AL01 - Murder in the Marais ali-1

by Cara Black

  "Did your wife hold these views?" she said.

  "I'm not ashamed to say we held Marechal Petain and his Vichy government in the highest regard. You didn't live through a war. You can never understand how Le Marechal aimed to untarnish the reputation of France," he said.

  Aimee leaned forward. "Is that why Thierry receives funds from a German right-wing extremist group and you support Les Blancs Nationaux?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You can't prove that."

  "Proving that Les Blancs Nationaux are bankrolled by the DFU Aryan supremacists isn't too hard. And that's sure to bother people who still remember Germans as Nazis and 'boches.'"

  Monsieur Rambuteau's cheeks had become red and his breathing labored. He reached for the bottle of yellow pills on the table in front of him. He shook out three, poured a glass of water, and gulped both. His shallow breath came in short spurts.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and folded his hands. "I'm a sick man," he said. "You'd better go." He rose with obvious effort, and walked her to the door. "My son couldn't hurt anyone," he said. In his small, tired eyes, Aimee saw pain.

  "You haven't convinced me, Monsieur." She adjusted her beret and looked at him resolutely. "I'll be back."

  He closed the door and Aimee walked out into the drizzling rain to the bus stop.

  She would prove that Les Blancs Nationaux existed on neo-Nazi money with Rene's help on the computer. Twenty minutes later she stepped off the bus on Ile St. Louis near her flat and entered her neighborhood corner cafe. Chez Mathieu was inviting and much warmer than her apartment.

  "Bonjour, Aimee." A short, stout man in a white apron playing a pinball machine in the corner greeted her. Bells clanged as the pinball hit the targets.

  "Ça va, Ludovice? A cafe crème, please."

  He nodded. The cafe was empty. "I've got bone shanks for your boy." He meant Miles Davis.

  "Merci." Aimee smiled and chose a table by the fogged-up windows overlooking the Seine. She spread her papers to dry and took out her laptop, but the marble tabletop was sticky and she needed to put something over it. She pulled out some paper and realized she held Monsieur Rambuteau's tablet. And a folder, too, that she'd picked up by mistake. She opened it.

  Lists of Nathalie Rambuteau's personal belongings filled two sheets. Well-thumbed film scripts and old theater programs lined the folder next to a sheaf of photocopies, one labeled "Last Will and Testament." Curious, Aimee opened it. On the top was a codicil, dated three months previously: "Suffering from a terminal illness, I, Nathalie Rambuteau, cannot in good conscience keep secret my son's origins. I cannot break the promise I made to my son's biological mother. Upon my death, I request that my son, Thierry Rambuteau, be informed of his real parentage."

  Stapled to the back of it was a note in spidery writing: S.S. letter with Notaire Maurice Barrault. Shaken, she sat back. Who was Thierry's real mother?

  "Ça va?" Ludovice asked as he set her cafe on the table.

  "God, I don't know. Got a cigarette?"

  "I thought you quit." He rubbed his wet hands across his apron and reached in his pocket.

  "I did." She accepted a nonfiltered Gauloise and he lit it for her. As she inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke hit the back of her throat, then she felt the familiar jolt as it filled her lungs. She exhaled the smoke, savoring it.

  Aimee gestured to the chair. He untied his apron, sat down, and lit a cigarette.

  "Let me ask you something—" she began.

  "Over a drink. I'll buy." He reached for a bottle of Pernod and two shot glasses and poured. "What's the question?"

  The empty cafe was quiet except for the drizzling rain beating on the roof.

  "Do you believe in ghosts?" Aimee asked. "Because I think I'm beginning to."

  AIMÉE LEFT the cafe when the rain stopped and wearily entered her apartment. Before she could kick off her damp clothes her phone began ringing.

  She answered. The nurse she'd slipped several hundred francs to inform her of any changes in Soli Hecht's condition spoke quickly.

  "Soli Hecht came out of his coma fifteen minutes ago," she said.

  "I'll be right over."

  Quickly, she put on black stirrup pants and red high-tops, draped her Chanel scarf around her neck under her jean jacket, and ran down two marble flights of stairs. Her mobylette wobbled and bounced over the uneven cobbles on the Quai. Rain-freshened air mingled with a faint sewer odor as she crossed the Seine. The perfume of Paris, her father had called it. She kept to small streets in the Marais. Outside l'Hôpital St. Catherine, she rammed her moped in a row with all the others and locked it.

