Murder in the Bastille

“Do you sing in the Opera, Madame?”

“Nodules grew on my vocal chords,” said Madame. “Otherwise . . .” she trailed off. All the what ifs in life were encompassed in that long pause. “This Bastille Opera house was an architectural disaster. Can you believe it? The building tiles fall off. They’re keeping them in place with cargo nets in the back! The dressing rooms are notorious for being filthy. Mulitiple shows go on, so someone else has used it the night before you go in. At least, the costumes are put in place every night by staff, the makeup person comes to your room. And the acoustics are marvelous. I preferred Chatelet—more beautiful, great backstage crew and the sets: huge. But at least I’ve got my health.”

Despite Madame Danoux’s words, Aimee felt she did miss her former profession.

“Mademoiselle, did you know Cyrano de Bergerac lived nearby?”

What a shift! Aimee’s brows creased in surprise. Madame Danoux was giving her an overview of the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, where were the flics? Chantal had promised to send them over.

Several shrill rings came from the front of the apartment.

Aimee heard a rustling and footsteps on parquet. “So much coming and going, busier than the Galeries Lafayette!” said Madame Danoux. “Excuse me.”

“Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked a deep voice. “I’m Officer Nord from the Commissariat. You reported an attack.”

“Bon!” she said, turning in the direction of the voice. She wished she could see him. He sounded young. “Madame Danoux, may I impose, some tea for the officer and use of this . . .” she stumbled . . . and gestured with her arm . . . what kind of room was this?

“Parlor,” Nord finished for her.

“Bien sur,” Madame Danoux said.

Officer Nord showed her to a seat. The low hard divan cut into her back. Aimee fidgeted. She tried to concentrate. The better she explained and painted a picture for him, the more clues he’d have. What he did with them depended on how well he’d been trained.

Aimee heard the hissing of hot water being poured as Madame Danoux served him tea, then left.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” he said.

She started with the attack in the passage. Then she described the assault in the residence.

“You know the flics treated the first attack on me as the work of the Beast of Bastille,” she said.

“Now we’re treating it as an isolated assault,” he said.

Good. She realized something new must have taken place.

“Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” said the young flic, clearing his throat.

“You’ve found the Beast of Bastille, haven’t you?”

No answer. Had her message reached Morbier? And she thought about that night. She remembered who’d been brought into custody.

“You’re charging Mathieu Cavour, the ebeniste?”

Silence.

“But why . . . what evidence did you find?” she asked.

She figured he must be searching for a way to answer this. He couldn’t have been out of the police academy for long.

“Look, my father was a flic. I know the score,” she said. “Give me the truth.”

“They said you were a troublemaker.”

“I am. But tell me anyway.”

“Sergeant Bellan’s my superior,” he said.

Merde! Bellan had it in for her. No wonder he’d sent a trained lackey. A nice way to show how low she rated on the totem pole.

“. . . and Sergant Bellan’s a good one,” she said, gritting her teeth.

It stung to say that. Especially after the way he’d badmouthed her father. But it was best for her to compliment Bellan if she wanted to learn more. When Bellan stayed off the liquor, kept his rage under control, and didn’t take things personally as he did with her, he scored high marks in the Commissariat. Word had gotten around he was up for promotion. “Of course Bellan’s good, my father trained him.”

She hoped that sank in.

“Would you say,” he asked, “robbery was the motive for the first attack?”

Robbery?

“Does it make sense for Mathieu to attack and rob someone in front of his atelier?”

Had Bellan been saddled with a new recruit he had no time to work with? Silence.

“I’m the one asking questions here,” he said. “Let’s move on. Could robbery be the motive for this incident?”

“Not in the way you think,” she said. “My laptop and things were left. Only my phone was taken.”

“Mathieu Cavour was released. This morning.”

So they’d let him go? At least she’d learned that. She wanted to stand up, get the kinks out of her neck, feel the warmth from the heater. Her thoughts flowed better that way.

If only she could see his face, read his movements. But she couldn’t. All she had were intuition, some sensory antennae and whatever she could glean from his words. She had to get him on her side. Get him to cough up more of the latest info.

“Let’s assume, after luring out Josiane Dolet, the attacker got me by mistake,” she said. “I’d picked up her phone. We were wearing the same jacket. He realizes his mistake too late, after he’s bashed in my head. People come down the passage, frightening him away. But he finds Josiane in the next passage. He kills her, the most important part, but we don’t know why, then wraps her in an old carpet which isn’t discovered until later the next day. Meanwhile I’m blind, out of commission, but Josiane’s phone is nowhere to be found and eventually he realizes I must have it. He figures his number’s on the speed dial or it incriminates him some way, so he discovers where I am and breaks into the room . . . but he gets my phone . . . not hers. Thwarted again.”

“So Mademoiselle Leduc, why not give me the phone,” said Officer Nord.

He’d learned something from Bellan after all, how to listen. Josiane’s phone was her face card . . . the only one. The murderer wanted it. So did the flics.

“Tell me how you’re investigating the attack on me,” she said. “If you’ve found any suspects, and what’s happened to Vaduz, the Beast of Bastille.”

“If you’re trying to negotiate by withholding evidence needed in a homicide case, mademoiselle. . . .”

“Negotiate? Someone attacked me. So viciously, Officer Nord, that it blinded me. The doctor doubts I’ll ever see again.”

Silence.

She wouldn’t give in unless he met her halfway. “I want to discuss this with Bellan.”

“That’s impossible.”

No warmth in his voice. Was he writing this down? He sounded far away . . . had he moved?

“No more until I talk to him.”

“Sergeant Bellan’s away.”

“Away? A workaholic like him?”

“Family problems. The baby’s sick,” he said.

For the first time, the flic sounded human.

“Aaah, sorry to hear that.” Her back felt stiff from sitting on the hard divan. “Then to Commissaire Morbier.”

“He’s assigned to another case. The Beast of Bastille won’t strike again. That’s the official story, anyway,” he said, his voice faltering. “I didn’t know you’d lost your sight. Sorry.”

He grew more human every minute.

“Has Vaduz confessed?”

“As far as the Prefet’s concerned, as good as.”