Murder in the Bastille

suspects you withheld information. That’s trouble for you, since I feel inclined to name you and your firm in my legal action.”

“What legal action?”

“Meet us in the electrical shop in rue Sedaine,” she said. “The small one, around the corner from Cafe de l’industrie, in five minutes.”

“Why should I?”

“If I were you, I’d come,” she said. “The police want Josiane Dolet’s phone. Now that they know Vaduz, the serial killer, had already had a fatal car accident, and couldn’t have killed Josiane, they’re interested in . . .”

Cars honked behind them.

“That’s my boss,” said Brault, gunning the engine. “And the administrative staff. Get out of the way.”

“Running over a blind woman doesn’t look very good,” she said. “Any way you put it.”

I know the shop,” he admitted, and roared off. “

* * *

“SO I lied,” she said, holding Rene’s elbow and trying to keep in step with him over uneven cobblestones.

“Brault’s smart,” said Rene.

“Then my lie should get him there.”

A buttery lemon smell came from her right where she figured Cafe de l’industrie stood. She’d frequented the cafe, enjoyed the unpretentious crowd and simple decor. No branche Bastille types here. Turn-of-the-century plates studded the walls. Old wooden tables paired with mismatched chairs. Even a mounted rhinoceros head above the bar.

“Here?” asked Rene.

“Are we in front of a narrow electrical shop with fifties irons in the window?”

“Just several old Moulinex vacuums,” said Rene, “like Maman had at home.”

“Feels right.”

Aimee remembered the shop’s worn steps, the iron and rust smell inside, and Medou, Monsieur Fix-it, they called him. His shop was one of the few places left to get an appliance, no matter how old or from what era, repaired. Medou kept cases filled with widgets, wires, and rotary dials. Anything needed to keep one’s grandmother’s ancient fryer working. Or most anything else.

He’d also been in the Resistance. The rear of his shop connected to an old wallpaper factory, once the meeting site of La Fiche Rouge members, a cell of Eastern European Jews active in the Resistance. Two of them had slain a Wehrmacht soldier in the Barbes Metro station. Later they were betrayed, as rumor went, by the Communists in Bastille. The youngest, Maurice Rayman, had been twenty years old.

Now it was a studio de danse, replete with buffed ash wood floors, ballet bars, an upright piano, and huge gilt mirrors propped against the walls.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Medou,” she said. “Still playing in the boules league?”

“I’m too old for bowling, eh, but my trophy’s in the back,” he said.

Silence.

“Go ahead, Rene,” she said, gripping his elbow harder, “go where he shows you.”

She heard Rene clear his throat. She’d love to see the look on his face when they entered the dance studio.

“Merci, monsieur, our colleague will be joining us.”

Her vision field brightened. The skylight must be uncovered. Surprised, she realized how light and dark planes crisscrossed in front of her. Not uncommon, the retinologist had said . . . what was that song . . . a whiter shade of pale?

But worry tugged in back of her mind. Did this, perversely, signal damage? Was this all just a tease?

“How do you know about this place?” asked Rene.

“Now if I told you, I wouldn’t have any secrets, would I?” she said, feeling her way to the wall. “This should convince Brault to unburden himself in total secrecy.”

“Says here, hip hop, salsa, tango, and ballet classes offered,” said Rene.

“You might meet someone here at a class, Rene,” she said.

“That’s my line to you,” said Rene.

Footsteps, then a muttered curse. Brault had arrived.

“Blackmail won’t work,” said Brault. “I’m going to speak with the Commissaire myself . . .”

“Go right ahead,” she said, tracking his footsteps and turning that way. “He’ll weigh whatever you say against what I tell him. And he’s my godfather.”

“Who are you?”

“I already told you, the name’s Aimee Leduc,” she said. “Take a seat, let me explain. There’s a chair here somewhere, isn’t there?”

She gestured vaguely, heard a chair scrape over the wood.

Then took a deep breath, explained about Josiane, the attack, and her blindness.

Brault stayed silent.

“Tell me,” said Aimee, “what’s the matter with Dragos?”

“Who knows?”

She detected surprise in his voice.

“Asbestos exposure? Tainted water?” she asked. “Is that it?”

No reply.

“Mirador exposes the workers to unsafe conditions, eh?”

Silence. Then a bird twittered from Medou’s shop. And all she could think was of was how a caged bird must feel. Caged in darkness.

Back to business. “Look, we need to know,” she said, hoping she faced in his direction. She knit her fingers on the ballet barre, to keep her balance. “If Dragos suffers serious health problems, others must be in danger. As a professional, you’re obligated to inform those in the area.”

“My architecture firm designs for Mirador, that’s all.”

“Dragos was nabbed selling Ecstasy. He’s in Hotel Dieu, sick as the dog he probably is, with burn marks. Care to comment? And if you don’t, I guarantee Commissaire Morbier will be more interested than I am.”

“You two don’t give up, do you?”

“That’s rhetorical, n’est-ce pas?” said Rene. “In fact, we become vicious.”

Aimee repressed her smile.

“Whatever I tell you stays off the record. D’accord?”

“Of course,” said Rene.

“No asbestos or poison. Nothing toxic at the site, I’m sure. The code’s strict and we follow it. After all, the planning commission has to sign off on each job. But I do know that Dragos wanted lead.”

“Lead poisoning?”

“Lead.” Brault’s voice dropped and he sounded tired. “Dragos boasted a lot when he was drunk. He kept saying he could make a profit on lead.”

“What did Dragos mean?”

“Beats me.”

“How did you know Josiane?”

“Josiane wrote articles for L’evenement and Liberation, deploring that all eight Green seats in the European Union had been lost. She wrote pieces on human rights, not popular mainstream themes. I respected her; she wrote what she believed. And she dug for truth. But I don’t know what she found, if anything.”

“Whatever she found killed her,” said Rene.

“Did Dragos find any lead?”

“No clue,” said Brault. “Listen I’m running late . . .”