Murder in the Bastille

Chantal too much.

With everything in position, including bottled water, just in case of fire, she stood by the window. Lifting the smooth handle, she opened the double window a crack, then pushed it all the way open. She felt vents or narrow slats. Of course, a shutter; she pushed it aside, too. Then a metal bar, with ornamental grille below, like every apartment in Paris built in the Haussman era.

A brisk autumn gust from the Seine scented with chalky soil accompanied the whirr of machinery nearby. From below came the scrape of a bulldozer. She recognized the unmistakeable grating of an earth mover in the distance.

Urban renewal in the Bastille: the thought left a bad taste in her mouth. It was worse for those displaced by it. Whole courtyards of artisan workshops were being demolished by the high-profile Mirador construction company.

Now came the hard part, lighting the match. Only three left.

The filter tip sat in her mouth. The cigarette jutted straight out. Her hands were held close to her body. She took the match from the matchbox, positioned the nubby part between her forefinger and middle finger, set the match close, and struck it. A long slow sizzle and thupt, it lit on the first swipe. Heat came from her fingertips.

She moved the match to where she thought the cigarette tip was and inhaled. Her fingertip burned. But had she found the tip first?

And then she felt the rush of tobacco as it caught and burned. She inhaled, the jolt from the nicotine making her head spin. The smoke rushed to her lungs. Lightheaded, she fanned the match in big arcs until sure it had gone out.

Sipping an espresso would make it perfect.

Almost.

Back at the laptop, crosslegged, taking deep drags on the cigarette, she dug deeper into the Populax database. Her fingers flew over the keys, guided by the robotic voice. The impressive client dossiers revealed lucrative campaigns, especially the one for the Bastille Opera. The Opera’s exchange with St. Petersburg, a brainchild of glasnost, now a struggle for the St. Petersburg opera house, was being promoted by the Opera board. Layer by layer, she checked the files. She found using extra keystrokes slowed her down, but not by much.

Nothing unusual.

Just to make sure, she ran a virus scan. The semi-silky voice informed her, “Scanning time remaining ten minutes.”

She sat back, grinding the cigarette out in the saucer positioned by her elbow. Trucks bleeped and the whine of the bulldozer came from below. She figured if she could see, the back of the Opera would be on the other side of the Hospital.

The day before the assault, she’d used Rene’s car, adjusting his customized controls to fit her height. Finding taxis on a rainy Paris night had required more good taxi karma than she’d been willing to bank on.

Running late for the impromptu meeting called by Vincent just an hour earlier, she’d dented Rene’s Citroen in the tight first-floor Opera parking lot. Carrying two laptops, graphs, rolled-up flowcharts, and the thick Populax file slowed her progress. She’d asked the gaunt-faced parking attendant for help. He’d given her a big smile and showed her a shortcut. He lisped and walked with a rolling gait, favoring a shortened leg. Yet he’d gone out of his way to guide her to an unmarked blue door that led to the back of the Quinze-Vingts hopital, with the Opera backstage loading dock on her left, and what she recognized now was the residence St. Louis on her right. Vincent’s office on rue Charenton stood directly opposite. She’d felt about in her raincoat pocket, and come up with a damp fifty franc note.

“You’re a prince!” She’d meant it, looking at the downpour. “Got any idea when they close this exit?”

“Make it back before the guardien locks it at eight,” he said, smiling that warm smile again. “Although sometimes he forgets.”

All this had happened less than a week ago. But now she couldn’t see, didn’t know if she ever would, and her whole world had careened out of control. Even the satisfying smoke only blunted her anxiety.

Pangs of “what if’s” hit her until the semi-sexy velvet voice told her she had to make a choice between continuing the download or pausing. She snapped out of her mood of worry and self-pity. Time to work.

Loud pounding on the wall startled her. Aimee hit SAVE. Was the computer voice bothering her next door neighbor? Sharp raps at her door.

She switched off the laptop. Stood and counted her steps to the door.

“Oui?”

The knocking continued.

Aimee reached again for the security chain and unhooked it, then reached for the handle, a metal hook with padded grips and opened it.

“Who’s there?”

“Don’t torture me. Either close the window or give me a cigarette,” said a quavering voice.

“Forgive me, but I didn’t know,” she said, wishing she could see who this poor woman was. “I have one more . . . share?”

“Merci. ”

Something furry and soft feathered her arm as the woman passed. Like her grandmother’s fox collar. The same mothball musky smell. Aimee remembered the fox wrap draped around her grandmother’s neck. The two beady glass eyes, the sharp claws, and how she loved to touch them. “For special occasions,” her grandmother said, “baptisms, weddings, funerals, and when you graduate from the Sorbonne.”

But she hadn’t, and her grandmother passed away soon after.

“I’m your neighbor. Let me see you,” said the demanding voice.

Aimee felt hands, wrinkled and dry, outlining her cheeks, neck, and hairline. Fingers with short nails and a clinging chocolate aroma explored her.

“Nice earrings . . . pearl studs?” she was asked.

“I’m impressed,” she said. “Call me Aimee.”

“Madame Toile, but you can call me Mimi. Just don’t call me late to dinner.”

Old joke. Something metallic jingled.

“What’s that . . . your key?” Aimee asked.

It felt like a flattened serving utensil beneath Aimee’s hand. “Eh? My absinthe spoon . . . I need it. Must do it properly, you know.”

Aimee knew that absinthe had been outlawed for years, but figured the old biddy had her own source. Or inhabited her own world.

“Hold the sugar lump just right and sip the absinthe through it,” she said, her voice misting with anticipation. “Every afternoon, Rico pours me a few drops. He’s Pierre’s grandson, so I know it’s right.”

The old woodworm liquor rotted the brain. Had it damaged Mimi’s?

“Pierre supplied the maison,” Mimi said. “Such a well-connected man. Even when they shut us down in forty-eight.” She made a snorting noise. “We moved across Marche d’Aligre. All the girls came. What else would they do?”

Was Mimi the absinthe-drinking ex-madam of a bordello?

“They called us an institution,” she said. “Now where’s that Gauloise?”

She felt Mimi’s dry hand leading her to the bed. Using the same maneuver, Aimee lit the final cigarette and passed it to her. Mimi inhaled a long drag, then slowly exhaled. “Reminds me of the first time. He did it like a soccer player, no hands and straight for the goal.”

Aimee laughed. Her first time, with her cousin’s friend, had been similar.

“So why were brothels closed in nineteen forty-eight?”

“Now who cared about us, eh? Except the government! They needed the buildings. The housing shortage after the war. . .incroyable! So they took over the houses . . . even the Sphinx in Montparnasse, where the ministers went. Well, what went on at the Sphinx was no enigma, if you get my drift.”

Aimee didn’t know if she wanted to.

Madame exhaled a long smoky breath, felt for Aimee’s hand, and slid it between her fingers. “Reminds me of