Murder Below Montparnasse

by Cara Black

  Madame Figuer gave a little sigh. “Everything’s changed. So different now.”

  Aimée compiled a list of everyone Madame Figuer mentioned. Oleg—at the top of the list—wasn’t answering his phone, so she left a message. Damien’s name was next. It was time she spoke with him.

  RUE DE CHTILLON, the next narrow street over, paralleled Villa d’Alésia. Earlier, climbing Yuri’s back wall, she’d noticed little of it, except the bit of hay she found clinging to the rosemary.

  Now, trying to figure out how the killer escaped, she eyed the maison de maître, typical bourgeois townhouse shutters framing its tall windows. Why did it strike her as familiar? It was fronted by what would have been a rose garden in the nineteenth century, now weed-choked patches of grass and wild lilac. The sign at the gate indicated the house’s current function was a youth job training center.

  She found Damien’s printing shop further in, beyond an open-gated courtyard. On the cobbles under the chestnut tree, a man in blue overalls loaded the back of a camionnette. A few stacks of playbills for theaters, concert posters, and ads for a traveling circus. Posters emblazoned with STOP THE DEVELOPERS in red were bundled against the wall on wood pallets.

  The pounding of the printing press competed with the chirping of birds in the bushes.

  “Monsieur, I’m looking for Damien Perret.”

  “Come to pick up the posters, eh? All ready, Damien made sure.”

  He mistook her for someone from the demonstration.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Where’s the office?”

  “Inside and to the left,” he said. “But he’s with his aunt at the hospital.”

  Great. “Any idea where he went Saturday?”

  “You mean deliveries?” The man rubbed his neck. He was bald and overweight.

  She thought quickly. “That’s it, regarding a delivery order we received Saturday.”

  “I don’t think so.” His eyes narrowed.

  “Can you check?”

  “Don’t need to. Today’s our delivery day.”

  Stupid to lie when she didn’t know the schedule.

  “Damien used the camionnette that afternoon,” he said. “Helped the old man.”

  Yuri.

  He eyed her legs. “Maybe I can help.”

  Not the help she needed.

  “Florent!” A shout came from inside the glass-roofed printing works.

  He dusted off his thick palms. Winked. “Don’t go away.”

  Like hell she’d wait for him. But she stared at the inside of the camionnette. Stacked full to the roof. She peered through the open front window. Old newspapers on the floor, Styrofoam cups, candy wrappers, and detritus strewn below the passenger seat. She looked closer at the newspapers; something was unusual. They were copies of Le Matin, yellowed, the typeface faded. A newspaper her grandfather had read that didn’t exist anymore. She reached in, unfolded a crumpled portion. The date—February 1920—above an article about horse cart traffic dangers on Boulevard du Montparnasse.

  No doubt this came from Yuri’s father’s belongings. What if there was more? She glanced around. No Florent or other workers. She opened the passenger door, went through the trash on the floor again. Nothing else of interest but a parking ticket. She dropped it, then picked it up again. A hefty one hundred francs. She looked at the date. Saturday, issued at 3 P.M.—the time Damien and Yuri had gone out. The address: 34 rue Marie Rose.

  “Guess you’d like to ride on my deliveries with me, eh?”

  She felt hot garlic breath in her ear. The texture of Florent’s grease-stained overalls on her arm.

  “In your dreams.”

  Then a knee was shoved between her legs. Rough arms shoving her onto the seat. Hands pinning her legs. Panic raced through her. The way he had eyed her should have put her on high alert. His thick fingers dug into her skin.

  “You know you want it,” Florent said.

  How could she be so stupid?

  Monday Early Evening, Silicon Valley

  RENÉ GRIPPED THE leather armrest as Bob backed the Cadillac into a narrow-looking spot in the gravel parking lot. “Can’t beat this place. Best burgers in the Valley, René.”

  A weathered neon sign read GROVER’S above a diner off the Avenue of the Fleas.

  “Millionaires eat here?”

  “They weren’t always millionaires.” Bob grinned. “You wanted Americana—where real people and geeks eat. Doesn’t get greasier or more authentic than this.”

