Murder in the Sentier

The tunnel, partly painted with a mural by prisoners, was cold and peeling from the damp.

Aimee shivered and not just from the cold. She wondered how she would talk to number 3978, a woman who’d shared Jutta Hald’s cell before her release.

She’d been lucky that Morbier had acted quickly. The permit said number 3978 was still in Centre National d’Observation but due for transfer back to the Clairvaux facility that night. Aimee had no knowledge of her crime. All she knew was that Clairvaux held those serving long-term sentences and lifers.

She was directed toward the CNO section and entered a dim visiting booth. Behind her, the fluorescent strips in the hallway provided the only source of light. She sat on a stool at a small wooden table, the surface of which was gouged and carved by the feel of it. The door closed, leaving her in a space about three feet wide and ten feet long. Her breath caught as the key turned in the lock, a sound that was hard and ominous.

This, she’d been informed, was a “contact” visit, with no screen or barrier between visitor and prisoner, the usual thing since the rules changed in 1980.

A row of women in everyday clothes, escorted by blue-uniformed guards, passed by in single file, silhouetted in the doorway ahead of her. A large-boned woman with short cropped hair paused and looked inside.

Aimee took a deep breath. Her spine tingled.

The woman was an amazon.

“Non, West Coast, next door,” said a guard.

“Too bad,” the woman said, “A visit with her would be worth the mitard, the solitary hole.”

The guard moved the amazon on.

A wave of relief passed over Aimee. But not for long. The stool cut into her thighs and she hadn’t sat on it for more than two minutes.

More figures walked past. From a neighboring booth came muffled laughter, in the distance she heard weeping. What seemed like a dark eternity went by before a lithe figure in worn sweats entered.

The woman, shorter than Aimee, peered at her in the dim light then shoved a creased folder onto the table. “Tiens, if you keep insisting about my mother’s grave, I’ll show you proof I paid.”

Surprised, Aimee rose. Her foot caught the stool, which crashed to the concrete floor. “Pardon, my name is Aimee Leduc,” she said. She extended her hand. “What’s yours?”

“Liane Barolet,” the woman said. Aimee felt a curious grip. “Like I said, the money was paid. Here are the papers.”

What did this woman mean?

“You must think I’m someone else, Madame Barolet. I’m not sure …”

“Mademoiselle would be technically correct,” the woman said.

She remained standing as Aimee righted the stool. “Let me explain why I’ve come, Mademoiselle Barolet,” Aimee said. “It’s nothing to do with your mother. It’s to do with mine.”

“I don’t know you,” the prisoner said, withdrawing toward the locked door. “And my socialist group meeting starts soon.”

“Sorry, but we might as well talk,” Aimee said. “They won’t open the door until visiting time’s over.”

It was hard to tell if Liane Barolet shrugged; her clothes were too big for her.

“I don’t get many visitors,” she said, moving closer and sitting down.

Now Aimee could see more of Liane’s face. Once she’d been very pretty, Aimee imagined. The cheekbones were still prominent, the lips full, but deep lines webbed the cornflower blue eyes, etched the forehead. She had that look Jutta Hald had—wan, doughy skin on a bony frame.

Prison life.

“Jutta Hald told me …”

“That pseudo Marxist?” Liane snorted.

“Wasn’t she in the Haader-Rofmein gang?”

“You came here to ask me that?” Liane pounded her hand on the table.

“Jutta Hald was murdered.” Aimee looked down. She realized Liane Barolet’s hand consisted of a thumb, index finger, and pinkie. The middle and ring fingers were stubs.

“When?” Liane asked, as she leaned back in the shadows.

“The day she got out.”

Aimee couldn’t see her reaction. She decided to get to the point.

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness. “Right before her death, Jutta showed up at my apartment. She said she’d shared a cell with my mother,” Aimee said. “She wanted money to tell me more, then she was shot.” She hoped the trembling of her lips didn’t show. “My mother’s name was Sydney Leduc. Did you know her?”

Liane Barolet’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Mon petit, guess what? Life is hard. Then you die.”

“Jutta said the same thing.”

“But it’s true.”

“I’m not asking for sympathy,” Aimee said.

“So what do you want?”

This wasn’t going well.

“Look, I’m sorry this is confusing,” Aimee said. She drummed her fingers under the wooden table. They came back sticky. “All I want to know is if Jutta talked about my mother in prison.”

“Why ask me?”

“You shared a cell with Jutta, she was excited about getting out. She might have told you something. You’re in the system, you might have heard things. Or whether someone else knows. Then I can lay it to rest.”

“I doubt that,” Liane said.

Startled, Aimee looked up. “What do you mean?”

“If you wanted to forget about your mother, you’d have ignored Jutta.”

Her astute observation rankled. Maybe because it felt true.

“Is it wrong to want to know what’s happened to her?”

Liane Barolet shook her head. “The only wrong part might be the answer,” she said. “What’s that saying … let sleeping dogs lie?”

“Look, I’ll make it worth your while,” Aimee said. That struck home, she could tell.

“How could you do that … sleep with the warden at Clairvaux?” Liane gave a sneer, then shook her head. “Non, mon petit, I wish that on no one.”

The way she said it gave Aimee a chill.

“But you could help me, they threatened to dig her up,” Liane continued. “Even though I only just found out. I paid right away!”

Aimee realized she was talking about a cemetery. When the grave fees were not paid, the bodies were dug up. No wonder she was upset.

“Parloir termine!” shouted one of the guards, signaling that visiting time was over.

Aimee stood. “Help me and I’ll help you.” If Liane was desperate enough she’d talk. “Did you know my mother, did you ever hear of her?”

“There was a lightweight, an American woman.” Liane waved her hand dismissively.

Aimee’s hopes soared. Then her fear grew.

“What was this American’s name?”

“Who knows? I just remember her saying things like ‘If I can’t dance, it’s not my revolution.’”

Her mother? “Can you find out her name … what happened?”

“She wasn’t in long,” Liane said. “Well, compared to me, eh?”

“How long?”

“The system moves prisoners around,” Liane said. “I didn’t keep track.”

“You can do better than that,” Aimee said. “What was she in for?”

“That’s the thing.” Liane leaned forward. “She’d been in on some heist with Jutta. But only Jutta was charged.”