Murder in the Latin Quarter

by Cara Black

  “We have so many consultants, I’d have to check,” he said. “Call me this afternoon.”

  “Just to clarify, Monsieur.” She pulled out a bank receipt, found a pencil. “So I don’t bother you with needless questions. Was the professor consulting with respect to your projects in Haiti?” That sounded vague. She remembered Morbier’s words. “Regarding the World Bank?”

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice firm now, “I want to help, but I’m twenty minutes late.”

  “And these projects with the World Bank . . . ?”

  “We employ more than fifty consultants to assist with our World Bank RFP’s.”

  RFP’s: Requests for Proposals. She and René knew them well. RPF’s were required for outsource contracts. She filed that away in her head for later.

  Castaing turned and unlatched the park’s metal gate. The peeling metal fence looked in need of another coat of dark green paint.

  “Monsieur Castaing, forgive me, but I’m investigating a murder. Anything you can tell me would help.”

  He paused in thought. “Have you checked with Father Privert’s foundation?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t recall the name from the Musée Cluny concert list.

  “Talk to the priest. We provide him with tickets to sup-port his foundation. His latest project is a wonderful free food program for Haitian children that we contribute to. Father Privert runs a shelter on rue Amyot for Caribbean immigrants. ”

  Her ears perked up. Mireille might have gone there.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mademoiselle?” Castaing closed the gate.

  An immigrants’ shelter, run by a priest, would be a safe place to hide. She headed out of the park. Her phone trilled in her pocket.

  “Mademoiselle Leduc?” said a high voice. “Madame Ornano with the Musée Cluny. You had questions about the baroque music concert?”

  Finally! But the sooner she reached Father Privert’s shelter, the better. “Oui. Madame, may I call you back this afternoon? Say—”

  “Impossible! I’m leaving in twenty minutes. For a month.”

  Should she race to the Privert shelter or follow this new lead?

  “I’ll be there in two minutes, Madame.” She hung up, glanced around, saw no one looking, and rubbed Montaigne’s foot. At this point, she needed all the luck she could get.

  “WE USE VOLUNTEER ticket-takers and ushers for our baroque music concert series,” said the smiling Madame Ornano in the Musée Cluny office. “The program runs itself. I’m very proud of it.”

  “Runs itself, Madame?”

  Madame Ornano stuffed her TGV train tickets into her briefcase, closing it with a snap.

  “I delegate, Mademoiselle.” She leaned forward, took the silk scarf from her desk, wrapping it around her neck with a flourish. “That’s the secret. Delegate. I sign the checks, that’s all.”

  In other words, she’d be no help to Aimée. She’d wasted her time when every minute counted.

  “Villiers, the cellist, stepped in to seat patrons on Monday,” she said. “He even helped us put the chairs away after our event. Not above his station. He talks to everyone. So popular, and the patrons love him. The baroque quartet . . . ahh, the music they make, soaring to the vaulted rooftops in the old Roman baths, the ancient baroque music . . . it’s as if we’d been taken back in time.”

  With the plague, rats pawing raw sewage in the narrow lanes, high infant mortality, bathing unheard of, and autocratic monarchs? No, thank you, Aimée thought.

  Madame Ornano clasped her hands to her chest, hummed, and then in a well-trained voice burst into song.

  Startled, Aimée realized she’d have to get her back on track. A man had been murdered, and this romantic interlude of Madame Ornano’s was no help. Maybe the cellist would prove more useful.

  “Such a wonderful voice, Madame,” Aimée said. “But we’re both pressed for time. I’m planning a birthday party and I want to hire him.”

  “Do you have a . . . a sizable budget, Mademoiselle?” she asked. Madame Ornano’s frugal calculating side showed. “He’s a soloist, a member of the Conservatoire. Of course, the Ministry of Culture underwrites our concerts.”

  Aimée wouldn’t hold her breath for the day she could afford to hire this cellist.

  “But my friend, the baron . . .” Aimée paused for effect. “ . . . adores baroque music.”

