Murder in Belleville

cannon flattened the shop next door and shattered la viell kuse, comme ga” Decle said. “We left her like that so people would remember.”

Outside on rue de Belleville, Chinese children, a heavy-set Arab woman, and Jews in yarmulkes thronged the sidewalk. Gawking at something. Aimee wondered what drew their attention. Then she saw a figure on stilts juggling what looked like bowling pins.

“Rumor has it that the Germans’ big gun got pulled back for duty on the front,” Dede said, fingering a soccer ball on the end of a keychain, “and that saved Paris from bombing.”

“Lots of history here.” Aimee kept a smile on her face, her tone neutral. She figured she’d better buy him a drink.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind a biere Iambic, Belgian style.”

“Make that two,” she said.

Dede smiled and snapped his fingers. Every so often he jangled the keychain, as though he needed to know it was still there. Aimee wondered if he’d tell her about Edith Piaf.

She didn’t have long to wait. As the froth-topped glasses of beer appeared, Dede recounted the “Sparrow’s” birth on the steps of 72 rue de Belleville. He said a plaque now proclaimed: EDITH PIAF SANG FIRST ON THE STREETS OF BELLEVILLE. MUCH LATER HER SONGS TRAVERSED THE BOULEVARDS OF THE WORLD.

A nice way to put it, she thought.

“To tell the truth, Piaf s mother made it to Hospital Tenon, behind Gambetta,” Dede said. “But the other makes a better story.”

Dede had a point. Aimee sipped the biere Iambic letting the toasty hops mingle with the sweetness of raspberry.

Not bad.

She noticed, as they stood at the counter and Dede recounted the story, how he’d nod to patrons, send a wink across the cafe, or raise a hand in greeting. He never broke his conversational thread or lost her attention. Or missed noticing a spilled glass or conveying a sharp glance to a waiter who hadn’t noticed a patron ready to pay the bill. Elymani’s description, the slick giclie type, came to her mind.

“My old boss told me that Piaf sang out front, but then so many did in those days,” Dede shrugged. “Truth to tell, she wasn’t anything special until her cabaret-owner boyfriend was killed and the police judiciare hauled her in for questioning. Brought her major publicity.”

He grinned.

“Things haven’t changed, eh?” Aimee said. “People get famous any way they can.”

“Belleville was different then, all populaire, working class. The populaire worked hard, played hard,” he winked, draining his glass. “My papa inspected rail lines, and my mama shoved a vegetable barrow in the market. So I say I grew up in between the market and the tracks.” He let out a bark of laughter and palmed his empty glass. “Raised on this like mother’s milk.”

Several of the staff behind the counter joined his laughter. To Aimee the guffaws sounded brittle and forced.

“Encore, s’il vous plait,” she said, realizing she’d need to keep buying to hold Dede’s mouth open. Dede seemed to relish portraying himself as a populaire descendant. And he probably drank all day, nourishing his memories. But he stayed razor sharp and seemed to make it his business to nurse acquaintances, know people. She wondered how he knew Eugenie.

“They say Piaf never stopped, had the energy of a hummingbird,” Dede continued as he raised his Here. “Salut.”

Aimee saw her opening.

“My friend Eugenie, who lives right near here, is just like that,” Aimee said, nodding. “Sometimes it’s tiring to be around her.”

Dede sipped his biere. His eyes had narrowed. He didn’t respond.

Maybe he was used to doing all the talking, or maybe he didn’t like how she’d turned the conversation. A chirping noise sounded in his pocket, and he plucked out his cell phone. Red and compact, a new Nokia. He answered, mumbled something Aimee couldn’t hear, clicked it off, and slipped it back in his pocket.

“Eugenie’s got a place on rue Jean Moinon,” Aimee said, smiling. “Bien sur you probably know her, Eugenie Grandet.”

“We’re the busiest cafe” on the boulevard. There are so many people,” Dede said. His small dark eyes crinkled as he threw up his arms, revealing a gold watch and a thick rose-gold chain circling his wrist.

“Tiens, Dede, be honest! You know everyone who comes in here,” the young waiter piped, while he rinsed glasses and dried them.

If he’d meant to curry points with Dede, Aimee figured the effect had been the opposite.

“Unfortunately I can’t put a face to every name,” Dede said, his tone now self-deprecating. “But I make sure things run smoothly and all our clients feel at home, eh—that’s my job! Thank you for the drinks, next time it’s my round.” He winked, giving her an oily smile. “Now if you’ll—”

She had to stop him before he bolted.

“You’re too humble,” Aimee said. She laid her hand firmly on his wrist, covered with wiry black hairs, to hold him. “Eugenie’s got short hair, like mine, only bright red.”

“The one in the tight overalls,” the waiter said. “She comes here—”

Dede’ shot him a look that shut him up.

“Mes enfants,” Dede” gave a loud chuckle, squeezed Aimee’s hand with his, then removed it. “I can’t keep up with you kids. Meanwhile I’ve got to check on the unloading. Pascal, I need your help.” He gestured to the young waiter, and with the ease of a lizard removed himself.

She wanted to disinfect her hands.

But as she glanced down her eye caught a slim lighter, a luminescent pearl set on it. No ordinary pearl.

A Biwa pearl.

And Dede’ had forgotten it, but then she figured it hadn’t been his to forget.

She palmed the lighter, small and expensive, certain it belonged to Eugenie/Sylvie.

She must have rattled Dede’s cage for him to forget this. But he’d remember soon. She threw fifty francs on the counter and was gone.

IN THE office, Rene passed her the latest fax from the EDF. “We’re in the hurry-up-and-wait mode,” he said.

Aimee read the fax stating that the EDF had brought Leduc Detective’s security system proposal under review.

“But they haven’t said no.”

“I’m buying lottery tickets,” Rene said. “Could be quicker.”

She told Rene about the conversation at Cafe la Vielleuse.

“So Dede knows more than he’s telling,” Rene said.

“A lot more,” she said. “Look at this, Dede forgot it on the counter.”

She put the lighter into Rene’s stubby hand. He turned it over in his palm, feeling the bumpy pearl. “This doesn’t look like a man’s lighter.”

“I’d be surprised if it was,” she said.

“Dede’s got a nice little Nokia phone,” Aimee said. “They’re not the encrypted cell phones, are they?”

“Not yet. Those work wonderfully for monitoring transmissions!” Rene’s eyes widened. “And they have such clear reception. Nice bandwidth too!”

His face gleamed with excitement.

“If you’re going to follow him,” Rene said, sliding a laptop in his case, “count me in.”

“Glad for the company,” she said.