Murder in the Bastille

The stale smell of beer, the sticky counter, and grit from the unswept floor bothered her. But not as much as being the center of attention.

“Monsieur, has Barzac been here tonight?” she asked.

No reply. Only the gush of water in the sink and gurgle of beer from the tap.

“Are you shaking your head no?”

“Look, the flics were here already,” he said. “Barzac talked with them. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Did the flics speak with anyone else?”

“Not that I saw.”

She pulled out the 20 francs arranged the way Chantal had taught her; one edge folded for 20, half-folded bill for 50. A length of the rectangle fold for 100, and a double folded rectangle for 500 franc notes.

“That’s only 10 francs,” said a slurred voice to her right. Garlic breath wafted over her.

“Take it easy, Franck,” said a voice in the rear.

“I always do,” said the garlic-breath.

She felt him lean into her elbow.

“It’s twenty,” she said. “More than enough for two espresso.” She almost added in a dump like this.

“You challenging me?”

Snickers of laughter came from the corner.

“Don’t pay attention, Aimee. Let’s go,” Rene said.

“What’s your hurry, petit?” said Franck. “The circus leaving?”

The laughter got louder.

“He doesn’t like the clientele,” she said. “Neither do I.”

“Ouch,” said Franck, his voice slurring more. It sounded like he was about to be sick.

Franck, leave it,” said the cafe owner. “It’s on the house. I “don’t take money from the handicapped.”

Her hand shot out in the direction of the owner’s voice and she felt an Adam’s apple. She hoped it was his and squeezed. Chairs scraped across the floor, voices quieted, and whoever’s throat she gripped choked.

“Like that?” she challenged.

“Let’s go, Aimee!” She felt Rene tugging at her bag.

She pulled the Beretta from her bag, clicked off the safety. The only sounds were the hiss of the dripping steam in the espresso machine and the rumble of trucks outside on the boulevard.

“Somebody did this to me. But harder. Now I can’t see,” she said, and let go. “But I pay my way. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“My partner’s a black belt,” she said. “If you want some action, get in line.”

No one said anything. No one laughed.

“So where’s Barzac?”

Silence.

“I start shooting in ten seconds. And my aim isn’t too good these days. But it’s effective. I can hit the espresso machine and cost you several thousand francs damage. That’s for starters. I’ll bet there’s a gray smoky mirror in front of us. I don’t like those; maybe I’ll start with that.”

Behind her she heard an ouff as something connected with breaking glass. “You okay, Rene?”

Then the sounds of someone being sick.

“I am. But Franck’s looking poorly. I showed him a new jujitsu move.”

“. . . seven seconds, eight seconds . . .” she said.

“Barzac lives above the serrurie,” said the cafe owner. “Second floor.”

Aimee threw down a fifty franc note.

“Keep the change.”

THEY WERE standing at the door of the apartment building.

“Some new pills making you feel better, Aimee?” asked Rene.

“I’ll feel better when I talk to Barzac,” she said.

Her instinct had made her reach for the Beretta. Thank God she hadn’t used it.

“I thought you left the gun behind,” he said.

“It makes me feel safe.”

She wondered if he understood. Maybe no one could unless they were blind.

She heard Rene ring the buzzers. None of the apartments answered. Wind gusted around her legs. Cold and damp.

“No lights in the upstairs windows.”

“Let’s try the serurrie,” she said.

“Looks like he’s about to close,” said Rene.

She heard knocking, the door creaked open, then Rene pulled her hand. Aimee heard a man coughing, the low drone of a television soap opera with a crescendo of music. A dog growled somewhere from the right. Deep and powerful.

“Be careful. Two steps,” Rene said. “Sorry, monsieur, are you about to close?”

She lifted her foot, felt her way.

“I’m open twenty-four seven,” said a man, interrupted by coughing. “Arrete, Brutus.”

The dog ceased growling.

“He’s a sweetheart, take no notice.”

Sounded like a Doberman to Aimee.

“We’re detectives, like to ask you a few questions,” she said. “I’m Aimee Leduc; my partner is Rene Friant.”

“Mind closing the door tight?” he said. “My heater’s on the fritz.”

“Bien sur,” said Rene, shutting the door hard.

“We’d like to talk with Barzac, a tenant in the building,” she said. “Any idea where we could find him? No answer upstairs.”

“There wouldn’t be, would there,” said the man. “Skipped to Marseilles, the concierge told me. Owing two months rent.”

Great. A dead end.

“Were you here on Monday night, monsieur . . . ?

“Piot. Alex Piot. Been a locksmith here since 1974,” he said. “Let me check the daily work log. I have to write every transaction down, or I forget.”

Aimee heard the television sound lowered, footsteps shuffle over the floor.

“People love me here,” Piot said, his voice closer. “I get everyone out of a jam. Keep my stock current. Why, you lock yourself out of your car or your flat and I’ve got your key: Fichet, Picard, Bricard, Muel, Keso, Pollux, Vak, Reel, even the Medeco line. Not many keep that on hand. But I get truck drivers, businessmen, doctors, nuns, philosophers; you name it, since I’m near the Peripherique.”

He liked to talk. Maybe he’d seen something.

“What about Vaduz, the serial killer? We heard he picked Barzac up in front of the cafe.”

Only the rustle of pages.

“Monsieur Piot?”

“I rented Dr. Zhivago that night,” said Piot. “They don’t make movies like that anymore, eh. That Russian winter scene, Julie Christie’s cheekbones . . . a classic!”

Disappointment sat heavy on her.

“But monsieur,” said Rene, “your shop window overlooks the cafe.”

“I don’t watch those types. I avoid them and the trouble they bring.”