Murder in Belleville

Anais grabbed Aimee’s waist.

“No matter what,” Aimee said, “don’t let go!”

Aimee reached rue Ste-Marthe as the SAMU emergency van turned into rue Jean Moinon. Odd. Why hadn’t the fire truck arrived first?

A black-and-white flic car cruised from rue de Sambre-et-Meuse, blocking the shortcut to the Goncourt Metro.

“Let’s ask them for help, Anais.”

“Non, nothing must connect to Philippe,” Anais said.

Aimee’s heart sank as Anais’s fingers squeezed her in a steellike grip.

She kept an even speed, afraid that going faster would invite curiosity. The flics veered in the other direction. Aimee turned into Place Sainte-Marthe, a small rain-soaked square, its single cafe closed for the evening.

She noticed a dark Renault Twingo turn after her at the far end of the square. By the time the verdigris art nouveau Metro sign came into view, the car had edged close behind them.

As if reading her thoughts, it pulled ahead. She drove near the closest Metro entrance, and the car cut in front of her. Its doors popped open, and two burly men jumped out.

She veered away from them at the last minute but a bearlike man obstructed the wet sidewalk. The padlocked newspaper kiosk and the Metro stairs were in front of them.

Aimee scanned the intersection, registering a few cars paused at the red light and Metro entrances on the other corners. Ahead a Credit Lyonnais bank stood opposite Credit Agricole, with a gutted cafe still advertising horseracing and a FNAC Telecom store facing that.

“Anais, grab me tighter.”

“No, Aimee!” Anais yelled.

“You want to spend the night with these mecsl” Aimee asked. “Or in the Commissariat de Police?”

“On y va,” Anais whimpered in answer, digging her fingernails into Aimee’s stomach.

Aimee cornered the kiosk, zigzagged across the narrow street, and headed down the Metro steps, honking and screaming “Out of the way!” It took a minute before the thugs realized that the moped had plunged down the stairs and ran after them.

Exiting passengers yelled and moved to the railing as she and Anais bumped and wobbled their way down. Aimee squeezed the brakes.

Thank God Anais was a small woman! Even so Aimee’s wrists hurt from braking so hard with the handlebars. At the landing by the ticket window, plastic sheets and barricades for construction blocked their way. A uniformed man in the window shouted at them, shook his head, and pounded on the glass. The burning rubber smell from the moped’s brakes and black exhaust filled the air.

The turnstiles were being repaired at night—just their luck, since the Metro carried fewer passengers than usual. But, Aimee also realized, she and Anais would be thug bait unless they could reach a platform, ditch the moped, and get on a train quickly.

Blue-overalled workers, under glaring lights, drilled and hammered. Several of them stopped their work, snickering and catcalling. They grew quiet when they saw the smeared blood on Anais and her look of terror.

“Tiens, this section’s closed,” one of the workers said. “Use the other entrance.”

“Her salop of a boyfriend beat her up,” Aimee improvised.

“No mopeds, mesdemoiselles.”

“He’s trailing us—vowing to kill her,” she said. “We need help.”

A large bearded man set down his drill and stood up.

“Can’t you let us through?” she asked. “Please!”

The man stepped forward, pulled the plastic sheets aside with a theatrical gesture, and bowed, “Entrez, mesdemoiselles, courtesy of the RATP. Please be our guests.”

“Gallantry lives. Merci,” Aimee said.

She revved the motor and shot past the construction. Hot air dusty with concrete grit met her. The moped shimmied as she drove through a puddle, the back wheel almost dovetailing. They sped along the tiled tunnel past Canal 2 posters to a fork.

She paused. Two choices lay ahead—direction Chatelet or Mairie des Lilas. Which train would come first?

The late-night Metro ran infrequently. No matter which train they took, Aimee thought, the men would split up and each take a platform. Even if she and Anais managed to get on a train, they’d be followed easily. If only Anais could walk or navigate!

Either way they wouldn’t get far.

To the right sat a man cross-legged on a sleeping bag. His shaved scalp shined in the overhead light. He watched them with an amused expression, pointing to his begging bowl.

The tiles gleamed in the warm Metro. Blue-and-white signs proclaimed accis aux quais and sortie to avenue Parmentier. Her only solution would be to go up the exit steps on the left. Would the moped have enough juice to mount the stairs? Aimee doubted it.

“Go for it,” Anais said, surprising Aimee.

But how could she get Anais up the stairs on the moped? Her arms hurt, and with both their weights would the wheels go up?

Shouts came from the ticket area.

“Help us out, and I’ll make it worth your while,” she said to the homeless man.

“How much worth my while?” he asked in a bargaining tone. But he’d stood up and dusted off his worn trousers.

“This moped’s yours,” Aimee said, running her sleeve over her perspiring forehead and thinking fast. “If you help me get her to the top of the stairs. Deal?”

“Why not?” He grinned, quickly gathering his bedroll.

“Come with us to the stairs,” she said. “Quickly.”

He ran toward the exit. Behind them she heard heavy footsteps.

Aimee revved the motor and shot forward. The tunnel curved and she followed his trail. “If we just get halfway up, Anais, jump off, we can drag you the rest. Now lean into me and pray,” Aimee yelled. She’d worry about the Twingo if they ever made it to the top.

At the first flight of stairs, she jerked up on the handlebars as much as possible and felt the bike respond. The tires churned, climbing several steps, the engine strained. But the moped climbed. Higher and higher. Aimee saw the dark tent of sky through the exit.

The bike had almost reached the last set of steps when she felt the tires buck.

Aimee had the sickening feeling of the bike rearing like a horse. She decelerated.

The homeless man reached over and steadied Anais. “Get off; it’s too heavy!” he shouted. “We’ll guide her up.”

Anais loosened her grip on Aimee.

“Hold the handlebars, Anais,” Aimee said, getting off and putting her arms around Anais’s shoulders.

Time slowed as she and the homeless man guided Anais on the moped up the Metro steps.

The engine whined, snarled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man steady Anais so she didn’t topple into him.

But the moped tipped over. Like a felled animal, it whined uselessly on its side.

“Allons-y!” she yelled.

Only a few more steps to the top.

She grabbed Anais under the arms and together with the homeless man helped her hobble up the last stairs.

“Merci,” Aimee said. “Tell them we took the Metro toward Chatelet.”

“And they just missed you,” the man said, righting the moped. He took off down the sidewalk. Aimee hoped he’d keep their pursuers busy for a while.