Murder in the Latin Quarter

by Cara Black

  “Not me, Mimile.”

  OUT ON THE street, René paused in front of the torn awning. A light glowed inside. “Et alors, now or never,” said a man beckoning from inside the produce shop. “I’m closing up, petit.”

  René ignored the taunt, biting back the comeback on the tip of his tongue. He wished he could ignore the searing ache in his hip. If he swallowed more painkillers, he’d still ache tomorrow. And he’d never know until he gave the healer a shot.

  In the shop’s interior, the man gestured to the back room, hung his blue work coat on a nail, and disappeared.

  René winced with pain as he edged himself up onto the work bench. His short legs dangled, his only company crates of red and white-tipped radishes, a bin with assorted plastic price signs, several crossword-puzzle magazines, pages folded back and puzzles filled out, and a two-burner cooktop stained with grease. A bright red fire extinguisher hung on the cracked wall. Incongruous, he thought, here in the dank sup-ply room with its permeating smell of yesterday’s leeks.

  What kind of healer practiced in a place like this? he wondered for the tenth time. Aimée would call him silly, prod him to have the surgery. But she didn’t know how slim were the chances of the operation succeeding nor how high the odds that he’d have a setback. She didn’t know a lot of things, including the way he felt about her. But he repressed that.

  An old man mounted the stairs, a cap tilted on his head, his eyes rheumy red.

  “What’s going on?” René asked.

  The man took in René’s stature. He jerked his thumb. “You’re next.”

  Without a word, René descended from the bench, trying to keep his leg straight, trying to compensate for the flaming ache in his hip, the straining in his calves. But the minute his foot contacted the hard earth floor, pain shot to his hip and up his back.

  He wanted to brush the dirt off his linen trousers, but he couldn’t bend to reach it. Never had he let himself appear dirty, nor would he wear the children’s clothes that fit him: the shirts with trucks on them, the shoes with lights. He’d vowed with his first paycheck that he’d wear custom-made garments from then on. And he’d starve before he changed that.

  He gripped the railing, biting his lip, determined not to cry out. He felt the impact of each step, all ten of them.

  By the light of a flickering lantern René saw a figure in a chair in the cellar under the shop. The lantern emitted a kerosene smell and cast a harsh light. The wooden wheel of a barrow, a remnant of produce-sellers who had once filled the streets, leaned against the damp vaulted stone wall.

  He wanted to turn around, leave. But he couldn’t face the trek up those stairs again quite yet.

  He saw a woman in her sixties, a porcelain-white face lined by wrinkles, gray steel wool hair, a blue apron over her floral print dress . . . she could be anyone’s grandmother or a produce-shop owner, both of which she was.

  Or a charlatan as well preying on the desperate and afflicted? Like him.

  “Madame Suchard?”

  “You’re the last one tonight,” she said, adding in her deep Parisian accent, “I sense your reluctance.”

  The dampness emanating through the cellar increased the pain in his hip. A barred window in the thick wall above revealed the legs of passersby on the street.

  “It’s not what I thought, Madame.”

  “You expected walnut furniture and deep bookshelves? Whether I can help you remains to be seen.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “But it’s your choice.”

  In other words, put up or shut up. What did he have to lose?

  She indicated that he should take off his jacket and remain standing. “Now, tell me.”

  He did, describing the shooting pain flaming from the arches of his feet up his back, the debilitating ache with no respite.

  “Any surgery?”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “Come here.” She motioned him forward, put her gnarled hands out and laid them on his hip. She closed her eyes. And for a moment in the wavering light, with her sunken eyes and her prominent cheekbones, she resembled a corpse. He repressed a shudder.

  She kept her hands on him, her body utterly still.

  “Inflammation.” After a few minutes, she said, “Turn.”

  He turned and winced. She put her hands on the small of his back. He felt nothing but the hard earth floor beneath his feet. Then, a lifting. A curious coolness. As if the heat had been drawn up and away, like smoke. He stood there he didn’t know how long, aware of the kerosene fumes, of an occasional thump overhead.

