Murder in the Latin Quarter

by Cara Black

  “It’s symbolic of man’s struggle against darkness. The continuing despair of humans in the twentieth century. Don’t you agree?”

  “Exactement.” Aimée handed back the cigarette. Then she stepped forward, looking for an exit.

  Amazed, she stared at the cables and wires snaking up the rock wall, siphoning power from electric lines and circuits. A backup generator stood near large black speakers and a sound adjustment console, a panel with knobs, green and red lights. Self-contained and a curiously comfortable haven, she figured, until discovery when flics would cut the juice. Beyond lay crushed velvet draperies.

  “Silence, s’il vous plaît. Please take a seat. Tonight’s films show two aspects of life’s struggle: a recovered archival version of the Battleship Potemkin, Eisenstein’s 1925 Russian master-piece, the seminal film of our century. Following the screening, Monsieur Loriol will lead the discussion. . . .”

  She groaned. A “film-philosophe happening” in this medieval cave. She usually avoided these soupçons de culture. The voice continued. “. . . revealing the journey of Everyman, mirroring the poet Rimbaud’s strife-torn life in the nineteenth century.”

  She consulted the map. An exit had to exist. After the lights were lowered, she edged toward the velvet draperies and opened the door behind them to enter a storeroom. Two men, their jeans caked with white plaster and faces dusted with white powder, played cards over a wooden crate. Pickaxes and shovels lay in a wheelbarrow. Candles dripped and flickered in holes pockmarking the stone. It was quiet except for the slap of cards. To the side stood a vaulted door.

  “Wouldn’t go that way,” said one of the men, the older one, not looking up.

  Aimée’s hand froze on the steel handle. “Why’s that?”

  “The tunnel caved in,” he said. “We just sealed up the entrance.”

  Her heart sank. Now she couldn’t rely on Lucien’s map.

  “Then, Monsieur, how can I reach the lake?”

  “Dressed like that?”

  She took the green scrubs from her bag, pulled them on over her skirt and jacket. From a pile on the dirt floor, she picked up a hard hat mounted with a headlamp and threw a fifty-franc bill on the crate. “No, Monsieur, like this.”

  The mec looked up. “That’s better.”

  “Can you show me another way?”

  “You wouldn’t want to end up like Philibert.”

  “Meaning?” She envisioned shifting earth, sinkholes, more cave-ins.

  “Philibert lost his way in the quarry. But cataphiles see him all the time near the lake.”

  “Guess I’ll see him en route.”

  “Philibert disappeared in 1793.”

  Ghosts. Where didn’t one live with the ghosts in Paris, she almost asked.

  “I’m looking for the Haitians, for a woman—”

  “You’re too late,” he said.

  Her heart stopped. “The cataflics took her?”

  The mec scratched his cheek. A fine white dust settled over the cards. “Only if they wear gold chains and nuggets on their ring fingers.”

  “Tell me who these mecs are.”

  “The scum who sell people.”

  The human traffickers. The ones who’d lured Mireille to the Arènes de Lutèce.

  “Did you see a particular woman? She’s tall, half-Haitian, curly hair, brown eyes. . . .”

  “The good-looker who screamed so much that they duct-taped her mouth.”

  She gasped. Why hadn’t he stopped them?

  “Not my business,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “A bucket of plaster’s no match for their brawn.”

  From bad to worse.

  “How long ago?”

  “I never saw them leave.” He threw down a card.

  They could still be there. She studied the map, then thrust it near his face.

  “What about this tunnel? Have you noticed any cave-ins here?”

  “Like I said, I mind my own business.” He threw his cards down. “You wanna-be adventurers make me sick.”

  Anger flushed her cheeks. “A woman’s being kidnapped, and you do nothing.” You spineless wonder, but she bit that back.

  “Some people like it rough,” he said, jaded. “Eh, Stanislav?”

  The other man grunted.

  “He’s a Pole. Doesn’t understand. But he understands tun-nels and digging.” The mec shook his head. “Look, all kinds come down here and play games. They get their kicks that way. Hold Black Masses, orgies.”

