Murder in the Sentier

“She’s right—more servants will be arriving at any time,” Ulrike said. “We’ll sort everything out later.”

“I’ll be the lookout,” Beate said, and walked down the driveway.

But Laborde, his toupee dropped in the gravel, had been knocked unconscious. He lay bleeding in the study where they’d carried him. They’d counted on him to point out the safe and open it. Marcus had a tantrum over the stupidity of the plans, throwing furniture about and trashing the rooms. By the time Jutta found the safe under a floor panel in the library, Laborde had groggily come to.

“Open it,” Marcus had said.

“You’re kidding … for punks like you?” Laborde panted, his breathing growing more labored. “Under Vichy you wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes! You don’t know trouble … you’re a bunch of spoiled—”

“Capitalist pig, shut up!” Marcus had interrupted. He glared and stuck his finger in Laborde’s face. “Show us the safe and open it now!”

Was Laborde arrogant or just plain stupid? Terrorists pointed guns at him but he still wouldn’t talk.

“You idiots, the police chief’s coming for dinner this evening.

…”

Marcus kicked Laborde in the stomach. Over and over.

“Stop it, Marcus … we’ve got to get out of here while we can.” Stefan stood fumbling in the dining room by the draperies Marcus had torn down.

“Get the car ready, Stefan,” Jules said, pulling him aside.

Stefan couldn’t look at Laborde and left hurriedly.

Outside in the driveway he met Beate. She clutched her patchwork Indian skirt, looking as lost and scared as he felt.

“What’s taking so long?” she asked.

“Laborde’s not cooperating,” he said. “We should leave, forget the safe.”

He’d wanted fun and excitement but hadn’t bargained on this.

Neither had she, from what he could see. Sure, they all believed in the cause, especially Ulrike. But Beate seemed to be under the spell of Jules; maybe her weakness was powerful men.

“Stefan, you’re not like the others,” she said.

Stefan was surprised she’d even noticed him.

“You know—” She hesitated.

Loud shouts came from the foyer.

“I’ll get the Mercedes,” he told her.

What he wanted to say was, If they’re not out in five minutes, let’s drive away. Beate gave him a funny look, as if she’d read his thoughts, but just nodded. She mounted the stairs to the tall doors and went inside.

The laundry truck’s door was open and waiting. He pulled the Mercedes ahead of it, checked the back seat. The metallic smell of Laborde’s blood sickened him. What had Jules done?

He felt like throwing up, but the others would see. He opened the hood—anything to keep busy—adjusting a misfiring valve, when he heard gravel pop and looked up.

“Salut!” Two women hailed him as they walked up the drive, fanning themselves in the heat.

His heart jumped. Beate was supposed to be the lookout but she was inside!

Judging by their stiletto heels, miniskirts, teased hair, and made-up faces, they didn’t appear to be the arriving crew of domestics. More like working girls reporting for duty.

“The butler told us to come early, your gate’s open,” the taller one said, grinning. “Freshen up, you know. I’m Lisette and this is Tina.”

What should he do? The less these two knew, the better. If he sent them inside, they’d become hostages, too. He pointed to what he guessed was the gardener’s cottage. “Freshen up over there and wait until the butler calls you.”

She looked him up and down. “Nice bonus, we do the help for free when they look like you.”

Years later, he’d heard Lisette had written a book, I Loved a Terrorist, which hit the best-seller list. He always wondered what story she’d concocted.

He shut the car hood, ran up the steps, and careened into Beate and Jutta dragging full plastic bags across the black-and-white-tiled entrance. Ingrid skipped past them, an Uzi hanging from her shoulder, oil paintings under her arm. They reminded him of paintings he’d seen in a museum.

“Schnell, quickly,” Jutta said, “open the trunk.”

He heard Laborde begging Marcus to stop. Then the tinkling of breaking glass, heavy thuds of furniture falling.

“Marcus, Jules … forget it, let’s go!”

“Later.” Jutta pulled his arm. “They’ll join us. Let’s go. Now!”

He didn’t need any more urging if they were going to get away before the servants found them looting.

By the time they’d loaded the trunk and he, Jutta and Beate had gotten in the car, the others were running for the laundry truck. Ingrid started the truck. He gunned the car’s engine and they shot down the graveled driveway. He jumped out to open the unlocked gates. People alighted from a bus at the stop down the road and walked toward them. He looked back. The laundry truck still hadn’t moved.

“What about the others?” He wasn’t about to wait but felt he had to say it.

“After Paris, we’ll meet at the safe house.”

He tore down the forested road, hoping to hit the next village soon. Once there he’d pull behind a gas station, jump out, and change the license plates. He’d paint the Mercedes later, but for now that should get them to Paris.

“What happened?” he asked. “Did Laborde open the safe?”

Jutta shook her head. In the rearview mirror he’d seen the look that passed between her and Beate. A strange knowing look.

“What’s in the bags?”

“We found another safe in his desk.” Jutta grinned at Beate.

Then they burst into laughter. “We couldn’t open it, so we just took all the drawers!”

And for a split second his mind jumped to the present … was that why Jutta had been murdered … for the Laborde stash? Was that why someone had chased him from Romain Figeac’s apartment?

Thursday Night

SHE’D LET STEFAN GET away but she’d given him her number.

She doubted that would be the last she’d see of him. He seemed so lonely. And carried such a burden.

Idrissa Diaffa was the missing link. Aimee felt convinced of it now; Idrissa knew what Romain Figeac had been writing. And it had to do with her mother and Jutta and the Laborde cache.

Idrissa had disappeared after Aimee had asked her about it. Then Ousmane, her partner, was murdered. Had Idrissa been the intended victim or was this a warning to her?

Either way Aimee had to find Idrissa and get answers.

If Aimee barged into Club Exe again, she’d get the same shrugs and evasions. Locating Idrissa in the Sentier would be like searching for a sequin on a female impersonator’s costume.

But maybe the club could find her. Aimee punched Club Exe’s number on her office phone.

“Club Exe …” The rest of the man’s words were lost in a deep bass beat.

“Idrissa Diaffa, please!” Aimee shouted. “I must talk with her.”

“She quit,” the voice said.

She expected that.

“It’s important,” she said. “Her kora player’s been murdered.”

“Ousmane … Ousmane Sada from Dakar?”

That was his name. She wasn’t sure where he was from. “He’s her partner, plays the