Murder in the Bastille

the blackouts. We’d share fags then, too. Never light three on a match, or a sniper will get you, they said. None of us went to the Metro during air raids. We took our chances: after all, we were getting paid, weren’t we?”

A nicotine-induced wave of dizziness came over Aimee. Was it a sign of recovery, small though it might be?

“Clothilde was the smart one. Shrewd. She still runs her bar,” she said. “Right down there on the corner of rue Moreau. Banked her sous and bought the place. Clotilde knew how to judge the tide and still does. After all, the tide only goes two ways, in and out. The difference after forty-eight was that the girls stood out front on the cobblestones. That and not getting checked every week by the medecin. Stupid, I call it . . . with so many diseases nowadays, eh?”

“What happened to your eyes, Mimi?”

“Something I can’t pronounce, but I like it when that young doctor tells me about it.” Her laughter sounded more like a cackle. The bed rocked. Aimee felt a sharp nudge in her ribs. “He wears good cologne and drinks Sumatra blend espresso. Know the one?”

Dr. Lambert. Mimi’s sense of smell wasn’t the only sharp thing about her.

“He’s the department head, Mimi.”

“If I wasn’t so old, he’d head my department. Like him?”

“Well, he’s . . .”

Another sharp nudge in her ribs. “Good salary, secure job and what a pension! A girl’s got to think of these things, non? Looks only take you so far.”

And Aimee wondered if Mimi was thinking of herself as she spoke.

“He’s married, most likely.”

“And when has that ever stopped anything?”

After Mimi left, Aimee ran a standard virus check on her laptop, figuring she might as well finish the tedious job before tackling the password encryption.

The slow whirr of the zip disk and then the announcement “Zip disk cleaning time remaining twelve minutes” caused her to reach for the nail polish remover bottle. She uncapped it, swished the nail polish remover onto a cotton square and rubbed away what she hoped was the chipped Gigabyte Green. The lemony acetone smell cleared her sinuses.

More loud knocking on her door.

“Oui?”

Perhaps Mimi wanted a manicure, too? Well why not, Aimee had time. She lifted the laptop, unplugged the external Zip Drive, and set them in the drawer.

She heard a muffled voice, hard to distinguish from the increasing loud gnawing of the bulldozer and pealing church bells somewhere. Was it night . . . was it dark? No . . . the men were still working. Or were they working late on the new Metro line?

She opened the door partway and undid the chain. Her foot stuck behind the doorframe and she stumbled.

Clumsy . . . still so awkward!

A breeze sliced by her face and a splintering, cracking noise accompanied it. Her body trembled.

“Salope!” said a man with an accent she couldn’t place. His sour breath hit her in the face. Then a sharp, stinging slap knocked her against the wall.

She tossed the open nail varnish remover at the man and ducked. And then she remembered the match . . . had she put it out? A fire hazard. Stupid.

From somewhere on her right came a yelp of pain.

Her arms were grabbed, then she felt a sharp shove in her back. Hard. She was airborne. Flying across the room. Good thing she’d flung her arms out to break her fall. Instead, they caught on a cold metal grille over cool fresh air.

The window was open.

She screamed. Panic overwhelmed her. A hand covered her mouth, then another big push shoved her hips over the grille. She tried to hook her legs onto the smooth metal, to cling to the bars. The next push and her legs went over. Blood rushed to her head. Good God . . . couldn’t someone see her from the street?

She screamed again. And again. The air was chilly. Dank with humidity. Was it night?

The scraping of the bulldozer in the street sounded close. Too close. She was hanging halfway out the window.

Why didn’t anyone see her or hear her? Was it dark? Or the bulldozer too loud?

Terror flooded her. Her fingernails scratched wood and she dug in, hugging what had to be the outside shutter. Clinging for dear life, her feet scrabbled, slipping and scraping the stone.

She had to hold on. Her fingers burned from the abrading stone. Her silk pajamas flapped in the wind. She couldn’t climb back into the room. She would have to take her chance with the concrete below. How far below?

“Help me!” she yelled once more.

Couldn’t anyone hear her? Each time she scrabbled her legs for purchase, her knees hit something hard. Somehow she found a toehold with her bare feet in the metal grille guard.

She kept screaming for help. Why didn’t anyone notice?

And then she became aware of gray fog, like a steamy vapor, crossing before her. And it felt so natural . . . because it was. She saw the fog from the Seine.

Her pulse leaped!

She blinked over and over. She could see. Furred yellow globes appeared and she realized they must be streetlamps. A foggy, grainy quality overlay what seemed a dark hulk of trees and what had to be car headlights on the street below. Dots of red and orange lights bordered the bulldozer.

And then darkness descended. It was gone.

She swung her leg on top of what felt like a stone ledge, reached out, and pulled herself up. Was this another window? Powderlike soot and crumbling concrete bits came back in her hand. What felt like a tin gutter was below her feet. She stepped onto it. It skidded and came loose. She grabbed at the nearest thing, some kind of rough weatherbeaten molding, and held on, trying to find the windowsill. Somewhere, a window slammed shut. She heard smashing and a crashing noise.

She felt a thick rock slab and then an indentation, like a little vest-pocket balcony. Nothing more. Merde. On her knees crawling now, and nowhere to go. Except to back up. Scarier than inching forward. Her hands, bloodied or wet from the moist railing, slipped. She smacked into a stone wall and clutched a shutter. A creaking and a ripping noise came and she clung for dear life.

Her hands slipped . . . how far were the cobblestones below? She’d never know because she wouldn’t be able to see the ground rushing up at her. Her heart hammered. She didn’t want to die.

Where was Mimi’s room? There had to be a ledge. All buildings had ledges under the windows. Didn’t they?

Wind whipped around her legs. Her fingers throbbed. If the building was as old as the Quinze-Vingts there’d be stone cornices. Where were they?

She felt rusted pipes, grabbed them and hugged the facade. Wires snapped off in her hand and she lost her balance. Her leg slid, then her foot jammed against sharp roof tiles. Fear flared up in her. She couldn’t hold on any longer.

“Somebody help!”

She heard a voice.

Raising her leg, she kicked as hard as she could. A wooden shutter banged away and glass splintered. Fine slivers beaded her calf.

“Don’t move, I’ve got a socket wrench aimed at your head,” she heard Mimi threaten.

“Mimi! Help me. Someone’s trying to kill me,” she screamed. “Let me in!”

“But . . .”

“Hurry up, it’s cold out here and I can’t hold on much longer!” Fear clutched her as her fingers loosened. Slipped. This was it. Her life was over. Then a hand pulled hers and her knees scraped over the shutters. By the