  Not in the cavern behind them, where a noted critic was attending a film fest. But she didn’t doubt that those goings-on took place elsewhere in this labyrinthine maze.

  “We work hard to maintain the tunnels, support the walls, keep it all safe.” His mouth formed a moue of distaste. “I spend my weekends here. It’s history, you know . . . why not preserve it rather than ‘tag’ it? No respect.”

  His passion took her by surprise.

  “Why do you do this?”

  “You really want to know?” He leaned back. “It’s quiet. Peaceful. The only time I get away from. . . .” He gestured above. “Look, last time I interfered, the scum broke my arm. It’s never been right since.” He lifted a crooked elbow.

  “You’ve seen these same men before?

  “Two times too many.”

  “Then you must know how they leave, even where they go?”

  “They avoid this cavern,” he said. “It’s too busy here. Makes more sense to use the nearest exit.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “Why not, Wonder Woman? It’s your funeral.” His white- caked finger touched an X on her map. “I park above, on the cul-de-sac near the Scuola Cantorum. Easier to transport my tools.”

  A van. They’d have to use a van or a truck to spirit struggling victims away. If she didn’t hurry, they’d make an example of Mireille, and this time they’d finish what they’d tried in the Arènes and kill her.

  “Did you see their van?”

  “I saw an old camionette, like the one by the lake. You know, an old butcher’s van.”

  “Eh?”

  He shrugged. “You can’t miss it. Now, if you don’t mind, rentals go up by the minute.” He held out a white-caked palm. She put another fifty-franc note in his hand. “Catalampe’s included.” He gestured to a beer can with a candle in it. “Leave the lamp and hat at the exit.”

  “One more thing.” She managed a small smile, aiming for charm. “What time did you see them?”

  “I told you. . . .”

  “The abducted girl’s my . . . my sister,” she interrupted. “Mireille. And if I don’t get to her before. . . .” The words choked in her throat.

  Compassion mixed with curiosity crossed his face.

  “Family. I understand,” he said. “You should have said so.”

  According to the diagram, she had two tunnels and what looked like a quarry bed to cross.

  He looked at his watch, then gazed at the sacks of plaster. “An hour and a half hour ago.”

  THE LIMESTONE TUNNEL forked; she ran to the right. Another long winding passage, humid like everywhere down here, then another fork. This time she took a left, her feet kicking up puffs of limestone dust. She heard the faint sound of dripping water in the distance. Otherwise it was quiet in this dark underground labyrinth supporting the sprawl of the city overhead.

  Then came the smell of water.

  She emerged in a vast cavern. Her penlight beam danced over a turquoise-blue pool, the lake. Breathtakingly still, its source an underground spring. A feeder to the nearby Medici aqueduct under the gardens of l’Observatoire, built by Henri IV and finished by his widow Marie. And for a moment she understood the cataphiles, felt the allure of the underground wonders, the peace.

  Along the side ran a rough carved declivity, a water conduit, the date 1693 chiseled into the stone. Her fingers touched the cool running water. It was still in operation.

  She made out the fender and rusted grill of a Citroën camionette, doors
and windows broken, parked abutting the cavern wall. She wondered how in the world a truck had ended up here in the cavern. Inside it she saw cushions, a rug, a copy of Paris Match, and posters on the walls as if someone had just left.

  “Allo?” Her voice echoed in the humid, still air.

  She looked closer. A layer of dust littered the camionette’s floor. Abandoned.

  Above, carved in the limestone, was a loft with windows reached by a rope ladder. She clutched the thick rope, hopeful, climbing the swaying steps and holding on for dear life.

  At the top, she found a jagged opening. Small spaces bothered her, but, like an earthworm, she wiggled inside. She half-crawled, propelling herself forward with her arms, scraping her elbows and knees. Thank God for the surgeon’s scrubs.

  “Mireille?”

  Apart from a plastic water bottle, the space was empty.

  There was a rumbling, then the walls and earth below her shook. A plume of dust and pebbles rained down on her head. Limestone crumbled to powder in her hand. This hole was caving in. Her lungs filled with dust. She panicked; there was nowhere to go. If she died here, buried under tons of earth, no one would ever know.