  Dead cigarette smell and muffled bells on a loudspeaker greeted her as she emerged on the hospital's fifth floor. Overflowing ashtrays littered the waiting area near a row of withering potted plants.

  She strode over the scuffed linoleum towards room 525. Loud buzzers sounded as a team of nurses and doctors flew by her.

  "Attention! Out of the way," yelled a medic, who wheeled a shock unit past them.

  She followed him, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding. A doctor kneeled over an unconscious blue-uniformed policeman, sprawled on the linoleum.

  Uneasy, she asked, "What's happened?"

  "I'm not sure," the doctor said, feeling for a pulse.

  She ran into room 525. Hecht lay naked except for a loose sheet across his waist, wires and tubes hooked into his pasty white body. His skin glistened with perspiration. His forearm showed an injection mark with a bubble of blood.

  She rushed to the hallway. "Doctor, this patient needs attention!"

  Surprised, he nodded to the nurse and they went in.

  Aimee reached for the radio clipped to the policeman's pocket and flicked the transmit button. "Request assist; fifth-floor attack on Soli Hecht—officer down. Do you copy?"

  All she heard was static. As she reached for the policeman's pocket, her hand raked a cold metal pistol. She wondered why a Paris flic would carry a Beretta .765. Flics she knew didn't carry this kind of hardware. They weren't even issued firearms. She slid it into her pocket.

  More static, then a voice said, "Copy. Backup is on the way. Who is this?"

  But Aimee stood at the foot of the bed where doctors and nurses worked on Soli Hecht.

  "Adrenalin, on count of three," said a doctor near Soli's chest, which was heaving spasmodically.

  She looked at the bubble on his arm, swollen and purple now, heard the labored breathing. Soli's hollow cheekbones contracted as he desperately sucked air. Recognition flashed in his eyes.

  The doctor looked up. "Better get the rabbi. Somebody go look. Any family here?"

  Aimee ignored her pounding heart and stepped forward. "I'm his niece. My uncle is on twenty-four-hour protection but someone got to him. Injected him with drugs."

  The doctor looked up and gave her a quizzical look. "You mean this on his arm. . .?" He grabbed Soli's chart, hooked to the bed. Scanning it, he shook his head. "He's not responding. Check the IV solution."

  "Can't you do something?" Aimee moved towards the head of the bed, feeling guilty for lying. Soli's eyes fixed on her and she returned his gaze.

  "Vital responses are minimal," the doctor said.

  Aimee bent over, gently touching Soli's arm, which was clammy and moist to the touch. Her conscience bothered her but she didn't know how else to find out. She whispered in his ear, "Soli, what does that photo mean?"

  His arms broke loose from the tubes and flailed wildly. He reached out to her.

  "You know, Soli, don't you?" She searched his eyes. "Why Lili was killed."

  His sharp nails dug like needles into her skin. Aimee winced, drawing back, but he pulled her close. He rasped in her ear, "Don't. . .let. . .him. . ."

  "Who?" Aimee said as his arid breath hit her cheek.

  Someone touched her shoulder. "The rabbi is here. Let your uncle pray with him."

  Soli's eyes rolled up in his head.

  "Tell me, Soli, tell me. . ." But the nurses started pu
lling her away.

  His head shook and he pulled Aimee tighter, his nails raking into her skin.

  "Say it! Say his name," Aimee begged.

  Soli's other arm flailed, scrabbling at the sheets. "Lo. . ."

  "L'eau, Soli? Water?" she said. "What do you mean?"

  He blinked several times, then his eyes went vacant. The heart monitor registered flat lines. Blood trickled from Soli's nose. Gently, the doctor pried Soli's fingers loose from Aimee's neck.

  "Yit-ga-dal v-yit-ka-dash shemei." The rabbi entered, intoning the Hebrew prayer for the dead.

  The nurse led Aimee to the hall, where she leaned against the scuffed walls, shaking. She'd seen her father die in front of her eyes. Now Soli Hecht.

  Her neck felt scraped raw. Raw like her heart. Another dead end. He'd only been asking for water.

