Murder in the Bastille

“What was all that about?” asked Rene.

“Whoever attacked me has dandruff,” she said. “And uses this shampoo.”

“Him and thousands of others,” said Rene.

“It’s a start,” she said. “How often does it say to shampoo?”

“Once a week, but for increased effectiveness, every three days,” said Rene.

“Then he’s about due if he’s conscientious.”

She dialed Morbier’s line.

“Commissaire Morbier’s attending a refresher training course in Creteil,” said the receptionist.

So he’d gone. What about that explosives case he’d mentioned? He’d always said he was too old a dog to learn new tricks.

Didn’t he care? Deep down she’d thought maybe he’d . . . what? Give up his caseload and devote himself to her? That wasn’t Morbier.

Morbier always struggled with his emotions. Even when her father died. He’d avoided seeing her in the burn hospital after the explosion.

And though she wasn’t surprised, it had hurt.

What more could she do?

She wanted to avoid faxing their information about Vaduz to Bellan. Too many prying eyes in the Commissariat. Maybe he wasn’t back yet from Brittany? Lieutenant Nord had promised he’d call her.

Right now she had to concentrate on what Rene wanted to show her.

“Why don’t we check Dragos’s bag?”

Rene parked at tree-lined Place Trousseau. Aimee rolled down the window of his Citroen. A police siren reverberated in the distance; the gushing of water and the noise of plastic rakes scraping over the stone sounded in the background.

She inhaled the soft, autumn air tinged by dampness. Sounds of crackling leaves and a dog’s faint bark reminded her of why she loved this time of year.

“What does the bag look like, Rene?”

“Dirty natural canvas, D.I. stitched on the inside of the flap,” he said. “Long strap. You know, the ones people drape around themselves on motorcycles.”

Common and available everywhere. She pulled the latex gloves on, finger by finger, an arduous process. It reminded her of when she was little and her grandfather insisted she put her winter mittens on by herself. Never mind that she couldn’t see where her fingers were going.

“Tell me what you see,” she said.

“Better yet,” said Rene. “Open your hands.”

“No guessing games.”

Too late. Again she felt a long, glass-hard tube. Then another. “Feels like a beaker. From a laboratory. Any markings?”

“Just worn red lines indicating measurements.”

She smelled a cloth exuding stale sweat.

“Can you describe this?”

“That’s a bandanna, here’s some used Metro tickets, a stick of cassis chewing gum,” said Rene, “a roll of black masking tape and a flyer for the Chapel of the hopital Quinze-Vingts.”

“Does the flyer have a map?”

“Non, but isn’t the Chapel on the right of the hospital as you enter?”

Now she remembered. She’d seen it, rushing by in the rain, parallel with the disused Opera exit. The Chapel was tall, medieval-walled. In the centime-sized courtyard before the Chapel, large blue doors led to rue Charenton. A shortcut to Vincent’s office.

But the doors had been locked. So, in the pouring rain, she had kept on to the hopital entrance, the remnant of the Black Musketeers’ barracks, surmounted by a surveillance camera.

Her thoughts spun. So easy for someone, if they had a key, to avoid the main portal. Or to jimmy the lock mechanism and avoid the surveillance camera.

“Why would Dragos have this flyer? You wouldn’t suppose a thug for hire and dope seller would be religious.”

“Says here one of the first French cardinals has a crypt there,” he said. “The holy water font was commissioned by the nuns of the Abbaye Royale de Saint-Antoine.”

The scratch of the streetcleaner’s broom receded in the background. She heard the whirr of the small, green pooper-scooper truck, and exclamations from the pedestrians it dodged on the pavement.

“Could Dragos have killed Josiane? But the man who called spoke without an accent, and he knew her. I’m sure of it,” she said. The thoughts spun faster and faster. “If Dragos is newly arrived he’d have a Romanian accent. And the field’s specialized. Hired thugs, muscle men, aren’t hit men, right? We’ve been through this before.”

“If you say so,” said Rene. “But the Chapel’s right there. Dragos could have gone into it on his lunch hour. No, wait, it says here it’s only open one Thursday a month for services.”

An idea came to her.

“What a perfect place to stash something.”

“Stash what?”

“Whatever was in these glass beakers . . . wouldn’t it be safer there than on the peniche?”

“But how would Dragos get into the Chapel?”

She sat back against the cream-soft leather, let the breeze flutter over her.

“Brault, the architect, knows more than he was telling you, Rene,” she said.

“Shall we pay him a visit?”

“Good idea, partner.”

BY THE time she and Rene sat in Brault’s waiting room, the little light flashes behind her eyes had subsided. The grayish hue had deepened, lightened, fragmented, and then faded out like the snow on a TV screen.

Brault was in a meeting. They waited. Aimee tried Morbier. No answer on his personal line. She left a second message. Then called Bellan. Also, no answer. With her luck they would both be at a retirement party for the Prefet.

She heard Rene’s footsteps. “Merde, Brault’s crossing the courtyard, I see him from the window. He’s trying to avoid us.”

“Go ahead, Rene, I remember the way. I’ll catch up.”

She felt her hand grabbed, as Rene ran ahead.

“Trust me, keep up,” he said.

She stumbled, awkward and hesitant, to the elevator behind Rene. Why had she worn her T-strap heels? But the only other pair she had were boots. Just as high-heeled.

On the ground floor, Rene pulled her along, “Run. We have to stop him before he gets into his car.”

Aimee heard a car door slam, an engine start, then a gear whining into first.

“Brault’s pointing to his wristwatch,” said Rene, his tone anguished. “I can’t believe it, he’s driving right by us. He won’t stop.”

“Oh, yes, he will,” she said, waving and stepping off the curb in front of the approaching car. Brakes squealed at the last minute and she felt a bumper dust the hem of her leather skirt. A window rolled down.

“Look, I’m late for a meeting,” Brault said irately. The revving of his engine almost drowned out his words.

“Monsieur Brault, you’ll be late for a lot more if you don’t cooperate,” said Aimee. She edged her hands along the car’s warm hood. The wind picked up, gusting leaves, a garbage can and what sounded like a clay flower pot striking the stone pavement.

“Threatening me?”

“Where can we talk?”

“I’ve told him everything I know,” Brault said.

“You mean my partner?” she said. Aimee bent down, feeling her way toward Brault’s voice. “My partner