  René noticed the meal portions as they walked by the booths. Gigantic. A single plate looked like it could feed a whole table.

  On the wall of their plastic-upholstered booth was a jukebox. Bob slotted in quarters and hit some keys. “Green River” by Creedence Clearwater blasted from speakers overhead.

  “The usual, Bob?” asked the waitress, an older woman.

  Bob nodded. “And two Buds. For my friend here.…”

  “What’ll it be, hon?” she said, slapping down a menu.

  René’s chest hit the edge of the Formica table. “What he’s having, Madame. But a smaller portion.”

  “Kid’s cheeseburger, all right?”

  René nodded.

  She winked a blue-shadowed eyelid. Scribbled on her order pad. “Got it. My cousin’s married to a man of your stature, they own a ranch in Morgan Hill.” She gave an approving cluck. “Prize dairy cows.”

  He swallowed his embarrassment. “I suppose you have phone books?”

  “What you waiting for, Bob? Your friend needs some vertical assistance. Phone booth’s in back.”

  Bob stood, all six feet of him, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, René, I didn’t think.”

  “Just don’t come back with one of those children’s booster seats.”

  René finished half of the child’s plate. How did people eat such great quantities, and all in one sitting? And no cheese course to follow. But he kept that to himself.

  “How’s it feel after your first day as CTO?” Bob grinned, wiping ketchup off his chin. “Spot any blondes yet?”

  René leaned back on the phone books. “I met a programmer who makes a perfect café au lait. Two in one, Bob. Legs to forever. I’m in love.”

  “Three in one, René. Love, lust, no difference, eh?”

  Bob, twice divorced, complained of child support and alimony.

  “But tell me,” René said, leaning forward. “I train at dojos, but I’m not into team sports. Am I expected to do le jogging with my boss?”

  “What?” Bob said. “I don’t follow. Start-ups are all hustle. No one’s got time for team sports.”

  “But this front running, it means faire du sport, non?”

  Bob dropped his fork. “Front running? Explain.”

  René told him the little he’d overheard.

  “Hard to say, but front running involves a kind of insider trading,” Bob said. “There’s different ways to spin it, but say a financial search engine provides trading services. Somehow, for example, they set up access on the mainframe to stall data transmission by a few seconds—that’s a big no-no.”

  “I don’t understand, Bob.” René’s cheeks flushed. The beer and Bob’s reaction got to him.

  “Did you program a relay and delay code?”

  René nodded, worried. “I need to for security and maintenance.”

  “But for a financial search engine that uses portfolio tracking and a stock screener, this kind of front run could provide a few seconds’ advantage in online stock trading,” Bob said, playing with his napkin. “So you can manage to get a lower day-trading guarantee. Millions of dollars’ advantage in trading, René. What the hell did they tell you?”

  “That’s just it, nothing. I patched and vented the mainframe back door, the usual. Secured the system.”

  “Maybe you heard wrong,” Bob said. “Tradelert’s got top investors. Generating a lot of buzz. I don’t know.”

  Had he done their dirty work?

  Bob paid the check.r />
  “Nothing jumped out at me after I double-checked all systems,” René said.

  Or had jetlag clouded his brain?

  “It’s your ass, René.”

  AFTER BOB DROPPED him off at the motel, René hung up his suit jacket and trousers on the plastic hanger and stepped into the pink Jacuzzi. He needed to ease the ache in his hip joints after the plane ride. He allowed himself to float in the water, feel the massaging jets, empty his mind.

  His head cleared, he played back the algorithms. After he dried off with the largest and thirstiest pink towel he’d ever used, he unpacked his handmade Charvet shirts and hung tomorrow’s suit up in the closet.

  At the laminate wood motel desk, complete with Gideon Bible in the drawer, his gaze fell on the empty, dimly lit parking lot outside the window. His thoughts drifted—had Saj garaged and waxed his car? Did Aimée remember the client meeting he’d scheduled, or Miles Davis’s grooming appointment? For a moment he felt alone. So alone in this room with the king-size bed, so oversize he needed a chair to reach it.