  The pain had subsided. He could straighten up. There was only a small dull throb in his calves. Whatever she’d done had worked.

  “Madame?”

  She slumped in the chair, her lids half-lowered, her breaths shallow.

  “What do I owe you?”

  No response.

  What’s wrong, Madame?” he asked, worried. “

  Her lids fluttered open. “It takes a lot out of me,” she said. “There’s still hip inflammation. Take salt baths. Return in two days.”

  Spent, she waved away the francs he thrust in her hand.

  “No money.”

  “Please, it seems only fair,” he said, not wanting to owe her. Or anyone.

  “It’s the power working through me. But you must not speak of this.”

  Why not? he wondered. Did she hook the afflicted, only later to run a scam and demand their savings?

  “If you do, I’ll know,” she said. “This doesn’t work for everyone.”

  “If I can’t pay . . . what can I do?”

  “Aah, that part. . . .” She nodded. “The time will come. You’ll know.”

  * * *

  THE OLD WOMAN’S enigmatic words echoed in René’s head. And then he dismissed them to concentrate on this curious cool sensation and the alleviation of his pain.

  Blocks away, he unlocked his car, parked on Impasse Maubert, the short passage infamous for the townhouse where Saint Croixe and his lover, the Marquise de Brinvilliers, notorious poisoners in the seventeenth century, had concocted potions before the guillotine took the Marquise’s head.

  He checked his phone. A message from Aimée. And then he took the paper from his pocket. The fax that Loussant, his Haitian student, had sent him. Should he tell her?

  Wednesday Night

  “FINISHED WITH YOUR paper?” Aimée asked as she signed out at Delair’s desk.

  He nodded, hunched over Voici, a weekly scandal glossy with photos of Princess Diana. She took Le Soir, dated that evening, scanning the article on cataphiles partying at the Arènes de Lutèce. The last line of the article caught her attention. “Several Haitian sans papiers caught at the scene were linked to the recent flood of illegals transported here by human traffickers.”

  What if Mireille and the illegals she’d been smuggled into the country with had been caught? Only one way to find out. She called Lucien, her friend from Ecole de Médicine, now a resident at Hôpital Val de Grâce and a zealous cataphile.

  “Emergency. Lucien Lelong,” said a crisp voice.

  “Caffeinated and on duty, right, Lucien?” she said.

  “You know it, Aimée. Straight through until 6 A.M.”

  A summons could come for him at any moment. She cut to the chase. “Know anything about the Arènes de Lutèce bust? The article indicated they caught Haitians, illegals—”

  “Most got away,” he interrupted. “Hold on a minute. . . .”

  She waved goodbye to Delair and walked into the dark street. A feeling of unease overcame her. She paused under a plane tree, her senses alert for watchers in a car. Or movement. There was just the distant rumble of the Metro under-ground, a clear night sky with a star-frothed Milky Way, a few parked cars. No dented Peugeot.

  “Got away, Lucien? What do you mean?”

  “We restore those tunnels; it’s a labor of love, let me tell you,” he said. “The Haitians were helping out; they kept watch,” he said. “My friend said the fli
cs bungled the bust and didn’t seal off all the tunnels. Thank God for small favors.”

  “Any chance you saw a Haitian woman by the name of Mireille?”

  “No women at all that I remember. But I haven’t gone below since last week,” he said. “They work us like mules here. Sleep and work, that’s what I do.”

  “And soon your maman will have ‘her son the doctor,’” she said.

  “If I survive that long.”

  She heard moaning in the background. “Need to go,” Lucien said, “my patient needs a morphine-drip adjustment.”

  Another shot in the dark that had gone nowhere, she thought, disappointed.

  “The Haitians crawled right back, according to my friend,” Lucien said. “Some of them camp under the Roman bleachers.”

  She heard the opening and closing of what sounded like metal cabinets in the background. “Les pauvres, they’re des- perate,” Lucien said. “A shame these people must hide or be hunted down.”