  She had to back up. But her knees trembled, dirt blocked her way. Coughing and choking, she reached out, her fingers scrabbling over rocks. Her hand came back with something ridged and soft. The headlamp’s chalky beam illumined a half-buried hemp bag. She gasped, choking. She recognized Mireille’s handbag.

  She couldn’t let fear paralzye her. She had to move. Get out.

  Grit lodged in her eyes, her nose. Head down, taking small breaths, she inched her way back through falling dust and rock, trying to will down her fear. A little farther back each time. And then her feet were in the air. Suspended. And she slid, scrabbled, feeling her way, and found the hole’s rim.

  Easing out, she clung to the rope and worked her way down the rope ladder. Halfway down, her grip loosened and she fell.

  She landed in a semi-crouch and rolled. Nothing broken, she concluded after feeling her arms and legs. She took small breaths, then deeper ones. Coughing, she brushed herself off. With Mireille’s bag inside hers, she ran past the camionette. No time to check the contents. The passage narrowed. Just ahead, the diagram showed an exit, the one the plasterer had indicated. If she hurried. . . .

  Shuffling sounds came from ahead. She froze. The yellow flare of a match sputtered, illuminating a man’s face. Lined and craggy. Philibert the ghost who wandered forever in the quarry?

  Then she saw blue jumpsuits, the flash of silver badges. Not ten feet away stood two cataflics, the IGC who patrolled the underground.

  She shut off the headlamp, blew out the candle. Edged back, trying to melt into the stone. Somehow, they hadn’t seen her.

  Yet.

  Static came from a walkie-talkie on the belt of one of the men. “AF12 alert. Activity near the lake.” He clicked a but-ton, spoke into the walkie-talkie. “AF12 responding. Relate the coordinates.”

  “We’ve had reports of ground disturbance,” said the voice on the other end. “A cave-in north of the lake.”

  The flic next to him sighed. “Not again. Don’t they ever learn?”

  “Keep a lookout for a woman near the traffickers’ site.”

  “Description?”

  “She’s wearing worker’s headgear, hospital scrubs, tall.”

  Aimée’s heart pounded so loudly, she thought they’d hear it.

  On her right she saw faded writing in Gothic script: BUNKER LUFTWAFFE ANNEX. A German Air Force bunker. She stepped over rusted pipes and found herself in a cubicle with a rusted-out toilet.

  The cataflic’s flashlight beam swept the ground. She stepped up onto the toilet’s cracked rim, figuring if it had supported Nazi asses, it could hold hers. But the porcelain base shifted with her weight. She held still, wishing the flics would finish their cigarettes and move on. For support, she gripped the rusted pipes, trying not to think of what had flowed through them. An orange fluorescent graffitied “O” shone above her, the exit the plasterer had indicated.

  Her ankle ached. She shifted position by a centimeter and slipped.

  “Over there. I heard a noise.”

  Aimée held her breath. The wall with its rusted pipes trailed up into the darkness. . . . Would they hold her weight if she climbed them?

  “Eh?” The other flic scanned the wall with his powerful beam. Aimée edged back on her toes once more. The yellow light reached the tip of her ballet slipper. Another few centimeters and he’d find her.

  Then the beam swept away, following the crumbling wall into the next cubicle. The cataflic moved past her into the other chamber.

  She reached and pulled herself up by the pipe. Above her, rungs disappeared into the shadows. Slime coated the metal rungs of a manhole shaft. It would be an exhausting climb, the equivalent of several flights, up to the street.

  But it was a way out.

  One foot balanced on the ledge; with the other, she found a foothold and hoisted herself up. She climbed straight up the narrow shaft. No time to rest. Her foot slipped and she grabbed the rungs. Metal burned her knuckles; she was dizzied when she looked down.

  “Hey, there’s someone up there!” a man shouted.

  Then yellow flashlight beams crisscrossed below her.

  “You! Stop!”

  She kept going. Her calves strained, her fingers pinched, and her bag hung heavy. Each breath was labored. Perspiration ran between her shoulder blades. And then she felt a jar-ring crack to the top of her hard hat. She’d hit her head on the bottom of the manhole cover.

