence.

  “I’m the one asking questions here,” he said. “Let’s move on. Could robbery be the motive for this incident?”

  “Not in the way you think,” she said. “My laptop and things were left. Only my phone was taken.”

  “Mathieu Cavour was released. This morning.”

  So they’d let him go? At least she’d learned that. She wanted to stand up, get the kinks out of her neck, feel the warmth from the heater. Her thoughts flowed better that way.

  If only she could see his face, read his movements. But she couldn’t. All she had were intuition, some sensory antennae and whatever she could glean from his words. She had to get him on her side. Get him to cough up more of the latest info.

  “Let’s assume, after luring out Josiane Dolet, the attacker got me by mistake,” she said. “I’d picked up her phone. We were wearing the same jacket. He realizes his mistake too late, after he’s bashed in my head. People come down the passage, frightening him away. But he finds Josiane in the next passage. He kills her, the most important part, but we don’t know why, then wraps her in an old carpet which isn’t discovered until later the next day. Meanwhile I’m blind, out of commission, but Josiane’s phone is nowhere to be found and eventually he realizes I must have it. He figures his number’s on the speed dial or it incriminates him some way, so he discovers where I am and breaks into the room . . . but he gets my phone . . . not hers. Thwarted again.”

  “So Mademoiselle Leduc, why not give me the phone,” said Officer Nord.

  He’d learned something from Bellan after all, how to listen. Josiane’s phone was her face card . . . the only one. The murderer wanted it. So did the flics.

  “Tell me how you’re investigating the attack on me,” she said. “If you’ve found any suspects, and what’s happened to Vaduz, the Beast of Bastille.”

  “If you’re trying to negotiate by withholding evidence needed in a homicide case, mademoiselle. . . .”

  “Negotiate? Someone attacked me. So viciously, Officer Nord, that it blinded me. The doctor doubts I’ll ever see again.”

  Silence.

  She wouldn’t give in unless he met her halfway. “I want to discuss this with Bellan.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  No warmth in his voice. Was he writing this down? He sounded far away . . . had he moved?

  “No more until I talk to him.”

  “Sergeant Bellan’s away.”

  “Aw
ay? A workaholic like him?”

  “Family problems. The baby’s sick,” he said.

  For the first time, the flic sounded human.

  “Aaah, sorry to hear that.” Her back felt stiff from sitting on the hard divan. “Then to Commissaire Morbier.”

  “He’s assigned to another case. The Beast of Bastille won’t strike again. That’s the official story, anyway,” he said, his voice faltering. “I didn’t know you’d lost your sight. Sorry.”

  He grew more human every minute.

  “Has Vaduz confessed?”

  “As far as the Prefet’s concerned, as good as.”

  “So where is he?”

  “After a rampage outside Porte de la Chapelle, he crashed the car he stole. We’re not supposed to reveal this yet, especially to the media, but whatever they found was sent to the morgue.”

  “You mean . . . Vaduz is dead. . . . When?” Why hadn’t Morbier told her?

  “No announcements. No details released to our unit, anyway. So please keep it to yourself.”

  “I want to, but if Vaduz died before I was attacked in the residence, that’s important.”

  “How?”

  “It could mean that someone else attacked me in the passage and killed Josiane, the same one who later came to the residence. That’s why I have to talk to Morbier.”

  “Sergeant Bellan‘s handling the case. Everything goes through him. Of course, you’ll mention Josiane Dolet’s phone and reveal its whereabouts when I pass on the message to call you, won’t you?”

  She nodded. “So they said I was trouble?”

  “I made that up,” he said, “but looks like I got it right.”

  Thursday Late Afternoon

  RENÉ PRESSED THE SECOND number he’d copied from the list on Josiane Dolet’s speed dial.

  “Architecture Brault,” said a middle-aged male voice.

  “I’m calling concerning Josiane Dolet,” he said.

  A pause. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m with Leduc Detective,” he said, glancing up from the courtyard at the gleaming limestone buildings on the steam-washed cobblestoned alley. One could eat off the pristine stonework façades. A decade earlier, many would have avoided the area. It had been a district of weed-filled cours and small dilapidated porcelain and bronze fixture factories. These stood next to former seventeenth century nunneries that had once held an army of nuns in cloistered convents, seats of wealth and power that had rivaled the king’s. “Please spare me a few moments,” said René. “I’m downstairs.”

  A head appeared at a window. All René could see was a halo of copper hair.

  “I’ve got a backlog of clients . . .”

  “We should talk in person,” René said. “Your number was on Mademoiselle Dolet’s speed dial.”

  “My firm deals with many people.”

  “This concerns Josiane Dolet’s murder. I just thought we should have a chat before I talk with the flics.” René let the silence hang.

  “Ten minutes. Between clients,” he said. “The code’s 43A6, second floor, first door on the right.”

  René took off his jacket, undid his right cufflink, rolled up the sleeve of his pink tinged custom-made shirt, got on his tiptoes, and just managed to hit the digicode.

  The door buzzed. He pushed it open and reassembled himself in the glassed-in foyer, which melded two old factories. An ingenious arched portico opened up to an azure glass-roofed courtyard. Ochre-stained pots of bamboo bordered a minimalist bleached-wood desk. The reception area lay empty.

  René took the lift. The wet weather kicked his arthritis into an aching winter mode early. He’d cut back his martial arts practices at the dojo. Not details he would share with Aimée in her condition. Or ever.

  A man with thinning copper hair, small black-framed glasses, and a pale complexion stood as René entered. Surprise painted his face for a moment. René was used to that, and to the customary downward glance at his long torso and short legs.

  “René Friant, of Leduc Detective.”