  The rabbi tucked his prayer book under his arm and joined her in the hallway. He gave her a long look. "You're not Soli's niece. His whole family was gassed at Treblinka."

  Aimee's shoulders tightened. She looked down the hallway, wondering why the police backup hadn't arrived. "Rabbi, Soli Hecht has been murdered."

  "You better have a lot more than chutzpah to lie at a dying man's bedside and then say he's been murdered. Explain."

  Either the police response time had dwindled or that hadn't been a real police radio she'd talked into. Her uneasiness grew.

  "I'm willing to explain, but not here," she said. "Let's walk down the hall slowly, go past the lobby towards the elevator."

  They walked by the mobile shock unit, now abandoned in the hallway.

  "Temple E'manuel has hired me to investigate."

  His eyes opened wide. "You mean this has to do with Lili Stein's murder?"

  She nodded. "Didn't you see the policeman who'd guarded the room lying unconscious on the floor? And the injection spot on Soli's arm, a bad job that swelled like a golf ball?"

  The rabbi nodded slowly.

  "Someone pushed Soli in front of a bus," she said. "That didn't work so when he came out of the coma, they finished him off with a lethal injection. Unfortunately, they got here before I did. I don't know how, but it involves Lili Stein. Was he able to talk at all?"

  The rabbi shook his head. "He drifted in and out, never regaining consciousness.

  Loud voices came from the corridor. Several plainclothes policemen strode down the hall. Why hadn't a uniformed unit arrived? Her suspicions increased. Aimee turned away from them, bowed her head, and hooked her arm in the rabbi's. She whispered in his ear, "Let's walk slowly towards the stair exit. I don't want them to see me. Please help me!"

  The rabbi sighed. "It's hard to believe anyone would make this up."

  He nudged her forward. They walked arm in arm towards the stairs while she buried her face in his scratchy gray beard. As she heard the static and crackle of police radios from down the hall, she burrowed her head further in his shoulder.

  Around the corner, the rabbi hissed in her ear, "I'm only helping you because Soli was a good man." He sidled close to the stairs, blocking the view, while Aimee crept through and down the stairway. She moved as quietly and quickly as the old stairs would allow.

  "Excuse me, rabbi. Where is the woman you were in conversation with?" a clear voice asked the rabbi.

  "Gone to wash her face in the ladies' room," she heard him reply.

  Down the stairs, Aimee quickly followed a glassed-in walking bridge to the older part of the hospital. Outside, she unlocked her moped and scanned the area.

  A few unmarked police cars were parked at the hospital entrance, but she didn't see anyone. The pungent smell of bleach drifted from the old hospital laundry. She hit the kick start, then pedaled down tree-lined rue Elzevir, quiet at this time of evening.

  Le Commissariat de Police didn't carry Berettas. Professional hit men did, she knew that much. Behind her, a motorcycle engine whined loudly. Few cars used narrow rue Elzevir. The engine slowed down, then roared to life. She looked back to see a black leather–clad figure on a sleek MotoGuzi motorcycle. She veered towards the sidewalk as it came closer. Suddenly, a car darted out from an alley across from her. All she saw was the darkened car window before the front wheel of her bike hit a loose cobblestone and threw her up in the air. Airborne for three seconds, she saw everything happen in slow motion as she registered the motorcycle speeding away.

  She ducked her head and rolled into a somersault. Her shoulders smacked against a parked car's windshield. She inhaled the stench of burning rubber before her head cracked the side-view mirror like a hammer. Pain shot across her skull. She rolled off the hood.

  Stunned, she sprawled on the sidewalk, partly wedged between a muddy tire and the stone gutter. The car stopped, then backed up, its engine whining loudly. Dizzy, she crawled over grease slicks and rolled under the parked car. She barely fit. She slid her Glock 9-mm from her jean jacket, uncocking the safety. The car door opened, then footsteps sounded on the pavement near her head.

  Afraid to breathe, she saw black boot heels. She'd be lucky if she could shoot him in the foot. Loud police sirens hee-hawed down the street. A cigarette, orange-tipped, was flicked onto the pavement near her and fizzled in a puddle. The door clicked open, then the car sped away.