  AIMÉE QUICKENED HER step past the gray stone of the Sorbonne, weaving through the students choking the pavement, hurrying up the hill to the Pantheon. Hope soared that she’d find Mireille. En route to Father Privert’s shelter, she punched in the phone number of the cellist, Villiers, from the card Madame Ornano had given her. In view of Madame Ornano’s further rambling discourse about volunteers, Villiers was the person to start with. He or another quartet member might remember Benoît and whether anyone had accompa-nied him. Villiers might prove observant. She hated this tedious pursuit of details, but following up as to details had netted Jérôme Castaing and through him the name of the shelter where Mireille might be hiding.

  A strain of Bach played on Villiers’s answering machine, fol-lowed by the breathy words “I’m on tour in Lyon this week. Leave a message, s’il vous plaît.” She hoped he checked his messages.

  She summed up what she knew: Azacca Benoît, a world authority on pigs, visiting lecturer at one of the Grands Ecoles and consultant for the World Bank as well as for Castaing’s firm, with a fondness for the ladies, had entrusted Mireille with some important papers. He might have attended a baroque music concert, if that was the “appointment” Mireille had mentioned. According to her, he had never returned from that appointment. He had then been murdered, not three hours later.

  Aimée hiked along the curving street, which followed the old Roman road. She feared she’d arrive too late to find Mireille or any trace of her.

  This slice of the Latin Quarter felt run down. It was mainly inhabited by students, distinct from the gentrified tourist haunts a few blocks over. A genteel class of landlord, made up of widows or women of a certain age, rented students rooms in their overlarge apartments, or let out sixth-floor chambres à bonne—maid’s rooms under the eaves—to them.

  Next to an old wooden storefront nestled amid tilting sixteenth-century buildings she found the sign for Shelter Caribe, almost covered in strands of ivy. She pressed the worn bell, heard a click, and pushed open the little door inset in a massive arched green double door. An arrow and small hand-lettered sign pointed to a damp cobbled courtyard in the rear of a shabby hôtel particulier, a mansion that had seen better days. On the right, vaulted stone arches bearded with lichen reminded her of the cloister which, no doubt, it had been in the Middle Ages.

  The whole quartier had been filled with churches, con-vents, and priories until the end of the Revolution in 1799. Incensed with the Church’s power, the rebels had razed what they could. Twelve churches remained. Twelve too many, her grandfather would complain.

  She climbed the wide stairs, grooved in the middle from centuries of footsteps, and followed a winding hall’s leaning walls and crooked angles, leading down to three steps. This was a makeshift arrangement of buildings that had been cob-bled together over time.

  On the second floor, she rapped on a tarnished brass knocker. A moment later, the door opened to air redolent with the scent of coconut. She was in a hall with blue-green wall hangings picturing the sea, carved wooden figures, and simple, flat paintings of black figures working in sugarcane fields. A Haiti-Democracy political poster hung on one wall.

  Expectantly, she stepped inside.

  “Bonjour,” said a deep male voice.

  Her eyes adjusted to the light. A middle-aged man wearing black, his shirt topped by a white clerical collar, greeted her. He had pink cheeks and thin brown graying hair. One of his blue eyes was filmed by the milky haze of a cataract.

  “Désolé, Mademoiselle, the room has been taken.”

  She took a guess. “Father Privert?”

 
“Guilty.” He gave a little smile and turned. “Josephe, please find that hostel referral list.”

  “No need, Father. Jérôme Castaing of Hydrolis referred me to you.” That wonderful smell permeating the air, a blend of coconut and fish, made her stomach growl. She’d only had a brioche today.

  “Monsieur Castaing? Mais oui, our benefactor. I’m happy to help you.”

  “That’s so kind, Father,” she said. “But I’d like to see Mireille Leduc.”

  “The name’s not familiar.”

  Her heart sank.

  He took a magnifying glass from his shirt pocket and consulted a thick register. When he looked up, his milky eye unfocused, he shook his head. “No one here by that name. I am sorry.”

  She fingered the leather strap of her bag. Did he offer sanctuary to illegals and was therefore fearful of revealing information? Instead of taking it slowly in order to win his confidence, she’d barged right ahead: her bad habit, as René often pointed out.

  “Father!” a voice called from down the hall.

