Murder in the Bastille

connections.”

“So some say,” he replied. She heard a pleased chuckle in his voice.

“There’s a whisper. Something to do with Don Giovanni,” he said. “Know him?”

“Not personally. It’s an opera.”

“My source says a Romanian caught in the 11ieme for selling Ecstasy died.”

“Dragos Iliescu?”

She heard Martin expel a deep breath. Tinged with smoke, no doubt. “Why do you need me? You know already.”

“Was it bad dope?”

“The BRIF got involved immediately.”

That meant heavy duty. And Morbier was with them.

“If it’s not dope, Martin, what is it?”

“Not known by my usual channels. A mystery, they say. Probably the Romanians had a sweet deal. But they got careless, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. People got burned.”

Her excitement mounted. Where had she heard that before?

“Burned?”

“And I don’t mean figuratively.”

FROM THE the hallway, she heard water running in Madame Danoux’s kitchen.

She pushed the talking clock, which said 1:00 a.m., then pulled on the nearest things she could reach. Her leather skirt, the tight zip-up sweatshirt. She struggled into her ankle boots and felt her way into kitchen.

“Madame Danoux, are you dressed?”

“What a question! Of course, I haven’t even taken my makeup off yet . . .”

“Bon,” she interrupted. “Be an angel.”

“And do what?”

“Come for a drink with me,” she said, reaching for Madame Danoux’s arm. “Let’s go down the street. To the corner.”

IN THE bar-tabac on rue Moreau, a block away, Aimee’s hand trembled. She couldn’t lift the panache to her lips without spilling.

“Why so nervous?” asked Madame Danoux, beside her at the counter, yawning. She sounded petulant. “You wanted to come here!”

She gripped Madame Danoux’s warm hand. What if the killer was here tonight? But she hadn’t confided in her, she had to see if her hunch was right.

“I need to talk with Clothilde, the owner, Mimi’s friend,” said Aimee.

“Aaah, I know the one.”

“Did you see her tonight?”

“By the door,” she said. “The accordion player comes, she lets in those she likes. Then locks the door. Only a natural disaster will get you out before dawn.”

“Please, can you ask her to join us,” she said.

“Let me try and get her attention.”

Around her, glasses tinkled, the milk steamer hissed and grumbled, and a woman’s shrill laughter came from somewhere farther down the counter. Aimee smelled the thick tang from a cigarette burning somewhere in an ashtray. Here she stood in a smoke-filled cafe and didn’t have one.

She turned toward a conversation. The barman?

“Sorry to interrupt, a pack of Gauloise light please.”

“Too bright in here for you?”

“I wish.” She’d worn dark glasses, a pair Martine had sent.

“But, I see,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I mean, sorry . . .”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everyone stumbles over those phrases. Me, too. How much?”

“Won’t your doctor get upset?” he asked.

“I’m a big girl,” she said, sliding a twenty franc note along the zinc counter.

She felt Madame Danoux’s breath in her hair. “Clothilde’s busy. That drink hit me, I’m tired. Let me take you back.”

Part of her wanted that. The other part refused. She had to find out who had called.

“You go ahead,” she said. A frisson of fear passed through her.

“You seem nervous.” Madame Danoux squeezed her arm. “Sure?”

“Bien sur,” she said. “I’ll get help to go back.”

Her landlady left.

“Monsieur, where’s the phone?”

“End of the counter.”

“Remember a person who used the phone on Monday night?”

“Could have been anyone.”

“Someone called me, then they hung up,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort. “I heard the accordion in the background.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “When they start singing, it’s impossible to hear.”

Someone pressed a paper into her hand. “That’s sheet music.”

Sheet music? As though she could read.

“Sorry, my bus broke down. I got here late Monday,” the bartender said. “Anyone see who used the phone on Monday? Help this lady?”

“How about Lucas?” said someone at the counter. “He sees everything!”

The remark, greeted with laughter, made her want to slink away, fly a million miles off. Blindness felt like being naked in a world of clothed people. All her expressions were read, but she could decipher none.

“Give me a break, eh!”

She recognized Lucas’s voice. But he was laughing.

“Aimee Leduc? Pay no attention to these old men,” he said, clutching her elbow. “I know all the songs by heart. You don’t need to read. They’re jealous.”

“Lucas, do you know if Clothilde’s still busy?” she said, glad the dark glasses masked her eyes. Milky opaqueness crackled in the corners of her vision. Veins of shooting dull lights throbbed at the edges. Like slowly flowing lava.

Merde. It was if the earth shifted and gravity pulled her sideways.

She clutched the rounded zinc counter, her fingers on the filature, trying to concentrate.

“Clothilde?” Lucas said, stools scraping beside him. “You give me too much credit; peripheral vision isn’t all it’s made out to be.”

This time his voice boomed over the accordion, tinkling glasses and conversation. “Clothilde!”

“J’arrive!”

The eruptions taking place in her eyes made her dizzy. Blinks of light, a lessening of the pressure on the optic nerve . . . hadn’t the retinologist said that? Maybe those pills had already reduced the swelling.

It made her yearn to see more. But deep down she feared it wouldn’t happen. Face it. She was afraid to hope.

“Lucas, your women get younger and younger!” said Clothilde.

Aimee heard what sounded like a slap on his rear. And felt the presence of a towering, perfumed woman.

“Clothilde, you broke my heart,” he said, “Now I have to go for the young ones.”

“Bonsoir, Clothilde, I know you’re busy,” Aimee said. “But Mimi is my neighbor.”

“Mimi . . . of course!” she said.