Murder in the Bastille

From outside the window, she heard the hee-haw of sirens echoing off the stone walls.

“What do you mean?” asked Chantal, her voice incredulous. “You were attacked?”

“And it wasn’t the Beast of Bastille!”

“Mon Dieu,” gasped Chantal. “Mathieu doesn’t drink. Never has.”

“Only sadists attack the blind,” said Lucas, his voice trembling. “I’ve met my share. I beat them off with my cane. They don’t bother me twice.”

A buzzer sounded several times. “Excuse me,” said Chantal. “The matron of the Residence must be busy. I’ll see who’s at the front desk.”

Chantal returned a few minutes later, other footsteps and male voices accompanying her.

Aimee felt awkward and vulnerable. She wished she could see who was there. Hot breath came close to her ear.

“A trustee tour!” Lucas whispered. “We get a lot of tours when funding deadlines loom.”

So that was it.

“We hold singing practice on Thursdays,” Chantal was saying. “Our choir performs in the Chapel. Last year we attended the Bach choral in Prague. Snagged second place and an invitation to perform at the fall concert in Budapest.”

Murmurs of approval met this statement.

“In such important ways, you board members enrich our lives,” Chantal said.

“Chantal lays it on thick, but she got them to spring for new pianos,” Lucas whispered. “She’s working on them now to donate a minivan! If not, at least a voice coach.”

“What a wonderful avenue of expression for your residents,” said a low voice, smooth and warm: the cultured accent of proper and formal French.

“Monsieur Malraux, thank you for your help!”

“Big benefactor of the Opera Guild, that Monsieur Mal-raux,” said Lucas, pulling her closer. “He’s an art appraiser affiliated with Drouot, the auctioneers. Not only that, eh, he owns a hotel particulier near here, prides himself on being a Bastoche, you know, born and bred in Bastille,” said Lucas. “But he’s not like the working-class Bastoches I know.”

Aimee’s grandfather had frequented the weekly Drouot auctions where anything from Madame de Sevigne’s pearls to the mundane contents of a bourgeois apartment were subject to the auctioneer’s gavel. A jumble of unsorted items that could conceal a treasure or junk.

Aimee knew that prestigious art appraisers were appointed, not allowed to have commercial affiliations. “He’s a priseur?”

“His parents were. Malraux specializes in period furniture,” whispered Lucas. “He lends pieces from his collection for the Opera stage sets.”

“Bien sur. We will help with voice coaches,” said Monsieur Malraux. “After all, the Opera’s in your backyard, so to speak.”

“Merci, Monsieur Malraux,” Chantal said.

“Of course,” another voice said. “We’re all part of the Bastille community. Superb idea.”

“Let me introduce a longtime resident, Lucas Passot, and our newest, Aimee Leduc,” Chantal said.

“We’re going to teach her the tools of the trade,” said Lucas. “Important survival skills like avoiding open freight elevators in the morning at the wine bar by Marche d’Aligre.”

Laughter greeted Lucas’s remark.

“Madamoiselle Leduc, excuse my bluntness,” said Monsieur Malraux, “Chantal’s told us many residents here have been blind from birth while some have suffered an illness. What, may I ask, brought you here?”

Aimee felt she had been put on the spot, expected to perform for people she couldn’t see.

“Monsieur, someone tried to strangle me. This caused trauma to my optic nerve.”

“How terrible!”

Several sympathetic murmurs came from the group. She heard “Passage . . . the Beast of Bastille.”

“Tell them what happened, Aimee,” said Chantal.

“But it wasn’t the serial killer,” Aimee said, in a voice that trembled.

“I’m so sorry to have brought all this back, forgive me,” he said. “Please accept my best wishes for a speedy recovery, mademoiselle.”

“Please forgive us,” said another voice. “Now we must move on, gentlemen. I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but we’re joining the children’s clinic for lunch.”

The voices receded.

From the hallway came the slosh of a wet mop, the harsh acrid smell of disinfectant soap.

“Let’s hope they cough up,” said Chantal, rejoining them.

“Tell us about the attack on you.”

Aimee leaned forward and found Chantal’s knee. As she spoke and they listened, smells of frying shallots and garlic wafted through the window. Her stomach growled

“So you’re a real female detective,” said Lucas, sounding impressed. “And I thought they were only in the films.”

“Computer forensics is my field,” she said, shifting on the hard plastic chair.

“Don’t tell me you have no criminal experience,” Chantal said. “Private detectives are trained in all areas, aren’t they?”

“Licensed ones.”

“And you’re not?”

“Like I said, computer forensics.”

“Where’s your gun?” Lucas asked.

“My Beretta’s put away,” she said “and I don’t count on using it again. Especially now.”

“You’ve more experience than you’re letting on,” Chantal said. “Certain phrases you use sound like a flic’s.”

“Maybe because my father was one, his father too,” she said. “I stopped all that after a contract surveillance for the Pre-fecture, when my papa was blown up by terrorists.”

“I’m sorry, how awful,” said Chantal. “But please, won’t you consider helping Mathieu Cavour? He’s innocent.”

“Have you forgotten something?”

“No, what?”

“I’m . . . I’m blind,” Aimee spat out.

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” said Chantal. “So am I. But I keep going. And I know you’re determined to find out who attacked you, that’s obvious.”

“I hear it in your voice,” said Lucas.

“But that’s personal,” Aimee said. “I’m going to find out who did this to me, but I need help, even to find my way around the quartier. You’ll have to assist me.”

Even if they, too, were blind, they navigated in the world better than she did.

“Only if I get to shoot the Beretta,” Lucas said. “I’ve dreamed of hitting the target at a firing range, imagining the look on their faces.”

Despite her despair, she realized they could help her. Even if they were the only ones, besides Rene, who would.

“When my partner gets a voice-activated program for my laptop, I’ll be able to get back to work.”

“You’re really a professional, n’est-ce pas?” Chantal said. “What can you do in the meantime?”

“The first thing I want to do is go shopping at Blaspheme, the boutique on rue Charonne,” she said. “You can guide me, eh Lucas?”

“Shopping?”

“And I don’t want to appear too blind.”

Lucas snorted. “Like being a little pregnant?”

“Give me a quick orientation course, won’t you?”