  She prayed it wasn’t cemented shut.

  She felt for a metal ring and tugged it, levering and shoving with all her might. It moved, grating sideways. She left the hard hat and beer can on a ledge and hoisted herself over the metal lip onto the street. Then she shoved the cover back into place and found herself sitting next to a garbage can on the wet pavement, Michelin car tires passing inches from her face.

  Panting from her close escape, she removed her scrubs, balled them up, and left them in a pile under a parked car.

  She had to clean up. Then she’d melt into the Metro. She dusted off the Schiaparelli jacket, pulled out her compact to check for white limestone dust in her hair. A car turned into the street.

  In the compact mirror’s reflection she saw a trio of blue uniforms round the corner. IGC, the cataflics. One spoke into a walkie-talkie.

  No wonder they hadn’t followed her up the shaft: they’d simply radioed for above-ground backup. Even without the scrubs, she couldn’t risk being questioned now.

  Her eyes darted for cover. No cafés, a darkened bistro, a shuttered locksmith. Light from streetlights pooled in the puddles. She saw no hiding places; the doorways were all flush with the pavement.

  The car, a Deux Chevaux with a rattling engine, backed into a parking space. A few doors down, the IGC shone flash-lights into the doorways. Aimée opened the car door to blaring reggae music and jumped into the passenger seat.

  “What the . . . ?” A man with a long ponytail turned from the wheel to stare at her. Tan, lean, not hard on the eyes. Amnesty International and Che Guevara stickers littered his dashboard. This looked promising.

  “Get out of my car.”

  “They’re after me. I’m in trouble. Deep trouble.”

  He sneered, taking in her outfit.

  “Hey, party girl, not my problem.”

  “Can’t you drive around the block, please?”

  “And lose this parking place? No way.”

  Tapes spilled over the torn back seat. Handwritten labels with the names of major films. Pirated illegal tapes. Worth a nice sum in the right market.

  “Slumming in couture?” He jerked this thumb. “Out.”

  He reached for the door handle and turned. “Merde!” His jaw dropped. “Cataflics! They don’t play around! Don’t pull me into this.”

  A billyclub tapped on the passenger window.

  “Let’s
fog up the windows,” Aimée said, tugging his sleeve.

  “Eh?”

  She locked her lips on his surprised ones, determined not to let him come up for air, and tried to grind her hips against him—but the gearshift got in her way. Then his leather-jacketed arms were around her as she felt him respond. Kind of nice, apart from his overpowering patchouli scent.

  “Monsieur!” Harder knocking on the window. Aimée opened one eye. A trio of large IGC men loomed over the tin-can hood of the Deux Chevaux. She reached with one hand and opened the driver’s window.

  “Désolée.” She giggled. “We’re a little busy. . . .”

  “And your headlights are on.”

  The IGC man winked and tipped his cap, and they walked down the cobbled street.

  Her shoulders sagged in relief.

  “Where did you learn to do . . . that?”

  “That? Call it the benefits of a higher education,” she said. “Thank the Sorbonne.”

  He blinked, his ponytail undone, his hair spread over her shoulder. He took little breaths and kept his arm around her. Such nice hazel eyes.

  “I haven’t seen you in the quartier.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said, adjusting the rearview mirror and using her sleeve to clean up her smudged red mouth. She took off her ballet slippers, slipped on her Louboutin heels.

  “But you’re not just another party cataphile escaping through the sewer.”

  He seemed observant. Not only that, he lived here.

  “Did you see an old boucherie camionette tonight parked over there?” She pointed to where she figured the other exit led.

  “Why?”

  “Say two or three hours ago?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”

  Information would cost, she could tell. She leaned against his chest. “If you did something about that gearshift, I could help you remember.”

  “Could you, now?” He turned the key in the ignition, put the transmission in neutral, and set the parking brake. The engine sputtered and idled.

  She twirled a strand of his hair around her fingers. “The camionette’s old. There’s a name on it. Cha . . . something.”

  “Chazel.” He stiffened. “Lowlifes. They harassed my neighbor, broke his car windows. He’d complained because they parked in his space.” He pointed. “Right there.”