Murder in the Bastille

“Quick . . . ?”

“Things I should know.”

“When putting a drink down, place the other hand on the table first, feel around for obstacles, then place the drink next to your hand. Stairs can be difficult, especially judging the last step. Move slowly, feel ahead with your foot and keep a hand on the banister.”

“Let’s eat lunch.” Not only was she hungry, she needed to practice.

Eating was agony. She was so hungry and the food was so hard to locate. She kept spearing the plate with her empty fork. At this rate, in order to survive she’d have to pick up her dish and lick it like a dog. She ended up lifting the dish, using her fingers, and scooping the food into her mouth.

“We all do that the first time,” Chantal said. “But next meal, it’s not allowed.”

After lunch, Chantal took her on a tour. “Quick technique time. Let’s trail the walls.”

Were they going rock climbing?

“Stick your hands out a little in front,” she said, pulling Aimee’s arm. “Comme ci. ”

Aimee’s fingers slid over metal and glass.

“That case houses a fire extinguisher,” said Chantal. “You can tell by the curved handle. Feel it.”

Beyond that, Aimee felt smooth plaster and grained wood beams. Her hands traveled to a thick carved banister. Hallmarks of medieval construction. Many buildings, at the core, piggybacked on medieval foundations.

“Bend down, keep your hands in front of you so objects will make contact with your forearms instead of with your face. Bon! Do you feel the stone . . . how cold it is?”

Aimee’s fingers trailed over the chill smooth stone. Goose-bumps went up her arms.

“Remember, when you feel this you’ve gone too far down the corridor,” said Chantal. “Turn back.”

“But it seems like there’s a door here,” said Aimee.

She didn’t know how she sensed this.

Chantal laughed. “The Black Musketeers’ old escape route. They tore the rest of the building down but left this wedge. It’s funny what remains.”

Aimee felt Chantal grip her elbow.

“Take the Montfaucon gallows,” said Chantal. “Used before the guillotine until the 1700s. They tossed the corpses into pits and charnel houses in the Bastille. In 1954, when they excavated in my uncle’s boulangerie for a new oven, they found bones and remains from the Montfaucon pit. ‘Scratch the Paris dirt and find a body,’ my uncle used to say.”

Aimee agreed. In more ways than one.

Wednesday Evening

IN THE BLAND, MUSTARD-COLORED cell, Mathieu clenched and unclenched his fists. He felt naked and useless without tools in his hands. Paint had chipped off the metal bars and flaked onto the cement floor. He envisioned his clientele running in horror, his commissions withdrawn, and Suzanne quitting in disgust.

Right now, they were probably ripping up the floorboards, emptying his pots of varnish, and pulling apart priceless gilt frames. Soon they’d start on the basement. And then . . .

“Monsieur Cavour?”

Startled, he looked up and saw the flic . . . the Commissaire with the jowly face and bags under his eyes.

“Let’s have a talk, shall we?”

The Commissaire pointed to the cell door and the blue uniformed policeman unlocked it for him.

“I apologize for the accommodation,” he said. “Come with me. Coffee, tea?”

“Water, I’m thirsty,” Cavour said. “I’ve been here for hours, my shop can’t run itself.”

“Please understand, we need some questions answered.”

Mathieu’s jaw quivered. “I’m an artisan . . .”

“But of course, and a well-known and respected man in your craft. A member of the faubourg association . . . a distinguished member. Once a compagnard de devoir, a traveling craftsman, if memory serves.”

“Not me. Only those who complete the seven-year course and finish their chef d’oeuvre, Commissaire, can claim that distinction.” But his shoulders relaxed. This man had done his homework.

“What about your chef d’oeuvre?” he asked, motioning Cavour toward an opened door, the first of many in the long, linoleum-tiled hall.

“Never completed,” Mathieu said. “I attended the Ecole Boule later.”

Inside, Mathieu heard the chorus to Verdi’s Requiem, a Palais des Congres de Paris recording, emanating from a radio. On the cluttered desk, a computer terminal screen blinked and a sheaf of papers filled the oversized printer tray.

“Not my office, I’m borrowing it,” the flic said apologetically. “But it’s tidier than mine. Sit down.” He pushed a blue-tinged plastic bottle of Vittel toward Cavour and sat down.

“Tell me why the murdered woman had your chisel, Monsieur Cavour,” he said simply. “Then you’ll be released and I can go home after a twelve-hour shift.”

Mathieu didn’t want to believe this was happening. Didn’t want to think of the suspicions this tired-looking man with the jowly face entertained.

“But who was she . . . this unfortunate person?”

The Commissaire sat forward in his chair, his eyes intent. “Didn’t you know the woman who lived in the passage behind you?”

Was the Commissaire trying to trap him?

“I don’t know people who live next to me in my own passage anymore, and I’ve lived there all my life,” Mathieu said. He spread his arms out in exasperation. “Bien sur, I know the old inhabitants, the people I grew up with. But the quartier’s changing. Old people die and the property’s sold to upstarts— architects who make apartments into lofts, developers who tear down historic buildings and ateliers to build new condos.”

“Don’t call me an expert but my impression is that the quartier’s already mixte, rich, gay, some craftmen like you, young families, singles into the nightlife, couples; it’s Paris today.”

“All gougers and opportunists!”

“Did you classify Josiane Dolet as one of them?”

Mathieu blinked, taken aback.

He felt the Commissaire’s eyes boring into him.

“Josiane? Never, she’s my friend, a member of the historic preservation association . . .”

“Past tense, if you please,” he said. “How did you know her?”

Sadness washed over him.

“I bury my head in my work. . . . People call me a hermit,” Cavour said. “But I have so much to do, it’s easy to fall behind. The apprentices from Ecole Boule, well . . . the way they work differs from my approach. Bon, their technique is good but . . .”

He shook his head, lost in thought, and lapsed into silence.

Despite Ecole Boule’s prestige—the founder Charles Boule invented the chest of drawers—Mathieu knew the young ones didn’t like the long hours. Or the minute attention to detail. Tedious, they’d tell him. They rejected all the things drummed into Mathieu by his father. His father never gave him a day off, yet these young ones expected holidays, sick days. Demanded it. But Mathieu was old-school and his craft would die with him.

“Tell me about Josiane Dolet,” the Commissaire said.

Mathieu hesitated. Mistrust flooded him. How much should he reveal?