  “One moment, please.” He disappeared, walking quickly.

  Disappointed, she entered a small sitting room but saw no one else to ask. Her shoulders ached with fatigue. And she still knew no more of Mireille’s whereabouts.

  “In here, Mademoiselle,” he called. She found Father Privert at the copier in a small alcove office.

  “I checked our records, but I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said.

  Had he consulted with whoever had called him and decided to get rid of her? Disappointed, she wondered if he was hiding information. She looked around and noticed a bulletin board on the wall.

  Photos showed hollow-cheeked children, hair a light straw color from malnutrition, eating from a garbage can behind a fish stall in an open-air market. A street scene showed sewage from a latrine running down the middle of the road. Women at a rusted water spigot were shouldering water cans beside shacks made of cardboard and flattened metal peanut-oil gallons. Fat crows surrounding a tin labeled POWDERED MILK USAID clustered near a crying barefoot child. Above the photos was a quote from Mother Teresa: “Cité Soleil’s not the poorest place in Haiti, it’s the poorest place in the world.”

  She took fifty francs from her wallet and stuffed the bill into a collection box labeled FOR CITÉ SOLEIL’S HUNGRY CHILDREN.

  “Father,” she said, “you do relief work in Haiti?”

  “I try.” His shoulders sagged. “The government denied me reentry, you know,” he said. “Well, of course you don’t. I do what I can, but they think God’s work is too political.”

  “God’s work . . . you mean feeding children is considered political?”

  “Father Privert’s too dangerous,” a woman said. She stood in the doorway, a blonde in khaki pants. Her angular face was almost pretty, but it lacked expression. “After his prison sentence, they are even more afraid of him.”

  Aimée blinked. “They put priests in prison?” It sounded like the Inquisition. Then she wanted to bite her tongue. How naïve she must sound.

  “L’Ardeville,” she said, as if Aimée would understand. “Amnesty International paid attention, exerted pressure to obtain his release. For once!”

  “Josephe!” Father Privert smiled sadly. “Monsieur Castaing referred this young woman to us. She’s looking for . . . I’m sorry, who’s the person you’re looking for?”

  “Mireille Leduc.” Aimée hesitated. Compared to hunger and prison abuse, her quest paled in significance. But Mireille’s life was at stake. “Mireille’s tall; she has caramel-colored skin and curly light-brown hair. Have you seen her recently?”

  “The residence is full,” Josephe said. “Father hasn’t been able to take on any new residents for the last two months.”

  “Mireille’s half-Haitian. I thought she’d come here.” Aimée swallowed hard. “She’s my sister, although I met her for the first time on Monday.”

  And when she said it, she almost believed it.

  Josephe and Father Privert stared at her. From outside the window overlooking the courtyard came the banging of a metal trash can, then a cat’s cry.

  “Mireille has no papers. I don’t know who else to ask,” Aimée said. Desperate, she tried another angle. “It’s not my business if you provide sanctuary to sans-papiers, but Mireille’s in trouble, on the run. I want to help her.”

  “Of course,” said Father Privert, “but I don’t know how. Our last Haitian student is now doing graduate work in the States.”

  She paused, unsure whether to reveal more about Mireille’s trouble; but if you couldn’t trust a priest. . . . About Josephe, she wasn’t as sure. But this information could tip the balance in favor of persuading them to help.

  She took a chance. “This concerns the ENS professor murdered Monday,” she said. The aroma of wild lilac and the metallic smell of blood came back to her. Her hands shook, and she hid them in her pockets.

  “Not Professeur Benoît?“ Father Privert made the sign of the cross. “We’re organizing a memorial. But I don’t see the connection.”

  “The flics suspect Mireille,” she said. “I’m terrified for her.”

  “Nom de Dieu!” Josephe and Father Privert exchanged a look. “You’re sure?”

  “I wish I weren’t,” she said. “Professeur Benoît helped Mireille, letting her stay at the lab. The guard heard some noises, and I think he saw something.”

  Darquin, the guard, knew more than he’d told; he had to. Maybe he didn’t recognize the importance of what he’d seen.

  “You mean he could clear her?” Josephe said.