  “Brault, of Brault Architecture,” the man said, extending his hand. René saw no welcome in the pale, guarded face.

  René approached the side of the desk and shook hands. His arms wouldn’t have reached across the desk.

  “You understand, I have a few minutes only,” Brault said, his thin mouth working in his long face. Expensive mechanical pencil tops showed in the pocket of his shirt. He wore tailored black denim jeans, a charcoal gray shirt and jacket, blue socks, and black hiking boots. All Gaultier by their look.

  “Please sit down,” Brault said. “I’m concerned, but I don’t know how it involves me.”

  After one glance at the tall, olive Philippe Starck-designed chair, René preferred to stand. “Non, merci,” René said. “I’ll get to the point.”

  Instead, René headed to the window, shaking his head. He stood silently, figuring his next move, hoping to throw Brault off guard. The office window opened onto the coppered roof connected to the glass skylight. Vestiges of a bas-relief on the wall and verdigris-patinaed rain spouts stood out against the gable walls. Beyond, he saw a niche with a worn stone figure where the building roof overhung the street. Probably St. Anne, the patron saint of carpenters, René figured.

  “What’s this about?” Brault said, breaking the silence.

  “Josiane was protecting you, wasn’t she?” René asked, taking a stab in the dark.

  A pencil lead cracked.

  “Go ahead, talk to me. I’m not a flic,” René said. “What you tell me . . .”

  “Goes to your boss, right?” Brault interrupted. “That salope of an editor who wants corroboration from two sources before he prints a fanny-licking article that makes it to France-Soir by nightfall.”

  René struggled to keep the surprise from his face. “We don’t have to play it like that,” René said.

  “Josiane was a good journalist. I don’t know why she associated with the likes of you.”

  “Me?” René wielded his short arms in mock defense. What the hell was going on here? Brault had jumped from coolness to white-heat without a warm-up. He wished Aimée were here. He needed clues on how to proceed. And his hip ached.

  “She had to pay rent like the rest of us,” he said.

  “Josiane?”

  Merde . . . had she been wealthy . . . had he blown it?

  “There’s a lot you didn’t know about her,” René said, hoping he could bluff this out. He regretted it immediately. How lame it sounded! Why couldn’t he have a script or a computer program to guide him?

  “Look, I won’t involve the flics,” said René, “if you tell me what you and Josiane were working on.”

  Brault’s stainless steel intercom buzzed. “Planning commission’s assembled and waiting in the conference room, Monsieur Brault.”

  “Tell me or I turn over my info,” René said. “I’m waiting.”

  “What guarantee do I have you’ll conceal the fact that my number was on Josiane’s speed dial?”

  Behind the small designer glasses, Brault’s eyes glared.

  “We’re not the Brigade Criminelle,” René said, and winked. “One source works for me.” If that didn’t confuse Brault even more, he didn’t know what would. “There’s no benefit for me in involving the flics. I’ll erase your number.”

  “Your boss knows, doesn’t he?” Brault glared.

  Knows what? But René returned the glare in silence. And waited.

  Brault snapped the mechanical pencil lead in and out, but it didn’t break. Just shot a little rain of pencil lead onto the Berber carpet.

  “They hire flunkies to clear the tenants out,” Brault said. His tone was harsh and he spat the words out.

  “Who does?”

  “Mirador.”

  “The big construction developer Mirador?”

  Brault nodded.

  “The Bastille Historic Preservation Society can’t compete with the palms greased by developers like Mirador. The Romanian spilled the bea
ns one night after some 80 proof vodka. He plastered ceilings, did occasional jobs for us. There’s no reason to doubt him. The rue des Taillandiers project seems to be just the tip of the iceberg. That’s what I told Josiane. And that’s all.”

  “What happened on rue des Taillandiers?”

  “Forget the November to March ban on tenant evictions. Mirador evicts anytime.”

  Brault’s words sounded like code to René. But not the kind of code he could decrypt.

  “The Romanian?”

  “Dragos.”

  “Then Dragos can verify . . .”

  “Don’t bother to check,” Brault interrupted. “He’s disappeared with the wind. That’s how they work. They hire transient Romanians, Serbs, or Russians.”

  René nodded, hoping he didn’t look as clueless as he felt.

  “Josiane wrote the article to put a spoke in Mirador’s wheel,” said Brault.

  René’s ears perked up.

  “Would it be big enough to stop Mirador from evicting illegally?”

  Brault’s office door swung open. Two men in suits beckoned him. “The representative of the Bureau de la Construction’s here. We can’t hold up the meeting any longer.”

  Brault strode out of his office, leaving René to see himself out, laboriously, with short steps. René’s mind spun. Whirled. He’d promised Aimée he’d call after interviewing Brault. But he couldn’t stop now; he had to find out about Mirador.

  RENÉ LABORED several blocks to rue Basfroi, in the northern part of the Bastille. He headed to his friend Gaetan Larzan’s prop rental, where he knew he’d get information. Maybe even a decent glass of wine.

  “Business good?” René asked.

  “Terrible!” said Gaetan, brushing off his stained overalls, then slicking back his hair.

  Always the same reply. Like his old uncle.

  Gaetan, who stood near a tarnished knight in armor, returned to consulting a checklist, marking things off.

  “These television crews, they’re more careless than monkeys,” he said. Beside him stood a garish green plastic palm tree, bent as though weeping on his shoulder. Ahead lay a hall full of coat racks: wood ones, bamboo, mahogany, metal, lucite, every size and shape imaginable. In a cavernous room strewn with clawfooted bathtubs, old screens, and mirrors propped against the wall, René saw a massive stuffed polar bear towering between low-slung chandeliers.