Murder in the Bastille

time she was inside Mimi’s room, she knew what she had to do.

“I must have scared him away,” Mimi said.

“Call building security.”

“Be my guest.”

“Er, how do I do it?”

“The only security we can call is that loafer in the front gate. Try 37 on the wall phone.”

* * *

AIMEE WAS perched on Mimi’s bed, with a blanket over her feet, when footsteps sounded in the hall. Stopped. Then came a pounding on Mimi’s door.

“Nom de Dieu,” said a high-pitched voice. “Quelle catastrophe!”

Aimee opened the door. “Someone broke down my door and attacked me!”

“But property can’t be destroyed like this.”

Aimee choked.

“Where’s security?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“The Matron, I’m responsible here,” said the woman. “The hospital administration only gives us conditional use. You’ve had some party going on with your hall neighbor, eh? But now you’ve ruined it for us.”

“Don’t you understand? Someone attacked me in my room and could still be there, although he’s probably gotten away by now.”

Aimee knew there were kilometers of corridors, underground links to the hospital, the Chapel and several administration buildings. With people all dressed in scrubs and walking around wearing masks, it would have been easy for her attacker to avoid detection.

“Smashed chairs, broken windows . . .” the matron’s voice trailed off. “Who gave you permission to have a room on this floor?”

“Chantal brought me here. But you don’t understand . . .”

“She has no authority,” said the matron. “I did not authorize you to sign in. We have strict rules. Our funding and insurance depend on upholding them.”

“I heard Aimee screaming and someone thrashing around next door, breaking things,” said Mimi.

“The attacker might still be here,” said Aimee.

“All I see is a mess you created,” the matron said. Aimee heard her sniffing. “What’s that smell? Drugs. . .?”

Did she mean the acetone smell of the lemon nail polish?

“Where’s security?”

“Allez-y, you’re out of here!” the matron said.

Wasn’t she the victim here? But it was hard to argue with an irate woman she couldn’t see. More footsteps came down the hall.

A shiver passed through her.

“What have you done now?” Dr. Lambert’s voice asked.

Where had he come from?

“Luckily I trip a lot, since I can’t see. That’s what saved me or the damage to my door would have happened to my face.”

“Matron, the door’s obviously been forced,” Dr. Lambert said. “Let’s make sure security’s on the way.”

“Of course, Doctor,” she said, her tone completely altered.

“I heard him bashing things,” said Mimi, “I turned on my Books on Tape, hit the wall, then yelled. I must have scared him away.”

“But I want it known this woman was in residence without my knowledge, much less my authority or consent,” said the matron. “Someone’s got to pay for the damages. I won’t take the blame. Why should my competence be put in question?”

“Please understand, this TGV accident threw everything into chaos . . . a huge overload of cases, not enough beds,” he said, trying to soothe her. “We’ve bent the rules a bit, but no one will point any fingers, I assure you.”

Aimee couldn’t believe his reaction. “I’d call this a police matter. Don’t you have security cameras here?”

“At the hospital entrance, so I’m told,” Mimi said. “Not here. Look, Aimee’s been attacked. Why blame her!”

But the matron must have already bustled out of the room.

“Where are my things?” Aimee asked. What if the attacker got her laptop and phone! “I have to check. Please help me.”

“Someone’s got to clean you up,” he said, “again!”

Her fingers throbbed where she had scraped them. She prayed she could still use a keyboard.

Dr. Lambert called for a nurse to medicate and bandage her hands. Then he left the room, but Aimee heard him talking with the matron in the hallway and greeting security when it arrived.

As soon as the nurse arrived, Aimee had her search the room. “Tell me what you find.”

“Well, the mattress is turned over, sheets and pillows everywhere, chairs upside down.”

“Please look in the closet.”

“Leather jacket, shoes all tumbled about. A mess.”

“Can you look in the drawer?”

“There’s a laptop computer,” said the nurse.

Thank God.

“Tubes of Ultralash mascara, a Chanel red lipstick, lipliner, powder, and perfume bottle on the floor. A black silk teddy mixed up with what looks like red and white wires.”

Her phone-line splicer cables. “What about my cell phone?”

“No sign,” the nurse said. “Not even under the bed.”

Great. Now they could get to her another way. Nothing remained private anymore. France Telecom held a wealth of information, if one knew how to crack the database. She’d done it often enough herself.

Still, she’d had Josiane’s phone in her pajama pocket. That at least was safe. And she guessed that the assailant had wanted it. That’s what this was about. And he’d find out soon enough he’d taken the wrong one.

She called the Commissariat and asked for Sergeant Bellan.

“Not here. What’s this about?”

By the time she recounted the circumstances and been transferred to the correct department, her lip trembled nonstop. She was afraid her words were no longer clear enough to be understood.

“We’ll send someone over,” a policewoman said. “but it could take a while. A big rig overturned on the Peripherique and it’s a mess.”

She asked the nurse to help her cancel her cell phone service.

“I’m sorry this happened, but you can’t stay here,” Dr. Lambert was saying. “Normally it wouldn’t matter. But with the property damage and matron upset . . .”

“I don’t care if she is. I’ve called the flics.”

She felt a finger on her lips. Nice and warm. His?

“I understand. Our reaction may seem callous but I’ll try and explain. The Ministry of Health’s threatened to close some hospitals. Our funding’s under review, so we all feel stretched right now. Services are tight, and the proposal to expand the day clinic’s outreach for the quartier’s underserved residents is crucial. We’d rather not make waves right now.” She felt Dr. Lambert’s arm around her shoulder.

“I think the attacker came back looking for . . .”

“Accommodating you here was my idea,” Dr. Lambert interrupted. “A bad one. But from now on, we’ll keep you safe. Forgive me, but you need to be checked often. The timing’s critical . . . we must monitor you closely until we know the extent of your vision loss.”

Despite his irritating stupidity, she liked how his warm hand felt on her shoulder, his lingering Vetiver scent,