Murder in the Bastille

the phone book than eat food off the floor. It wasn’t done. One went through a friend or a work colleague or a great-aunt’s cousin, in the time-honored tradition. Probably unchanged since feudal times.

Malraux rose higher in her estimation. Favors begat favors. Now he’d owe the donor.

Where was Mathieu?

A gust of damp, subterranean air encompassed her. Accompanied by a strong scent of paint.

“Have you commissioned a work from Mathieu?” she asked, turning her head and hoping she faced him. Sun from an overhead skylight warmed her. Was it her imagination or did pale haze creep from the corners of her vision?

“Indirectly. My client needs a special vernissage on a piece.”

She liked the smooth cadence of Malraux’s voice. Imagined what he might look like. Tall, well-built. She figured he paid attention to detail.

And then her mind went back to Vincent. He obsessed over detail. But Vincent was short and bursting with nervous energy. While Malraux projected an aura of effortless charm in dealing with people and projects . . . like an aristo, someone to the manor born. Or maybe that mode of operating was de rigueur in the art world.

Vincent . . . could he have . . . ?

“So, of course, I come here,” Malraux was saying. “Mathieu’s one of the few left who know this vernissage technique.”

Malraux seemed very sure of his status, something she sensed Vincent craved. A hunger coloring all his efforts.

She heard the clop of wooden sabots up the stairs.

I’m sorry, but the last layer of lacquer won’t be dry until “tomorrow,” said Mathieu. “Not today.”

“But they must pack . . . well, the backstage prop manager told me he’s loading the container this evening.”

So Malraux was having a piece fixed for the Opera? But he’d said for a client. If the client was the Opera, she wondered, did Malraux know Vincent?

Mathieu’s voice cut in on her thoughts.

“Linseed oil takes time,” said Mathieu. “You know it’s not always possible to predict the drying rates in changeable weather. Especially these past few days.”

“But this needs . . .”

“The work will be ruined,” Mathieu asserted. “It’s still wet.”

Something in Mathieu’s voice was strained. Was it because he had to refuse Malraux’s demand? But it wasn’t only that. She heard an underlying tension. Was Mathieu stressed about Josiane?

“Excuse me,” said Malraux. “I’m late for the Opera board meeting. Mademoiselle Leduc, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Hope to see you again.”

She heard footsteps, then the door shut. Aimee was wondering at Mathieu’s silence when the phone in her pocket rang. Josiane’s phone. The one she’d been attacked for.

“Allo?”

“Where are you?” said Rene, his voice raised. In the background she heard klaxons blaring.

“In Mathieu’s shop in the passage.”

“I found Dragos’s bag,” he said, his voice vibrating with excitement.

“Dragos’s bag?”

“No, I stole it,” said Rene. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”

Aimee realized Mathieu was beside her, silent.

“Go on, Rene.”

“You have to see this,” he said. “I can’t describe it over the phone.”

“Slight problem, Rene,” she said. “I can’t see.”

“Get your white cane, come out to rue Charenton in three minutes.”

Her heart thumped. She didn’t want to walk there. Again.

“I don’t have a cane.”

“Why not?”

“A dog’s better.”

She didn’t want to admit she’d refused the white cane. Pride had prevented her from learning how to use one. Stupid. Face it. She needed one now.

“The Citroen’s too wide to get by the construction. My God, Aimee, it’s a medieval passage. Come out in two minutes, you’ve got less than fifty meters to walk.”

Her head hurt. Her brief period of sight with no depth perception, the resulting lack of balance had disoriented her. But she gathered her bag, thinking back to the layout she’d seen. Unease lingered in her mind. She didn’t want to ask Mathieu for help.

All she could think of was that awful choking. No air. Having to walk there alone, again. Her hands went to the dressing still on her neck, covered by a scarf.

“Excuse me, Mathieu,” she said. “My partner’s waiting.”

Mathieu guided her to the door. She refused his offer of further help. She stretched her hands out, felt the cold stone, and took small steps, guiding herself along the wall.

The passage felt much warmer than on the night she’d been here. Noises of trucks, the chirp of someone’s cell phone, and the smell of espresso came from somewhere on her left.

Something gnawed at her. Stuck in the back of her mind. But what was it? Immersed in the fear and frustration of blindness, had she missed details . . . important ones?

Now it all came back: the dankness from the lichen-encrusted pipes, the dark sky pocked with stars, the cell phone call’s background noise, the tarlike smell of the attacker.

She felt sick . . . had it been Mathieu? Had he thought she was Josiane?

“Rene?” she said, hearing the familiar Citroen engine.

“Door’s open.”

She smelled the leather upholstery he’d oiled and polished. And what smelled like fresh rubber latex.

“Put these gloves on and feel this.” She felt Rene thrust latex gloves in her lap, then what felt like a glass tube.

The car shuddered as he took off down the street.

“Wait . . .” She wanted a cigarette. And for the fireworks to subside in her head. Her pills. She’d forgotten to take them. She found the pill bottle inside her pocket, uncapped it, and popped two pills. Dry.

“Let’s stop. I need water and a pharmacy.” As the Citroen sped down cobbled streets, Aimee was glad for the smooth suspension.

Rene pulled up at the curb. “Here’s a pharmacy. Let me . . .”

“I’ll manage,” she said, feeling her way on the sidewalk. “How many steps to the door?”

But the doors opened automatically. Pharmacy smells and warm air enveloped her. Now if only she could find the tar shampoo. The one the attacker smelled of. She took small steps and listened for voices.

“May I help you, mademoiselle?” said an older woman.

“Water, please,” she said. She smelled floral bouquet soap. “Am I near the shampoo?”

“Keep going, end of the aisle, on your right.”

Aimee felt slick plastic bottles, smooth boxes, and more perfumed smells. Not what she looked for.

“Madame, what about the medicinal shampoos?”

“Here’s your water,” the woman said, grasping Aimee’s hand, putting a cold bottle in it. “Right here. Which one would you like?”

She craned her neck forward, sniffing the boxes. Both rows. And then she smelled it. “This one. What’s it called?”

“Aaah, super-antipelliculaire shampoo. This one really fights dandruff. Tar-based. It’s the most effective.”

“Merci, madame.” She paid for the water and shampoo and edged her way back to Rene’s car.