  Desperate and on the run. Like Mireille. An idea came to her. Her father always said if something speaks to you, check it out.

  “Lucien, I want to go down there. Can you take me?”

  “I’m on shift, then sleeping, Aimée.”

  “It’s important, Lucien.”

  “It’s always important with you, Aimée.”

  “You owe me, remember?”

  Her casual background check on his mother’s new boyfriend had revealed that the charming and distinguished white-haired Hungarian “comte” was in fact a failed insurance salesman from Belgrade.

  “How can I forget? You never let me.” The moaning was louder now. “Look, a car crash patient’s not feeling too good.”

  “And you’re the king of multitasking, Lucien.” She imagined him right now injecting the morphine and adjusting the drip. “If the flics didn’t close all the tunnels, where can I get down? Come on, you must know.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. “SAMU’s arriving, Aimée.”

  “Quick, Lucien, please.”

  “By the hollow under the bleachers on the northern side. At least it was open last week. There’s a sewer opening in the recess to the left.”

  “Merci, Lucien.”

  “But first you have to get in; the arena’s locked at night.”

  She knew Lucien, an ardent cataphile, had connections. All the cataphiles knew each other, shared quarry and tunnel maps, even made copies of keys to the parks. “And the park’s gate key would be. . . ?”

  Lucien sighed. “Under the ivy, the fake rock by the lilac bush on the left side of the gate on rue des Arènes. Where we always keep it.”

  “Call me when you’re off duty, Lucien.” She hung up.

  The first-century Gallo-Roman arena stood just a few blocks away. Ten minutes if she hurried. Her phone rang.

  “Sorry I didn’t make it, Aimée,” said René, apologetic. “Something came up. But you handled it, right?”

  Aimée sensed his uncertainty. Her shoulders tightened. “No problem. I ran Morel’s programs. We’re set for tomorrow.”

  “We should talk.”

  Dread filled her as she thought of the startup that had excited him. Leaves scuttled under her feet, the wind swirling them around her ankles. If René left, she would feel adrift, too.

  She had to salvage their relationship. She couldn’t lose René. But right now she had somewhere to go.

  “OK,” she said. “My mind’s been occupied, you’re right, René. But no reason we can’t figure this out.”

  “Figure out what?” René asked.

  Her bad feeling mounted. He obviously wanted to tell her in person.

  “You’re on your scooter, right?” he asked. “So come and meet me.”

  “Not now, René.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Near the Arènes de Lutèce.”

  “This time of night?” he said. “But it’s closed.”

  “Not for me. The flics rousted some Haitians in the tunnels—”

  “And you think Mireille’s involved,” he interrupted, exasperated, “don’t you?”

  “I won’t know until I check it out.”

  “Not alone, Aimée.”

  “Got to go.”

  Bad news could wait. She hoped she wouldn’t find any ahead of her.

  RUE DES ARÈNES, a winding street with a small Metro exit identified by a thirties Metro sign, glimmered in the haze of streetlights. At the Arènes de Lutèce’s main gate, behind the green bars, she found the rock in the lilac bush with the key taped to it. She looked behind her and saw only dark bow-windowed buildings, a pointed Gothic turret nestled among the rooftops, and a stray cat slinking over the cobblestones.

  Gripping the key, she unlocked the padlock. A car pulled up and she ducked. No cover. And not fast enough.

  The headlights illumined her foot. A car door slammed. Footsteps crunched leaves.

  She held her breath as the figure paused, half in shadow, then stepped toward the gate with a rolling gait, a slight limp.

  “Over here, René,” she whispered, her relief battling with concern.

  He stood, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You’re not going through with this.”

  “Shhh.” She cracked the gate open.

  “Good thing I came here.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember Loussant, my student?” René said, “He’s worried, something to do with a Haitian human rights campaign involving Edouard Brasseur. He faxed me this.”

  Edouard Brasseur, Benoît’s childhood friend, the elusive former rebel, former ally of Father Privert. Why lie to her about his “import/export” business?

