Murder in the Bastille

He turned around and Bellan stiffened in surprise.

A smiling Down syndrome-afflicted boy looked up at him.

“Bidi?”

“Ouai?” he said.

Bellan caught his disappointment before he blurted something he’d regret. What could he get out of this boy? A big fat nothing.

“I’m sorry, I thought you might help me, but you’re busy,” said Bellan, hoping to make a tactful exit.

“Are you shouting because of my headphones?” Bidi said, his words slow but clear. “I took them off. See.” He pointed to them around his neck. “I can hear you.”

Had he been shouting? Bellan’s next words caught in his throat. “I . . . I . . . some children said you might know something.”

Bidi got to his feet, dusted off his knees. “Ouai,” he said, nodding his head. He had oval close-set eyes, a small mouth, and freckles. “They told me. Said you looked like a serious man.”

Bellan felt perspiration beading his brow. Was it that hot? He opened the top button of his shirt.

“You scared Andre,” Bidi said. “But Andre’s scared a lot.”

“Do I scare you?”

Bidi grinned. “Non. I like your shirt. My brother has one just the same.”

“Merci.” Bellan shifted on his feet. Marie had picked the shirt out at Printemps for his birthday.

“The boys said you want to know about the boat. The blue one.”

“Why yes, actually I wondered if people live on it, you know. But I suppose you’re too far away to see from here . . .”

“Why?”

“These men . . .”

“Are you a flic?”

Bellan nodded.

“A real one?”

Bellan pulled out his picture ID and badge. He didn’t know if Bidi could read. “It might be hard to read, but there’s my photo.”

“I can read. Monsieur Tulles says I’m very careful. Handle things just so. And in straight lines,” said Bidi. “Look, I put all the items in order: first by type, then by size, and then . . .”

“Bidi, I’m sure the policeman can see how good your work is,” interrupted Monsieur Tulles. He came up to Bidi, put his arm on his shoulder, smiled. “I’m so lucky to have you work here every day.”

“Ouai, after Madame died, you needed help.”

Bellan shuffled, felt excluded. And alone. Something radiated from these two. Something warm and caring that he wasn’t part of.

“I wondered, since your shop fronts the quai, if you’d seen men going back and forth?”

“They like feta cheese, pickles, and English soda crackers,”

Bidi said. He pointed to the next aisle. “Over there.”

Bidi’s watch alarm sounded. He turned abruptly. “I have to finish working. My job ends in five minutes.”

“Talk to the policeman, Bidi, it’s fine,” said Monsieur Tulles.

“But I haven’t finished my work . . .” said Bidi. His brow creased.

“The policeman needs information. And you are very observant, haven’t I told you so?”

Bidi’s face broke out in smiles. He looked with adoration at Monsieur Tulles. “You are a good man.” Bidi looked at Bellan. “Are you a good man?”

Bellan put his head down. Ashamed. “Not very often.”

“They are bad men. I know that.”

Bellan looked up. “How Bidi?”

“They hurt people.”

“Did you see them fight?”

“There was blood on their shirts. I said OMO worked best on stains.”

Customers came into the shop and Monsieur Tulles left to wait on them.

“One named Dragos has a ponytail and works at the Opera,” said Bellan. “Know him?”

“I like the singing place. He paid me to bring food.”

“Aaah,” Bellan nodded. “So he wasn’t sick, then?”

Bidi shook his head. He scratched his muscular arm. “No food’s allowed backstage, but he showed me a secret way.”

Bellan’s eyes widened. Would Dragos Iliescu show this simpleminded boy a secret . . .? But Bidi wasn’t so simpleminded, Bellan grudgingly admitted to himself; it was more complicated. He pushed that out of his mind. Bidi seemed loyal, punctual, and a hard worker. That was how someone once referred to him, after his graduation from the police academy. Like a dog who responded to affection.

“Why did Dragos show you a secret way?”

“To bring his lunch. He didn’t like his bosses. He laughed at the big one and said he would show him.”

Bidi looked at his watch. “It’s time to go. Or I’ll be late. Can’t be late.”

“Will you show me?” asked Bellan, hesitant.

“No time. Later.”

Bidi stacked his last box, hung up his apron, slipped on his backpack, and was gone.

“Does he have an appointment?”

“He’s a bird watcher,” Monsieur Tulles nodded. “Every day at this time he watches the falcons nesting behind the Gare de Lyon clockface.”

Saturday Evening

“LET’S FIND WHERE JOSIANE was meeting Brault,” said Aimee.

Out on cobbled rue de Lappe, Aimee gripped Rene’s arm.

The early Saturday evening sounds in a quartier thronged with nightlife flowed around them. Laughter and voices spilled over the narrow street. Young voices, those who’d come into the Bastille for a good time. Later, surly and sullen with drink, they’d straggle home. Get sick in the Metro.

Some rollerbladed with gorilla masks, weaving in formation over the garnet-pink bricks outlining the old Bastille prison. They circled the Bastille column, passing the Cafe des Phares where patrons debated philosophy and solved the world’s problems on Sunday mornings.

The Bastille attracted them as it had since the days of the Bal Musette. Sophisticated ones might attend raves outside Paris in abandoned warehouses. But the tradition continued from the 30s, when movie stars and aristos had gone slumming on rue de Lappe. Despite the changing face of the quartier, working-class types still danced to the accordion, cheek-to-cheek, and everyone drank.

“Brault said it’s down from the Balajo,” she said. “What do you see?”

“Number twenty-four’s next to bar a Nenette,” said Rene. “There’s a wooden door covered with graffiti, leading to a courtyard.”

“Let’s go visit,” she said.

“Attention!” said Rene.

Too late. Her legs hit a metal marker, short and rounded. She crumpled onto the damp, cobbled pavement. Good thing she’d thrown her arms out and landed on her knees and spread palms.

“Where did that come from?” she asked, rubbing her shin. Her legs must be black and blue all over with the way she’d been bumping into things. She wouldn’t have a whole pair of stockings left. Better stick to wearing pants.

“I’m sorry,” said Rene. “Bollards dot the walkway, to prevent cars parking.”

She knew in the old days they prevented carriages running into the building.