Murder in the Bastille

“Mademoiselle, ca va?”

And she realized her face was wet. Tears streamed down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing them away. The vision had been so brief. So beautiful. Her body quivered. “Forgive me. Your atelier’s wonderful.”

“But it’s a mess!” he said, his voice edged with amusement. “The only other person it’s brought to tears was myself when I was twelve and forbidden to go to the cinema until I cleaned all the solvents my dog spilled. A long, tearful process.”

A cloth was pressed in her hand.

“Please, take the handkerchief.”

She wiped her face, rubbed her nose. “I forgot about . . . rocks, tools, the hue of fabrics, how things glint and catch the light.”

She shook her head, put her fist over her streaming eyes. “Forgive me. I saw an old woman’s silvery hair, your mouth moving, your face . . .” She turned away, trying to get hold of herself.

“You shame me,” he said, his voice saddened.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Non. How I think nothing of my sight and my hands, mademoiselle,” he said. “Hearing you humbles me. You’re too young. It’s not right.”

The finches sang in his courtyard. Water gurgled from what sounded like a fountain, and the scent of honeysuckle wafted inside.

She could never forget seeing sunrise over the Seine, how the first peach violet light stained the roofs, skylights, and the pepperpot chimneys, or the Seine’s green mossy quai, the brass doorknockers shaped like hands that invaded her dreams. Just one more time she wanted to trace the dewed veins of a glossy camellia leaf, see the tip of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and his button eyes. The memories passed before her; her father’s smile, the signature carmine red lipstick her mother had used, her grandmother’s worn accordion strap.

Get a grip, she told herself. She turned to where she thought Cavour stood. Again, she wished her emotions hadn’t gotten the upper hand. She had to salvage this visit, find out if the ebeniste knew anything. Better to deal with her emotions in private.

She ran her fingers along the rough wood counter permeated with smells of turpentine, wood stain, and sawdust. Her hands touched a handle. Then what felt like a rectangular plane with wood shavings curling on it.

“Attention!” said Mathieu.

Too late. She’d knocked it to the floor. Things clanged and clattered by her feet.

“I’m so sorry. What did I spill?” she said stooping down and feeling with her hands to locate whatever she’d knocked down. She had visions of having ruined a priceless piece. “I’m so clumsy!”

She felt a cold slick sheet of . . . alumininum? No. Too dense and stiff for that.

“Forgive me.” Guiltily she tried to pick up whatever her hands touched. They slid beside what felt like a long, round-edged salt shaker. But something was attached to it, like a panel.

“Let me help,” he said, taking things from her hands.

“You work in metal, too?”

She heard him grunt, then his hands taking things from hers. “Once in a while.”

She marshaled what grace she could and climbed her hands up the worktable leg. Helpless and awkward again.

“If I broke something, let me replace . . .”

“No harm done,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

She felt even more awkward, but had to find out if he knew anything.

“My partner Rene spoke with you about the attack on me.”

“So it’s you,” he said. “The one hurt in the Passage, non?”

“Oui.”

“I didn’t help you,” he said. “I am sorry . . .”

But could he have helped? Suspicion crossed her mind. The police had questioned him. But would he have attacked her in front of his own workshop?

It was Josiane who had been the target . . . everything pointed that way. And the police had let him go.

What if he had witnessed something he was unaware of?

“Tell me what you remember, Mathieu,” she said.

“The old lady you passed, the one whose hair you saw,” he said, his tone wistful. “I caused her to be hurt, too.”

Why did he sound so guilty?

She sensed he’d gone down another track. Again, in her mind she saw his blue work coat, the way his mouth moved, and his hands caressing the wood chair.

That’s what she’d forgotten. The more she thought, the more briefly glimpsed images came back to her. The way he’d touched the wood, the atmosphere in the atelier, his obvious love of his craft.

How did it come together? The attack on her in the passage, Josiane’s murder, the Romanian thugs, Vincent, and Mathieu’s atelier? How could it? Yet somehow, in her gut, she knew it did.

Her brief moment of vision illumined her sense of Mathieu, and she was thankful. Intuitively, she knew he was a good man. But good men make mistakes, like bad men, like everyone.

“Look Mathieu, try to remember where you were when you heard. . . . Had you seen Josiane?”

“Josiane loved the Bastille,” he said. “She spearheaded our association to save this historic quartier.”

That piece fit in the puzzle.

“So could you say Mirador was alarmed by her investigative reporting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would Mirador encourage her to reconsider her article on the evictions? Or hire thugs to threaten her?”

Only the finches chirped in response.

“We can keep it between us, Mathieu,” she said. “Mathieu?”

“Since when do you have such pretty visitors, Mathieu?” said a man’s voice behind her.

Aimee stiffened. She knew that voice.

“Monsieur Malraux,” said Mathieu.

“No wonder the piece isn’t ready, eh. A nice distraction to occupy you.”

Was there an edge in the man’s tone?

But she heard a warm, slow laugh.

“I like to tease him, mademoiselle,” he said. “He hardly ever gets out, shuts himself up with his work.”

“Let me check for you,” said Mathieu. His voice receded along with the clop of wooden clogs— sabots her grandmother had called them—over the floor.

“What brings you here, Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked Malraux.

Now she remembered. She thought fast. “Trying to solicit a donation for the Residence, Monsieur Malraux, just as we are from you trustees.”

Again that nice laugh.

“Bon, but you could have asked me to intercede with Mathieu. I’d be more than happy to help you. Don’t tell Chantal, let’s keep it between ourselves for now, eh, but I’ve got her a van.”

“That’s wonderful!” Aimee turned to his voice. But he was moving. She tried tracking him and then gave up. Too much work. She pulled her dark glasses on. “Chantal will be thrilled.”

“I really feel I should be doing more,” he said. “Especially after Chantal explained how vital these programs are. She’s a wonder, that woman: working, volunteering. Never stops.”

Aimee felt a pang of guilt. What a caring man. . . . So what if he was an Opera patron, well-connected and wealthy? Unlike most of those social climbers, he shared, helping those less fortunate. A rarity.

“Chantal’s wonderful,” said Aimee. “She teaches me a lot.”

“Matter of fact, just between us, I’m getting two vans donated,” he said. “My cousin’s father-in-law’s a Renault dealer in Porte de Champerret.”

That’s how it worked. Through connections. Her friend Martine would no more consult the Yellow Pages in