  “Mireille didn’t kill Professeur Benoît, that’s all I know,” Aimée said. “The professor might have mentioned your shelter. Mireille’s afraid. As a child, she saw the tonton macoutes murder her mother, and she’s never gotten over her terror.”

  She searched their shocked faces, hoping that if they indeed were hiding Mireille, they’d trust her.

  Josephe shook her head. “I don’t understand. Professeur Benoît’s a famous scientist. Who would kill him?” She fingered the fringe on her vest, paused, and glanced at Father Privert, who’d folded his hands in prayer.

  Father Privert nodded. “Oui, a distinguished man, a role model for Haitians. Born in a ravaged farming village, one of twenty children, he was the only one who went to school,” he said. “He studied and worked hard to make his people’s life better. He’s . . . was . . . a world-renowned researcher, a . . . such a waste. May God have mercy on his soul.”

  She hadn’t known all that. Had she judged him too harshly . . . or had Mireille lied? She didn’t know what to think. But the truth in Mireille’s voice came back to her.

  Josephe took the priest’s arm. “The Lord gives and He takes away, Father.”

  Aimée sensed they knew something. She had to keep prob-ing, find the link, a connection. Something.

  “Didn’t he have a ticket to the Cluny baroque music con-cert, a ticket that Monsieur Castaing had provided to your organization?”

  Josephe nodded, her face blank. “I left his ticket at the museum, as usual, for him to pick up. Monsieur Castaing’s so thoughtful.”

  That placed Benoît at the Cluny. As she’d suspected. What if he’d met his murderer there?

  “Not three hours after the concert, his body was discovered at the laboratory.”

  Josephe clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Father Privert laid his arm on Aimée’s. His good eye centered on hers. “I understand your concern,” he said. “But the best tribute to Benoît consists of continuing my work feeding children. A sad commentary, you may say. We never for-get that Toussaint l’Overture led the Haitian slave rebellion that overthrew colonialism and made Haiti the first independent country in the Americas. Ironic, too, as Benoît never tired of noting that Napoleon, who admired l’Overture’s ideals and had his body interred in the Pantheon, exacted the reparations Haiti still pays to France, even today, which cripple the economy.”

  A mixture of
hope and sadness painted his features. “President Aristide blazed a new trail. His successor, Préval, is working to eradicate poverty, unemployment, torture, and arbitrary arrests. The country’s changing. My foundation feeds our future, children, the one thing Haiti’s rich in. Our benefactors make that possible.”

  “Father Privert’s work is vital.” Josephe took over, as if used to handling requests for the priest’s time and energy. She handed Aimée a brochure printed in Kreyòl and French. “I volunteer to help manage this shelter so Father can devote himself to his work,” she said. “But we depend on generous help from Monsieur Castaing. So does our voter-initiative group in Haiti, which focuses on political solutions.”

  In other words, they were busy. But Aimée wasn’t going to leave until she’d gained something.

  “In what ways does Monsieur Castaing support your work?”

  Josephe’s eyes brightened. “He understands Father’s mission and makes our outreach possible. Not only does he support both groups financially, he raises funds. We’d be nowhere without Monsieur Castaing.”

  “Polluted water’s killing more Haitian children than hunger,” said Father Privert. “We’re educating mothers to cook only with water from the new pipelines.”

  Father Privert switched on the copy machine, which rum-bled to life.

  “But they’re wary of Monsieur Castaing’s sewage-treatment plant,” Josephe said.

  “Why?”

  “Superstition. Oh, that’s changing.” Josephe smiled. “Opportunists charge a fortune to bring water from the hills in water trucks, then gouge these poor people. But Hydrolis offers them free water, so they will learn to use piped water.”

  Father Privert leaned down, stacked a pile of copies, and fed more sheets of paper into the machine. The machine spit out copies in a steady rhythm. “Father?” Josephe shrugged. “He’s deaf in one ear from being tortured,” she explained to Aimée.

  Aimée shuddered. But persevered. “Please understand, I respect your work,” she said. “And why you might feel reluctant to speak. But if you know where Mireille’s hiding—”

  “I’ll ask around,” Josephe interrupted. “But people disappear.”