Murder in the Bastille

Yellow pools of light from the just-lit streetlamps glistened on the wet brick walls. She was knocking on the tall wood door.

“I promised Maman to do better. Every time the teacher says fois in the dictee I will write it correctly,” she said, then repeated in a falsetto voice, slow and measured:

“Il etait une fois une marchande de foie qui vendait du foie dans la ville de Foix. Elle se dit ma foi c’est pour la pre-miere fois que je vends du foie dans la ville de Foix.”

She uttered the passage again and again, faster and faster. Rene watched her, unsure of what to do. How could he help?

A blue uniform turned the corner. A young flic on his beat. “Bonsoir, Madame,” he said, taking in the situation. “The gym’s closed now.”

“But the tutor’s supposed to meet me. He’s waiting . . .”

“Not tonight, eh, it’s late. Let me accompany you.”

The old woman gave him a toothless smile. “Maman would like that.”

“Bon,” said the flic, taking her arm gently, “let’s take you home, it’s time for your supper, non?”

“But they won’t let me back in,” she said. “I tried.” She pointed her ragged glove at a bricked-up, soot- coated, eighteenth century hotel particulier facing the square. A jewel in its heydey, Rene thought. Fronted by doric columns, with arabesques of rusted iron balcony railings and nymph-bordered plaster detail. A crane with a dirty black wrecking ball stood suspended over the building. Large placards across the door said “Villa Voltaire—Luxury Apartments Ready Soon.”

“Alors,” said the flic, “they’ve moved you someplace, non?”

The old woman shook her head. “I want to go home.”

“We’ll just go find out now.”

The flic noticed Rene. “Do you know Madame?”

Before Rene could shake his head, a second floor window opened and an old man leaned out, a pipe in the side of his mouth. “Madame Sarnac’s lived in the quartier all her life,” he said. “Right there.” He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed at the hotel particulier.

“Can you help, monsieur?” the flic asked, his tone polite. “She’s confused.”

“That was where she lived. She worked in the magasin below,” he said. “She went to school here. So did I.”

“But where does she stay now? I don’t want to bring her to the Commissariat.”

“It’s sick, throwing old people out. Armee du Salut sheltered some and the Maison des Femmes, too. But just the ones who had no families to take them,” he said. “She’s here everyday, doesn’t know what else to do. Me, I took action. It was I who got them to put up that plaque.”

He pointed to the plaque on Gymnase Japy that was just visible in the fading daylight. Rene could only read the last part. It was signed the ASEJD: Association en souvenir des enfants juifs deportes du XI.

The flic walked away, escorting the old woman, and the man shut his window. But now Rene knew who to ask about Mirador.

Looking around, Rene observed BANQUE HERVET lettered in silver, a small beauty salon and dimly lit brasserie. Beyond was a fire-gutted building—scorched black stone and broken windows— overlooking the gym opposite the center of the square.

He turned and stood under the rippled glass awning held by curlicues and spokes of wrought iron. A chipped and faded hotel sign was wedged inside an iron circle. The bubbled glass of the door was covered by a metal grillework pattern of flower bouquets and palmettes. He pushed the buzzer.

The door opened to display a diamond-patterned black-and-white tile foyer. The tiles were cracked and worn but the period staircase of white marble and swirls of scrolled ironwork retained its grandeur.

Rene climbed. His short legs pumped up the wide stairs. The ache in his hip increased. Tired, he’d resolved to make it the last interview of the day. On the second floor landing, he knocked on the door.

“Oui?”

Rene’s eyes lifted to the old man’s face, wreaths of smoke coming from his lit pipe. His white hair curled around his ears and down over the collar of a gray wool cardigan. He wore Moroccan leather slippers with turned-up toes and kept one hand in his pocket.

“I’m with Leduc Detective,” Rene said, flashing Aimee’s detective badge quickly.

“I don’t talk to strangers,” the man said, peering down at Rene.

“Neither do I,” Rene said, “but you saw me with Madame Sarnac, didn’t you? I want to help her.”

“A detective, eh? I didn’t know they made them so small.”

Rene flinched. He’d sat behind the keyboard too long. He’d forgotten it was always like this.

“You seemed the helpful type,” Rene said. “Guess not. I won’t stay up nights worrying when it happens to you. Being evicted, I mean.”

The old man leaned over and peered closer at Rene. “Who did you say you work for?”

“Leduc Detective. I’m investigating the reporter’s murder.”

“The landing’s drafty, come in,” he said, tugging at Rene’s shoulder. “Vite.”

Surprised at his change in attitude and the swift tug at his shoulder, Rene followed him inside. The scent of sweetish cherry-laced pipe tobacco filled the air.

The old man’s apartment, high-ceilinged and surprisingly tidy, faced the square on two sides.

“Let me introduce myself: Yann Remouze,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “I didn’t want to talk out there . . . the walls have ears. Please sit down.”

Rene used a low ottoman to heave himself up onto a comfortable chintz armchair. He’d promised to call Aimee but it would be better to have some information to give her when he did.

“Bet you see a lot from your windows,” said Rene.

“I hear a lot, too.” Yann remained standing, surveying Rene.

Rene noticed a collection of flutes and woodwinds on a shelf ringing the wall. “You’re a musician?”

“Once I had an instrument shop; I made flutes,” he said. “Now I do repairs for a few old clients.”

An antique silver flute gleamed on the shelf.

Yann followed Rene’s gaze. “That belonged to a man who created color. That’s what a virtuoso flutist does. Plays with a simplicity that’s vivid.”

This old man lived in his memories, but Rene didn’t share them.

“Monsieur Remouze, what happened to Madame Sarnac and those in her building?”

“Should I trust you?”

“Why not? You’ve already let me into your apartment.”

“Good point.” Remouze sank into the chair beside Rene. His eyelids were heavy, tired. “Last week, the demolition signs went up and the trucks came. But the place had been emptied the week before that. I heard them in the middle of the night.”

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing that hasn’t happened time and again. Only this time instead of flics rounding up the juifs for the Gymnase and deportation or Apaches collecting interest on an overdue loan, it was Romanians hustling them out at three in the morning.”

“Mirador hired them?” Rene kept his tone even.

The old man nodded. “Let’s put it this way. Not long ago, a man on the fifth floor was offered a cheque to vacate the apartment he’s lived in for forty years. He refused, his neighbors got similar offers and refused too. Everyone was incensed. Suddenly, returning from Marche d’Aligre where he shops every day, he was attacked. Broken bones and bruises, then his heart gave out in L’hopital Saint Antoine. Now lots of old people are awakened