  Stop it, he told himself. He booted up his laptop, stuck in the second prototype thumb-drive he’d neglected to tell Saj he’d borrowed, got ready to work. But that phrase niggled in his mind: The dwarf’s got no idea.

  Had he heard wrong?

  He’d call the Nordic blonde. Test his suspicions.

  “Susie, it’s René, sorry to call so late.”

  “What happened to you after work?” She almost purred. “I failed in my mission to serve you.”

  “But you can redeem yourself, Susie,” he said, envisioning her long legs. “I planned on checking the mainframe again,” he said, “but without remote access I’ll need to take care of that tomorrow.”

  “Didn’t you get your token?” A little gasp. “My fault. I forgot.”

  The token allowing him remote access to the mainframe. Tokens were guarded like the Holy Grail. Had she really forgotten?

  “Security would allow that? I mean, in France we work on-site only.”

  “This is the Valley, René,” Susie said, a smile in her voice.

  Something bothered him. And he wished he knew what.

  “I’m so sorry I forgot, René. You needed it tonight? I’m still here working, and I just ran the systems. We’re all good for tomorrow. Drop by my cubicle before the investor meeting,” she said. “I’ll set you up. Café au lait included.”

  René imagined her tan legs, long blonde hair, and hazel eyes. Big eyes like Aimée’s. A pang went through him. All these miles away and her scent lingered on his jacket. Chanel No. 5. But he was nothing to her but a friend.

  “Don’t worry, René, someone’s here twenty-four, seven if you have questions,” Susie said.

  After hanging up, he worked off the backup he’d put on Saj’s thumb-drive. It was smaller and more efficient than floppies or CDs. He hadn’t tested Tradelert’s hardware security—not a priority with the meeting looming tomorrow—but he’d noticed plastic pillars like the ones they have at department stores to stop theft. Saj’s thumb-drive hadn’t set off the alarm.

  First rule, as always, he’d backed up all his work. He examined the firewall hole he’d patched—necessary security for the investors Rob stressed would join in the next round of financing, and for the product launch, even a possible IPO.

  Secure. Then he examined the back door he’d engineered. Tested the code. All good. He clicked into the safety net backup. And then his fingers froze on the keyboard.

  Tuesday Afternoon, Paris

  AIMÉE GRASPED THE truck door handle and spit at Florent. A sharp slap stung her face.

  “You know you want it,” Florent grunted.

  “Not what you’ve got.” She twisted her body, wriggled, trying to push him off her. His dirty fingernails clawed her thighs. Raked her skin. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  With all her might she shoved him against the window. Kneed him in the groin as hard as she could.

  Florent fell back with a loud groan. She scrambled out the driver’s door. Slammed it. Ran.

  Two blocks away, beyond Alésia, she stepped into a corner café. Shaking and berating herself, she hurried down the dark wooden stairs to the WC. In front of the soap-splattered mirror, she ran hot water—washed her legs, arms, and face with shaking hands, intent on scrubbing off Florent’s smell, his filth clinging to her skin. She put her head down, took deep breaths until she stopped trembling.

  Feeling cleaner, she brushed mascara through her eyelashes. A swipe of Chanel Red over her lips and a spritz of Chanel No. 5 from her bag to complete the repairs. Next time she wouldn’t be so stupid.

  Not far from the Montsouris reservoir she found rue Marie Rose, a short-sloped block of six-story stone apartment buildings across from the red-brick church. Quiet after the bustling roundabout of Alésia. But even if she knew what to look for—a cellar where a Modigliani had been hidden—the idea of entering each building and questioning dwellers was daunting.

  Scouting midblock, she found a plaque at Number 34 attesting that Lenin had lived there, and that his apartment was now a museum. From Piotr’s letter she knew Lenin had lived upstairs from him. She’d struck gold.

  This route to the painting led her backward, but in some cases, she remembered her father saying, going to the beginning helps you find the end. Feeling more hopeful that she was close to finding another piece of this jigsaw, she entered the light-filled foyer.

  Scents of pine cleaner lingered on the brown encaustic-tile walls and the staircase banister’s burnished mahogany. Clean, utilitarian, no frills. The working-class aura remained. For a moment she imagined the Russian émigrés here at the turn of the century.

