He tried concentrating on the rays of light, not the swaying of the boat. Or his claustrophobia. He heard the barge ropes strain against the hull.
And then his cell phone trilled in his pocket.
A shadow blocked the light. He couldn’t answer it. After three rings, he shut the phone off. And prayed.
He heard the windows jiggled from outside. He held his breath. Finally, the footsteps clomped back up the gangplank.
Rene used his elbows and scooted out. But not before he’d slipped the sling of the canvas bag around his shoulders.
BELLAN CROSSED THE HOTEL courtyard, whose dark stone walls were covered by ivy and climbing roses, to find the room listed as Iliescu’s residence. He followed the hotel clerk, a short squat woman who walked with a cane. If Iliescu sold bad Ecstasy, Bellan wanted to find the drug before anyone else did. And confiscate it.
Lemon trees in old washtubs tilted on the cobbles. Bellan’s interest grew as the woman, who leaned heavily on her cane, climbed the winding metal back staircase. There was a certain rundown charm about the place. Reaching the third floor, the woman turned the room key and a door creaked open.
“Iliescu’s room,” she said, stepping inside. She looked around, then beckoned Bellan to enter.
Bellan’s nose crinkled at the room’s stale smell. It had been closed up for a long time. The only personal touch was the pile of dirty sweatsuits on the floor.
“My uncle rented rooms by the month on this floor until the sixties, the rest were . . .” she cleared her throat, “on a more temporary basis.”
A brothel before they’d been outlawed in 1948? Now a rent-by-the-hour prostitute’s hotel? No questions asked, Bellan figured. So it would feel safe and convenient for a dope dealer like Iliescu.
The tall, half-shuttered windows faced south to the narrow street. A maze of alleys really. Shafts of sunlight slanted across the wooden floor, dust motes dancing in their light.
In the afternoon sun, it was apparent that the march of time had dulled the glint of period wall sconces. The pre-war floral wallpaper was smudged and worn; the heavy-legged writing desk and the metal runged bed hadn’t been changed since the forties, Bellan figured. He felt as if he’d stepped into a time warp.
The hotel clerk’s eyes narrowed. “My
No wonder it had an old lady smell. Hard to get rid of after all those years.
“Sorry to hear that, but I need to look around,” he said, flashing his badge.
The woman shook her head. “What’s the
“When did Iliescu rent the room, madame?”
“Yesterday, but he left almost at once.”
She seemed awfully knowledgeable. Most non-star hotels made a point of not knowing their tenants’ movements or whereabouts.
“How do you know that, madame?”
She stood back, her hands on her ample hips. “I was cleaning the filth out, wasn’t I?” she jerked her cane toward the room across the hall. Halfway ajar, the door showed a scene of upside-down chairs and general upheaval. “A pigsty. Must be what they’re used to where they come from, some Slavic way of living. Not in Paris, I told them, and kicked them out.”
“Did Iliescu have any visitors?”
She nodded. “Nobody I saw.”
Loud buzzing came from the courtyard.
“That’s the Reception buzzer. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hotel to run,” she said, heading out the door. “Lowlifes, all of them.”
Disappointed, Bellan searched the room.
All he found were several bodybuilder-type magazines. He searched the desk, cracks in the wall, the floors for any loose floorboards. In the back of the armoire, he found a yellowed and tattered old programme from the Balajo, the club on rue du Lappe. It bore a photo of Edith Piaf and Jo Privat, the well-known accordionist.
But no drugs.
He raised the window sash. From across the way, a piano
What was he missing?
And then he saw it.
“21, Port de Plaisance, 16:00” written in pen on the window’s wooden frame. He recognized the odd curlicues of the numbers. Like Iliescu’s writing on his palm.
The same funny curlicues.
Bellan copied the address. Wasn’t that the dock where pleasure boats moored in the Bastille?
RENE HEADED TOWARD PLACE MAZAS to meet Serge at the morgue. A gray metal Metro bridge spanned the Seine, looping just behind the morgue’s back gate. Rene wondered if Metro passengers on high realized what they viewed, in close proximity, for a brief few seconds.
The nineteenth century redbrick building, bordered by the expressway to Metz, looked more like a school than the Insti-tut medico-legal, the central morgue. Built on the Seine to receive bodies sent downriver, it proved a macabre curiosity stop for
Rene parked his car by the wide, massive gate. He saw a van drive through. Within, men in white labcoats hosed down the courtyard and two men sprayed their short white boots.
Rene cringed. He didn’t much like contemplating what they were cleaning up.
At the gate Serge, his pea-coat buttoned and a navy cap low over his eyes, slapped a man’s back. They laughed. And in a few seconds, Serge leaned through Rene’s passenger door window. Rene took the rolled up racing newspaper, Paris Turf, that Serge thrust at him.
“A hundred francs says Josiane in the eleven p.m. race and the Beast by a long shot in the five a.m.,” said Serge, poking his head in, “but that’s if I was a betting man.”
“
Serge turned toward a man in a trench coat.
“Tomorrow’s your turn to buy coffee,” said the man. “Don’t weasel out of it this time, saying you’ve got an autopsy.”
Serge laughed and waved as the man went by. But his eyes weren’t smiling.
”I did some homework,” said Serge, turning back to Rene, lowering his tone. “Lambert’s the best optic trauma specialist, at least in Paris. I just spoke with him. Asked about Aimee’s prognosis. There’s not a lot to do besides monitor the optic nerve, run tests, and work on reducing the inflammation. If and when that subsides, then they’ll assess the damage. Let’s pray it’s not extensive.”
“Tell me what that really means, Serge,” said Rene.
Serge sighed. “I’m sorry, Rene. We put men on the moon and orbit satellites, but we don’t know the idiosyncrasies of brain stems. Or their reactions. Don’t count on things getting better, Rene.