  She flipped the gun's safety back on, then slowly rolled out from under the car, her head aching. Her knees shook so badly she staggered in the gutter and fell. She just lay there, hoping her heart would stop pounding. Grease and oil stains coated her black pants and her hands were streaked with a brown smudge that smelled suspiciously of dog shit. She picked up the soggy cigarette stub. Only a well-paid hit man could afford to smoke fancy imported orange-tipped Rothmans.

  AIMÉE KNOCKED at the frosted-glass door. She kept her eyes on the blurry outline visible in the hallway.

  "I need to speak with you, Monsieur Rambuteau," she shouted. "I'm not leaving until I do."

  Finally the door opened and she stared into portly Monsieur Rambuteau's face.

  "Nom de Dieu! What's happened. . .?"

  "Do you want to discuss your wife's will in the street?"

  Pain and fear shot across his face. He opened the door wider, then shuffled towards the breakfast room.

  Her head throbbed with dull regularity. "Do you have any aspirin?"

  He pointed to a bottle on the table. Aimee shook out two, gulped them down with water, and helped herself to ice from the freezer.

  "Merci," she said. She stuck the ice in a clear plastic bag, twisted it, and applied it to the lump on her head, wincing.

  "Who are Thierry Rambuteau's real parents?"

  He sat down heavily. "Did my son do this to you?"

  "That wasn't my question but he's certainly on my list."

  "Leave the past alone," he said.

  "That phrase is getting monotonous," she said. "I don't like people trying to kill me because I'm curious."

  She pulled out the folder and slapped it on the white melamine-topped table. "If you won't tell me, this lawyer, Monsieur Barrault, will."

  "You stole that!" Monsieur Rambuteau accused.

  "You offered to let me use this, if you want to get technical." She slowly set her Glock on a sunflowered plate, her eyes never leaving his face. Half of her skull had frozen from the ice and the other half ached dully. "I'm not threatening you, Monsieur Rambuteau, but I thought you'd like to see what the big boys use when they need information. But I went to polite detective school. We ask first," she said.

  His hand shook as he reached for a bottle of yellow pills. "I'm preventing the reading of my wife's will with a court order. So whatever you do won't matter."

  "I'll contest that as public domain information," she said. "Within three days, Monsieur, it can be published as a legal document. What exactly are you hiding?"

  "Nathalie was naive, too trusting." He shook his head. "Look, I'll hire you. Pay you to stop further damage. The war's been over fifty years, people have made new lives. Some secrets are better left that way. My son's certainly
is."

  "Two Jews have been murdered so far, and I'm next," she said. What would it take to reach him? "You better start talking because everything points to Thierry Rambuteau. Who is he?"

  He glanced around furtively, as if someone would overhear.

  "I had no idea Nathalie changed her will," he said. "We never agreed over him. Maybe she'd been drinking. Why should the mistakes we make when young stay with us all our life?"

  She wasn't sure what he meant but he appeared fatigued and wiped his brow.

  "Cut to the chase, Monsieur." Her head pounded and her patience was exhausted. "Who is he?"

  "During the war, Nathalie was an actress, I did lighting and camera work for Coliseum. We worked with Allegret, the director, in the same acting troupe with Simone Signoret." A melancholy smile crossed his face. "Nathalie never tired of telling everyone that. Anyway, Coliseum was accused of being a collaborationist film company and later grew to become Paricor. But then we just made movies and Goebbels made the propaganda. And like everyone in France, we had to get Gestapo permission for anything we did. At that time, cutting your toenails required approval from the Gestapo Kommandantur, so I've never understood the uproar about collaborators. We all were, if you look at it like that."

  Maybe that was true, but it reminded her of the joke about the Resistance. Fewer than five in a hundred of the French had ever joined, but if you talked to anyone today over sixty, they'd all been card-carrying members.

  He paused, sadness washing over his face. "Anyway, at Liberation we had a stillborn child. My wife couldn't get over it, but then, you see, so many babies came out stillborn during the war. Maybe it was the lack of food. But Nathalie felt so guilty. Everyone went crazy happy at Liberation. Our saviors, the Allies, were rolling in and here she was about to commit suicide."

  His breath came in labored spurts now and his face was flushed. "On the street we'd see parades of women with their heads shaved. They'd slept with Nazis."

  "Monsieur, some water?" she interrupted. She passed the bottle of yellow pills across the table towards him.

  "Merci," he said, gulping the water with more pills.

  "What does this have to do with Thierry?" she said.