  No answer to her knock on the concierge’s door or any of the ground-floor apartments. Voices came from above. She hoped for better luck there.

  At the Lenin-apartment-museum entrance, several people listened to a serious-faced young woman. She wore her brown hair in a bun and wore no makeup. “The father of the Revolution lived here from 1909 to 1912 with Comrade Krupskaya, his wife, and her mother,” the guide explained. “As you will see, every effort’s been made to document his life here and provide as many furnishings of that period as possible. Austere, by our standards today. The Revolution’s architect lived simply, focusing on formulating Revolutionary theory.”

  Before Aimée could duck out, she felt a pamphlet pressed in her hand. An image of Lenin shrouded in a greatcoat, saluting Revolutionaries from a train. A heroic man-of-the-people pose.

  “Welcome, Comrade, the tour’s just beginning.”

  What planet did this woman live on? The Wall came down in 1989, almost ten years ago. “Sorry, but I didn’t reserve for the tour,” Aimée said. “I wouldn’t want to take another’s place.”

  That sounded weak.

  “Join us, s’il vous plaît.”

  Reluctant, Aimée smiled. The guide was no doubt a red-diaper baby from one of the few surviving red suburbs. Once, Paris had been enclosed by the “red belt” hotbed of unions and Communists.

  “The new socialist Russia,” she said in a reverential tone, “and the movement that changed the world, were born here.”

  A hush descended.

  So out of touch, this young comrade. And passé. But the possibility of hearing more about Lenin—the man who’d bounced Piotr on his knee—held Aimée’s interest.

  “Comrade Krupskaya wrote in her journals of their life in these two rooms. They held meetings and discussions right here, forging the doctrine.”

  The guide gestured to notebooks piled along the burnished orange walls under portraits of Marx and Lenin’s mother. Her voice droned on. Aimée stared at the French translation above Krupskaya’s journal.

  To get the gas connected I had to go up to town three times before I received the necessary written order. The amount of red tape in France is unbelievable. To get books from the lending library you must have a householder to stand surety for you, and our landlord, seeing our miserable furniture, hesitat
ed to do so.

  AIMÉE IDENTIFIED WITH Krupskaya’s frustration at French bureaucracy—some things never changed. She scanned more of the translations. Krupskaya wrote about Lenin’s daily routine of bicycling to the Archives to do research. How on the weekends they joined other émigrés at Parc Montsouris—”a little Russia,” she wrote, her tone wistful. How she and Lenin kept their bicycles in the cellar, her struggles with the steep cellar steps and the keys.

  An article published in 1960 detailed Khrushchev’s visit to Lenin’s museum, or “shrine.” A local seventy-three-year-old resident interviewed for the piece spoke of his childhood:

  Lenin? Mais oui, I knew him. His cleaner, Louise, was my neighbor. I saw him cut his hand two or three times on his bike lock, he always seemed preoccupied. The police watched him and his friends, les émigrés, constantly. On Sundays when I rode my bicyclette I’d see him on his. Ah, but in those days I was young.

  And it hit her. The cellar the comrade kept her bike in—the old-fashioned key Natasha mentioned—could it be the key to a cellar storage space? The cellar Madame Figuer lent her wheelbarrow to Yuri to empty out? Aimée needed to get down there.

  She passed the visitor log with the signatures of Khrushchev and Brezhnev and tiptoed out before the tour guide noticed.

  At the concierge’s loge she didn’t have long to wait. A young man wearing jeans set down a Darty shopping bag.

  “You’re early,” he said. “My mother’s showing the apartment in twenty minutes.”

  “No problem,” she said, improvising. “I want to rent space for my bike. Can you show me?”

  “The cellar space goes with the apartment. Desolé.”

  She sighed. “I’m tired of having bikes stolen. The third one in two months. I need it for work. Really, it doesn’t take much room. I’d share.”

  “Talk to my mother.”

  She was desperate to get down there. “But I heard an old man’s storage got emptied. My friend helped clean it out, a real mess he said.”

  The young man took out his door key. “That’s the truth. Like a dump. Left for years.”

  Her ears perked up.