Murder in Belleville

She offered “Pierre” a cigarette. His eyes narrowed, but he accepted. She took him aside and gestured across the way toward Morbier, who winked and smiled. Aimee bent down and whispered in Pierre’s ear, trying not to laugh at the look of alarm spreading on his face. His eyes widened, then he tipped his beret to Morbier and disappeared around the corner.

“Pierre’s a quick learner,” she said to Morbier on her return.

“They usually are,” Morbier said, lighting a cigarette from a glowing butt in the Ricard ashtray.

She motioned to the waiter. “Un cafe, s’il vous plait.”

“Red wine’s better for your heart,” he said, pouring himself another glass. “I’ve already bailed you out, Leduc.”

Her shoulders slumped. Was he just going to warn her off? Had she wasted her time?

“Look, Morbier—”

“Didn’t I?”

“And I appreciate that.” Without skipping a beat she kept talking. “You called me.”

There was a long pause.

“You want to know about the plastique,” he said. “So do I.”

She kept her surprise in check with an effort. How did Morbier know?

“That’s news to me, Morbier,” she said. “I stay away from the stuff. It gives me nightmares.”

Another pause.

“You, of all people,” she said, “should know that.”

“My vertebrae are out of whack, Leduc,” Morbier said finally. “Every single one.”

Disconcerted, she’d never heard him admit to a physical problem. Why was he ignoring what she said? He knew her fear of explosives. Had he gone soft, dragging her here on a ruse, needing some sympathy?

“I am sorry,” she said and meant it. “How can I help?”

“Help me catch a big fish,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“Tiens, Leduc, you asked if you could help.”

“What’s going on?” she asked. Was he going to feed her a tidbit to whet her appetite, then warn her off again?

“Leduc, you’re sniffing around,” he said. “It’s not my business if a minister’s wife hired you—but if you want to nail the plastique source, lead me to it.”

She dropped her spoon, splashing a bit of coffee on the table. She was aware of the waiter wiping the table with a damp cloth and a muttered tsfc.

“Now I have your full attention, I see,” Morbier said.

A warning vibrated in her.

“My God, Morbier, I’m not undercover,” she said. “The fundamentalists are fanatics—why ask me?”

“Who said anything about fundamentalists?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Call me psychic,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “But you’ve been out of kilter since your moped ride.”

She couldn’t meet Morbier’s eyes. Her heart beat quicker. He didn’t know everything—but he knew she was involved.

“Humor an old man, eh?” he said. “Think of it this way: You might feel better about the past if you deal with this.”

“Forget it,” she said, throwing ten francs on the table.

“Leduc, you want to find out who blew her up, right?” he asked, leaning forward. He didn’t wait for her answer. “This is how. My way. I know the players and the score in Belleville. You don’t. It’s that simple.”

She didn’t want to do this.

Morbier exhaled a stream of smoke over her head. Aimee winced at the tangy, acrid scent and wanted to suck one of the butts in the yellow ashtray. But she’d quit. Again.

“Everything’s set up,” he said. “We fed Samia information.”

“Samia?”

“Samia got involved with Zdanine, a plastique supplier, and he’s trouble,” Morbier said. “Zdanine is a tiny poisson. Martaud and I want the big shark.”

“Quit the riddles, Morbier, please,” she said.

“Zdanine deals in nasty things. Me, I don’t care,” he said. “Street vermin die, and new ones flood the sewer. My turf is the Marais. But I want the girl, Samia, protected.”

“Tell me more.”

“Samia’s young. Zdanine’s the father of her child,” Morbier said. “She made a mistake. She never needs to know I’m involved.”

Aimee stirred the clumps of brown sugar in her cup. “And why would they tell me about plastique?

“Leduc, you’re not a flic; they don’t know you,” he said. “That’s why you’re perfect.”

“Attends, Morbier,” Aimee said. “How am I going to bring up the topic of plastiqueV

He wiped his mouth, then smoothed his napkin on the table.

“But they might sell you some, Leduc,” he said.

Aimee paused in midsip; her eyes widened.

“Hold on, Morbier—”

Morbier eyed her closely. “But Samia’s young. Like I said, the young make mistakes.”

“You’ve picked the wrong person.”

His eyes narrowed under his bushy eyebrows. “And Martaud’s testy—you know the type. Wants the commissariat stripes and a coronary before he’s forty. I want Samia protected. If there’s any evidence left, make it disappear. Compris?”

Aimee’s antenna came to attention.

“What’s so special about Samia?”

“Forget the questions, Leduc,” he said. “If you want my help.”

Now she was intrigued. Curiosity overcame her fear. At least some of it. And Morbier was right; she needed to track down the plastique. Aimee sipped her coffee, concerned about the turn the conversation had taken.

“What about Zdanine?”

“Call him a procurer if you want to get technical, Leduc,” he said, blowing the air from his lower lip. “Tiens, this is Belleville, one works with the systeme. Zdanine’s claiming sanctuary in the church with the hunger strikers.”

Again the church and hunger strikers had come up. She hesitated.

“Call Samia. Tell her Khalil, Zdanine’s cousin, sent you,” Morbier said. “We know he’s a procurer who’s stuck in Algiers awaiting promised papers from his soon-to-be legal cousin.”

“How do you know this?”

“Never mind,” Morbier said, beckoning the waiter for l’addition. “But it’s true, and Khalil’s just as nasty. Martaud wants him bad.”

Her cell phone rang.

“A11o,” she said.

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Yves said.

She flushed and turned away from Morbier. “What’s that?”

“The appointment,” Yves said. “At Le Figaro.”

“Sorry, but we never reconfirmed,” she said, keeping the disappointment out of her voice.

She didn’t remember saying this, but she’d said a lot things the other night after the champagne. She’d even told him about the explosion and Anais. Is that all Yves wanted?

“But on my voice mail messages, which you don’t seem to have listened to,” Yves continued, “I indicated I had meetings in Marseilles.”