AL05 - Murder in Clichy

I remember those I had no chance to know, the pavement still mumbles . . . the river Seine swirling near the Pont Neuf, Baudelaire slowly goes by, and Verlaine is smiling. Through the sleeping city, passes history.

Shaped like a ship, the back end of ile de la Cite held the Jewish Memorial to the Deported. Aimee turned left into place Dauphine, a triangular-shaped tree-lined oasis. Once the orchard of the king, it was surrounded by the two arms of the Seine. Sixteenth century construction of the Pont Neuf had joined the island and several small ilots to the city.

Now, the place Dauphine backed up to the king’s old palace, the present site of the courts of the Palais de Justice and the Conciergerie prison, now a museum, with Marie Antoinette’s cell as stark and damp as she’d left it.

Aimee pushed past the rattan cafe chairs. She was startled to see Morbier, wearing an old raincoat, under the canvas awning against the wall. He was reading a newspaper. She sucked in her lower lip. Coincidence? She doubted it.

Flics didn’t patronize this place; it attracted residents—such as Simone Signoret and Yves Montand who had lived in the neighborhood and other patrons who could afford the pricey menu. An occasional judge or prosecutor perhaps. But her godfather?

“Right on time,” Morbier said, setting down the paper, keeping the rainhat’s brim lowered over his face. “Another fine mess you’ve got me into.”

“What brings you here, Morbier?” she asked, keeping her tone steady.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“Mademoiselle?” a waiter asked.

She turned. “An espresso, s’il vous plait.”

Morbier puffed on a short, fat cigarillo. Clouds of acrid smoke rose.

“Where’s Lars?” she asked him.

“Grow up, Leduc. Time to get out of the sandbox.”

Did he know she’d fallen into one yesterday? Why was he here in place of Lars? A ring of intrigue surrounded her and she still knew nothing.

“You’re old enough to know better,” Morbier went on.

“And young enough to still do it,” she said. “So you’re in league with the Ministry now, Morbier?” She shook her head in disgust. “And you call yourself a socialist?” He might as well take off the socialist party pin in his lapel and grind it in the gravel.

“Leduc, in case you forgot, we have a socialist government. First you drop off this charming woman for me to guard, then use my code to find an address from a phone number,” he said, with irritation. “Now you’re badgering Lars to access security clearance files. Of course, it tripped off an inquiry. Forced us both into some pretty lies.”

This was deep. She felt it in her bones.

“Lars knows the muddy Ministry waters. He navigates well, always has,” she said, reaching for a tissue and wiping beads of rain from her bag. “Inquiry into what?”

“Files requiring special clearance,” he said. “And you know that could mean anything—from the chief’s girlfriend’s flat rental, to his expense account for a lost weekend in Bordeaux.”

Morbier seemed intent on passing this inquiry off as trivial. Was it?

“Since when do you cozy up to Lars?”

Morbier leaned forward. “His old man, your father, and I, were colleagues. Or did you forget that, too?”

Of course she hadn’t; she remembered his famous Sunday pot-au-feu lunches. “It bothers me that a man was shot next to me, died in my arms, and you let his ex-wife leave the country.”

“Murder and thugs near Place de Clichy, druggies disposing of each other! It illustrates the law of natural selection. Those aren’t my problems! Or yours.”

”I remember the thirteen-year-old with tracks on her arm who washed up in your part of the Seine: Then it was your business! You wouldn’t let go of that case.”

“Still can’t,” Morbier said. “Key point, Leduc, my part of the Seine. Clichy’s landlocked. They can keep their trash there. Plenty to go round.”

Compartmentalize. Good flics did that. Kept their minds on the business at hand. Yet, she felt there was a lot he wasn’t saying.

“You got here fast.”

“Group R’s office is next to Lars’s”

“You’ve never told me what your group handles.”

“Need to know basis, Leduc.”

“Bon.” She smoothed down her black pencil skirt. Rain pattered on the cobbles. “Pleyet’s name came up as part of the Circle Line surveillance and I saw him at the jade museum. How does it tie together? Well, I’m all ears.”

Silence. Except for the rain pattering on the cafe awning and the bark of a dog.

“Morbier, I know Pleyet’s not in the traffic division.”

“Leduc, people like him, you don’t want to know,” he said.

True. His hawklike eyes and Special Ops aura were chilling.

“I’m not looking for a date,” she said. “Just the truth.”

Morbier stood, shuffled in his pocket, then threw some francs on the round table just as Aimee’s espresso arrived.

“Article 4 of Code de la Police,” he said. “ ‘By the procedural code, police missions are placed under the authority of the Ministry of Interior.’ ”

Morbier quoting police procedure?

“So you’re saying Pleyet’s with the Ministry of Interior? Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You don’t know anything.” Morbier bent over and clutched the table. Was that a grimace of pain as he pulled his rainhat down?

“Ca va, Morbier?” she asked, alarmed. She stood, took his arm, and rubbed his back.

But when he straightened up, she saw a lopsided grin on his face. “Didn’t want to make eye contact with la Proc’. She’s a ball-breaker that one. Always on my case.”

True? Or a way for a wily fox to get out of answering? She turned around and saw the back of La Proc’ Edith Mesnard’s tailored Rodier suit. And then doubt nagged her. Was this a glimpse of real pain after all?

“Give me something to go on, Morbier,” she said. “Don’t make me beg. That’s if you want flowers at the hospital.”

Morbier frowned. “Drink your espresso. I’m not going to warn you off any more, Leduc. Wise up, get married, make babies, change diapers.”

Babies . . . diapers, where did that come from? And with whom was she supposed to do this? Guy was no longer a possibility.

“Miles Davis was potty trained in a week, and he’s more than enough for me to handle,” she replied.

He looked away. She noticed the liver spots on his hands, the lined skin around his eyes. He’d aged.

“Leduc?”

She looked up.

“For once, listen to me. Promise to leave it alone and I’ll sniff around,” he said. “But I mean it. You promise?”

She nodded. “I found out Regnier’s on suspension. As far as I can tell, he’s gone rogue.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said,” she said. “And he kidnapped Rene. I’ve got the proof in this little notebook.”

Morbier didn’t look surprised often. But now was one of those times.