  “I thought you should see this, Aimée,” René said.

  She was at a loss for words. “Merci, René.” She dusted her hands off, taking the fax from René and reading it.

  “It’s only a message that he’ll make contact and send me an article,” she said, disappointed. “Nothing else.”

  “Loussant doesn’t have a phone, Aimée.” René paused. “He works in Lyon now, but he always says if work were good for you, the rich would leave none for the poor. And he’s careful.”

  Careful of what, she wondered. No time to worry about that now. She slid inside the gate. “Time’s wasting. See you tomorrow.”

  “You’re not serious, Aimée,” René said. “You can’t think you’ll find Mireille.”

  Or, for that matter, that Mireille would trust her. But she might find someone who knew her.

  “The guard at the lab wanted to give me some information, but he was pushed under a car before he could. Mireille’s a homicide suspect. I’m considered her accomplice, René. I have to find her.” She stared through the bars of the gate, then at him. “You look tired.”

  “And you never change,” he said. “Pig-headed. Stubborn.”

  The trees rustled. A squirrel scurried over the grass, leaving a trail of dew glistening in the moonlight. No time to argue.

  “See you tomorrow, René.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  And with that, he slid inside the narrow opening, closed the gate, and started following her.

  “René, if something comes down. . . .”

  “I’m a black belt, remember?”

  “Things okay, René?”

  “Never better,” he said.

  She kept her observation of his limp to herself. Though she was loath to admit it, she was glad of his company.

  Together they walked into the remains of the first-century Gallo-Roman amphitheater. The rooftops of rue Monge were silhouetted like dark stairsteps against the sky. Dampness radiated from the park that surrounded the arena on three sides. The excavation of the grounds in the nineteenth century during the building of a tramway, had revealed the old arena. The sunken field had once served as a cemetery. Like every part of Paris, history was layered upon history. Victor Hugo had led a campaign to save the ruins from demolition. Now limestone bleachers ascended the side of the sunken arena where
gladiators had fought.

  An opening showed between the bleachers, dark and for-lorn, one section being reconstructed under scaffolding. The feeling of desolation was heightened by old plastic bags and trash clumped against the construction shed and the wire fence, blown there by the wind and then coated with dust.

  Each step they took echoed eerily from the other side of the arena.

  “The Romans had acoustical engineering down pat,” René said. “But their entertainment leaves something to be desired.”

  He pointed to the ground-level green-tinged bars that had functioned as gates for openings in the stone. “Animal cages. Think of hungry lions, waiting for a meal.”

  Overhead light beams made yellow pools on the dirt floor near a shed labeled DCD CONSTRUCTION. It was dark and pad-locked. The cyclone fence surrounding the site seemed to sway in the wind.

  When she went closer to it, the fence proved easy to push aside.

  “This doesn’t seem like a good idea, Aimée,” René cautioned.

  But she stepped through and continued on until she reached a dank vaulted arcade.

  “I don’t like this,” René persisted, catching his breath.

  She didn’t either. Where was the opening Lucien had men-tioned? The curving arches disappeared into the darkness. An eerie glint, then a swath of light appeared as the Tour Eiffel’s hourly beacon swept the distant treetops.

  “Let’s go,” René said, his voice echoing. “No one’s around.”

  Gravel crunched under Aimée’s heels. “If someone came through here. . . .”

  She shone her penlight ahead. The yellow beam illuminated chipped stone stained by moisture. Scratching noises came from somewhere. Inside the recess under the old bleachers, plaster scraped beneath her heels. She stopped. A damp draft wafted the scent of mildew to them. Candles on the floor flickered.

  In the sputtering light, she saw a figure just ahead of them.

  “Who are. . . ?” Her words died.

  A body hung suspended in a web of crisscrossing ropes between two sculpted stone burls that flanked a coved arch. Its arms were outstretched, wrists tied with rope. Like a fly caught in a cobweb. Long curly hair. A woman!