Murder in the Bastille

“She mentioned you might help. Someone using your phone called me Monday night about eleven. Remember?”

“Monday, never,” she said. “I opened at midnight.”

Aimee’s heart sank. The counter jumped as a bottle landed by her.

“Mais non . . . what am I saying? Monday night my accordionist started at ten p.m. He left early for an accordion slam . . . whatever that is!”

“Do you remember who was here at the counter?”

“My habitues, the regulars.”

“Do you know who used the phone?”

“Cherie, for one franc, anyone uses the phone,” she said.

Aimee expected that. And it could be true. But she suspected Clothilde ran a tight ship and had eyes in the back of her head, like any good owner would. She’d know who drank what, how to keep the regulars happy, when to talk and when to listen.

It was hard to trawl for information and remain casual. Clothilde had been around before Aimee was born. How could she get her to reveal the truth or to let something slip?

“Clothilde, you’re right. But today so many use cell phones. Mimi said your memory’s sharper than a razor. You see,” she leaned toward where she suspected Clotilde to be. “It’s a bit private. Wouldn’t want the world to know. Or the doctor.”

“My ear’s right here, cherie,” she said. “Turn away, Lucas!”

Aimee had to think fast. Faster than she ever had. And make it work.

“Alors, he invested in a project. But he thinks I owe him money . . .” she said, her voice low. Then she paused for dramatic effect. “Call it an investment, I told him. No guarantees, eh? At first it was a gift, then he called it a loan. I don’t want to bring it all up again if he’s let it pass! But I have to know if he called. Then we’ll settle this. Do you understand, Clothilde?”

“What’s his name?”

Great . . . how could she get out of this now?

“I can’t say, it’s not right, if . . . well you know, he’s not the one or doesn’t . . .”

“But why . . .”

“He called me from here. I remember Nini peau de chien in the background.”

A perfumed sigh tinged by garlic wafted toward her.

“No wonder. One comes to mind.”

Say his name, she prayed.

“Alors, he’s a bit old for you. Dull, too. But it wouldn’t be him, eh?”

Say it, she wanted to yell. Say it.

“Age doesn’t matter.”

Clothilde sighed. “Men continue to surprise me.”

Aimee took a deep drag. Clenched her fist, willing her to talk. “He certainly surprised me.”

“Mathieu uses the phone. Doesn’t believe in cell phones, he tells me. He was here tonight,” she said. “Maybe half an hour ago. Hard to believe it was him.”

Mathieu?

How could it be Mathieu? Yet thinking back, Chantal had told her the flics brought him in for questioning. But attacking her and killing Josiane . . . ?

Aimee felt a garlic-scented breath on her face. “But everyone’s taste is different.”

“Well, I thought . . .”

“Now that I think about it, Mathieu’s father,” said Clothilde, “invested in girls. He made everyone turn a blind eye to the women he supplied from our place. In turn, he got favors.”

“Mathieu’s father? Wasn’t he a craftsman?”

“Ask Mimi. The high-ranking SS loved it . . . earthy Parisian girls from Marche d’Aligre. They liked peasant costumes.” Clothilde blew a breath of smoke in the air. “Go figure.”

“But I thought Mathieu’s family were respected ebenistes.”

“Eh cherie, who was acquiring works of art during the Occupation? ‘Buying’ is a polite term. ‘Appropriating’ says it better. Who better to take a wealthy deportee’s furniture and make money from it?”

Did that have anything to do with the old woman she’d seen coming out of Mathieu’s with the silvery hair?

“Clothilde!”

Voices had risen, singing along with the accordion. Old songs, like her grandmother had played.

“Excuse me, time to close the doors.”

“Lucas, mind helping me back?” asked Aimee.

She heard him gulp his wine.

“We’ll never get out if we don’t leave now.”

“D’accord,” he agreed.

Out on the street, the only sounds were their footsteps and the click of Lucas’s cane on the rain-dampened cobbles. The music had faded into the night. Rain-freshened air scented the stone-walled street.

“How well do you know Mathieu?”

“Listen, that Clothilde talks a blue streak,” said Lucas. “She wasn’t so clean herself in the war. I heard stories. But people did what they had to. And it’s over.”

“Do you think Mathieu’s hiding something?” she said. “Was he afraid Josiane would find out?”

“Zut!” he said. “We all hide things.”

“I have to talk with Mathieu,” she said. “Take me there.”

“Why would I do that?” he said. “I’m tired. Leave all this alone.”

She felt inside her bag, found the Beretta.

“Here,” she said, taking the cane from him and putting the Beretta in his hand. “Didn’t you want to try this?”

“You’ve got a deal,” said Lucas, his voice changed. “I hope you left the safety on or I’ll cause some serious damage.”

“At least you’ll aim better, with your peripheral vision, than I would,” she said.

“That’s a joke right?”

“But if Mathieu’s forgotten, you can remind him.”

She felt their way down rue Charenton with the cane. Tap, tap, tap. At the gurgling fountain she remembered and turned right into what she figured was the entrance to the courtyard of Mathieu’s shop. The tall doors were closed. She felt all over with the cane, found the digicode, and hit some buttons.

“Who’s there?” came an irate reply.

“Pardon, I forgot my uncle Mathieu’s digicode. He’s asleep. Please let me in,” she said.

“Write it down next time.”

A loud buzzing came from their right.

She and Lucas pushed the heavy door open.

“How did you know about this entrance through this building?”

“Well, it’s opposite the old part of the Residence built in the Musketeers’ time. They all connected at one time. Feel the wall’s thickness. Like the Residence.”

“Saves us from going up to rue Faubourg St. Antoine and entering Cour du Bel Air that way.”

Or through the back of Passage de la Boule Blanche. She wouldn’t do that again.

“Sounds funny to ask this Lucas, but can you see anything?” “I didn’t want to admit it, but the little peripheral vision I have crashes at night.”

“Crashes?”

“Grays and shadows are subtle at the best of times. Darkness blacks it all out.”

Pills. She had to take her pills. Merde!

She found them, swallowed, and tapped her way over the cobbles to the gurgling fountain. She stuck her head under, lapped up the water, welcoming the coldness. The clean mineral taste slid down her throat. It must tap