AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“He knows about the jade and thinks he can claim it but . . .”

“And Rene?”

“He sent some scum to the hospital and caused a three-alarm fire,” she said. “All by himself. But thanks for asking.”

Morbier’s eyes widened and he shook his head with a little smile. “I’m getting too old, vraiment?”

She nodded. “Soon, I’m going to have to put his name on the door.”

“Leduc, I meant to help,” he told her.

His chin sagged and he looked lost. Morbier? Now she was worried.

“Morbier, what happened with your grandson Marc?”

His eyes followed the sparrows pecking for food on the crackling brown leaves. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Had Marc’s other grandparents received custody?

“If there’s some way I can help?”

“Not now, Leduc.”

Morbier stood, took his newspaper, and walked away. His shoes crunched the gravel as he crossed in the square. Could she still count on him?

As her father had said, If only the flics’ left hand knew what their right hand was doing, they wouldn’t try wiping their arses with both hands at the same time.

Gray mist hovered over the rooftops. She took a deep breath. She would have to flush out the scum herself.

LATER THAT afternoon, Aimee sipped wine at a pre-war bar a vin on rue de Clichy. The decor featured white-globe sconces, a stamped-tin ceiling, and enough tobacco in the air to stain her teeth just by inhaling. She wished she could open the window. The smell of wet wool, the sputtering heater, and the stale smoke was suffocating. Even the raw damp wind outside would be preferable. And she wished she could see better through the fogged-up windows.

She watched men enter Academie de Billard, Blondel’s haunt across the rue de Clichy. Most were of a certain type. She figured a lot would be named Jacky, would be on the dole, and would have the hots for Arielle Dombasle whose film career had peaked in the 80s. And all were wearing leather bomber jackets.

She was an outsider. She doubted they’d be forthcoming about Blondel, the man mentioned in Sophie’s postcard, even if they knew him. Maybe this could work to her advantage. Stir things up. Count on merde to float to the top, as the saying went. Instead of going in undercover, she’d play it straight. Try to draw him out.

She punched in the Academie de Billard number. It rang four times. Someone picked up; cleared his throat.

“Oui?”

“Blondel, he there yet?”

“Et alors, who’d like to know?”

She heard the click of billiard balls in the background.

“Tell him Sophie’s gone,” she said, not pausing for breath. “But I’ll help him. We’ll work out the details. Fifteen minutes?”

“What do you mean?”

Was he stalling, unsure of who she meant or— “Give me your number,” he said. “In case he checks in.”

Which meant he’d pass her message on. Like in the old days, before cell phones, when few apartments had private phone lines and the cafe was a central message clearing house. Blondel would call her if he wanted to talk.

Nice, old fashioned, and secure for Blondel.

She gave her number and hung up.

There had to be a back door to the billiard hall, maybe more than one. If she met Blondel there, she wanted to be sure of a way out. She crossed the street to rue de Bruxelles, passing the house where Zola died of asphyxiation and walked the short block to Square Berlioz. Elegant and calm, it held a vert-de- grise-covered statue of the composer Berlioz, and a playground. Seven narrow streets intersected at the square, a few sloped toward Gare Saint Lazare, others up to Montmartre. Hard to imagine that the sex shops of Pigalle flashed their neon only a few streets away.

Haussmann-era apartment buildings lined the street, with their grilled balconies, deep courtyards, and back apartments with service exits. Then she found a cobbled driveway leading to a mansion on the square.

Perfect.

Back on rue de Clichy, she ducked into an entrance beside the greengrocers which bordered the Academie de Billard. It led to a courtyard with shuttered windows, past trashbins, and to the rear door of the Academie’s bar. Crates of empty bottles marked the rear entrance.

Inside, she put her phone on vibrate, slid past the side of the bar, and headed toward the restrooms. A few men were shooting pool on dark wooden tables that filled the period brown mosaic-tiled floor. The high ceilings, beveled gilt-edged mirrors, giant Roman numeral clock over the coat room, and stained-glass skylights reminded her of an early train station.

The phone vibrated in her pocket.

“Allo?”

“You want to see me?” said a deep voice.

That was quick. He sounded interested.

“I can help you,” she said.

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“Sophie cut out on me, but we can be useful to each other.”

“Who knows?”

Nice and oblique, in case anyone was tapping the phone.

“Meet me in Academie de Billard.”

“I’m already there,” he said.

In the mirror, she saw a man wearing a leather bomber jacket hunched over the bar, talking on the phone.

She hung up and kept walking, glad she’d entered from the side and had identified him first.

“But I’m here, too,” she said to him as she sidled onto the stool next to his.

“I’m impressed.”

But she didn’t think he was. Like a cat ready to spring, he gripped the beer bottle with white clenched knuckles. His wide forehead took up much of his face, whose features consisted of a zipperlike mouth and dark deepset eyes. Slick-backed hair and broad shoulders completed the picture. But the scar on the side of his neck, the kind mecs got in prison from awls used in the shoe factory, put her on high alert.

“You’re Blondel?”

“I represent him.”

She pushed off from the zinc bar, shaking her head. A mec rested his billiard cue on the green baize and moved closer. A set up?

And here she thought she’d been clever.

“Let me know when he wants to talk,” she said.

“What’s the problem?” he said, a deep chuckle. “I thought you wanted to help me. Jacky wants to talk, too.”

He gestured to the other mec now chalking his cue with the blue cube in his hand, and blocking her escape.

Of course, a Jacky! Buff body, tight black leather pants and a pompadour. He smiled. Gold incisors. Her throat tightened.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she said, eyeing the restroom door. ”If Blondel wants to talk, let me know.”