Murder in the Bastille

“These resemble chess pieces, pawns,” said Rene.

That was what she felt like. A pawn in life’s game. Advancing from square to square but ending in a stalemate.

She heard the unmistakeable crowing of a rooster from inside.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Uneven cobbles greeted them. The crowing grew louder and the strains of an organ grinder accompanied it. A pocket of life, unchanged and utterly Parisian, part of the passages and courtyards honeycombing the Bastille.

“Lost your way, monsieur et mademoiselle?”

“Er . . . you could say that,” said Rene.

“But you might help us,” said Aimee. “Do you make organ grinders here?”

“And the sheet music,” said the man who’d offered to help them. “With the holes punched in them so the platen can ‘read’ the notes.”

“Do you know Josiane Dolet? I’m asking because she was meeting a friend here on Monday night.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Anyone here who might?”

“Hard to say. A few of us live here. The others work in the ateliers in the day. I’m alone here now.”

The clucking of hens came from nearby.

“Who owns the chickens, monsieur?”

“They belong to Ravic, the ironsmith.”

“He still works in iron?”

“Mais oui,” the man said. “The iron forge stands behind the chicken cages. He’s closed today. Gone to his niece’s wedding.”

“Merci for your help, monsieur.”

Another dead end. She turned and tugged Rene’s arm.

They walked past the chickens. Strains from the organ grinder’s tinny music rose behind them.

And then it clicked. Of course. She turned back, grabbed Rene’s arm.

“May I ask, monsieur, does Ravic work with lead?”

“All kinds of metal. Not just iron. He supplied me with a lead compound for my new handle. My old one wore out.”

“Wouldn’t that be heavy?”

“Not that heavy.”

Her ears perked up.

“Not that heavy?”

“Ravic uses thin leaded sheets,” he said. “Mixed with some alloy, for strength.”

“Does he supply craftsmen in the area?”

Silence. Did he shrug or shake his head?

“I’m sorry but I can’t see you.”

“Mais oui,” he said, a chuckle in his voice. “He supplies everyone.”

“Merci, monsieur.”

Buttery smells wafted from somewhere as they reached rue de Lappe. Rene told her to wait, then she felt something warm put in her hand.

“What’s this?”

“A Bastille pave, a cobblestone,” he said. “At least that’s what the boulangerie calls them.”

“It tastes more like chocolate pastry,” she said. “Delicious.”

She clutched Rene’s elbow as they walked, cupping crumbs with her other hand.

“What are you getting at, Aimee?” asked Rene.

“Do you remember what Brault said about Dragos looking for lead?”

“So what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I need to reach Vincent,” she said. “To find out. Let’s go call from a cafe. We’ll try another number.”

“VINCENT CSARDA, ” he answered at the first ring.

“We need to talk, Vincent.”

“Impossible. Look, sorry,” he said. “Let me call you later.”

“This can’t wait, Vincent.”

“Bad time right now,” he said.

“Your bad time’s just beginning if we don’t persuade la Proc to ignore your affair, Vincent,” she said, improvising as she went along.

“What do you mean?” His voice lowered.

“Having an affair is your business except . . .”

“Join the planet, Aimee Leduc,” he said. “Get back to reality.”

“It’s who you had the affair with ‘Inca,’ ” she said.

She heard rustling, as if his hand covered the phone. Mur-murred speech.

“How do you mean?”

“Kinky, threesome or however Inca liked it,” she said. “Short for Incandescent.”

“Who?”

“Those hot e-mails make it hard to convince the Proc you had no involvement with Incandescent.”

“Leave my business alone,” he said, his voice brittle. “Our contract has ended.”

“And to think, a moment before you apologized!” she said. “But in a court of law, as I told you, we’re still responsible. Monday’s the court date, Rene expects the subpoena to issue then.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“Vincent, I’ve got the software to prove it. And I will. It’s personal now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Why couldn’t he understand? Face it, he didn’t want to understand.

He kept talking. “We just settled our negotiations in Bordeaux,” said Vincent. “Those vintners take their time. I kept telling them, backing a business isn’t like aging wine. One has to move in a flash. Thank God for Martine. She’s saved the magazine.”

Hadn’t Martine spoken with him?

She took a deep breath. “After you stormed out of the resto, when I was en route to the Metro, someone attacked me. Or maybe you know all about that?”

“What do you mean?”

He sounded surprised.

“Josiane, the woman who sat next to us was killed in the adjoining passage. I’m going to find out who attacked me and murdered her. I’ve got time, since the attacker blinded me.”

The words had tumbled from her. She heard him gasp on the other end.

“You? A murder?” His surprise sounded genuine.

Aimee’s reply caught in her throat.

And a terrible thought crossed her mind. She remembered Josiane sitting and smoking at the table adjoining theirs. And her glance their way. Had her look been aimed at Vincent?

“You knew Josiane Dolet, didn’t you?”

Silence.

Was that planned . . . had there been some code between them? Or had she been about to speak with him, but thought better of it and agreed to meet him later?

“You killed Josiane.”

“You’re not making sense,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All these allegations about an affair and now . . .”

“She investigated your ties to Incandescent. The money laundering for the gun-running . . .”