AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

Reinforcements had arrived.

“So you like foreigners, too,” the mec she had kicked said. “Looks like a Corsican, my specialty.”

She glanced around the passage, recognized it for the kind of place where street hawkers had once stored their carts at night. A fire-alarm box was affixed to the stone wall. No time for anything else. She elbowed it hard, breaking the glass, and pulled the handle. Only a loud whir resulted. Weren’t these things supposed to send off an air raid-siren-like whoop?

Another mec with black curly hair, wearing a leather jacket and boots, was just visible in a doorway. The hair on her neck rose. He could have been the musician’s brother. A twin brother. Her heart raced. If he was the one Cloclo meant, could they all be in league together?

The musician took the knife from her and pushed her behind him.

He spit and said something in Corsican. Her shoulders tensed, expectant.

“Look, there are four of them . . .” she began. Her palms were damp. Where could they go?

A siren bleated nearby. Talk about high alert and quick response from the local fire department. Had the Mercedes owner called the flics?

The sirens wailed closer. Louder. And the gang scattered, including the musician’s double.

She couldn’t control the shaking of her hands. But she didn’t want to be there when the fire brigade blocked the street looking for the fire. Or the flics appeared.

“Let’s go. We need to talk, somewhere safe,” Lucien Sarti said, palming the knife. “Whoever you are.”

Thursday Night

RENE PACED ON THE uneven floorboards outside Paul’s apartment. Plaster crumbled in a fine dust from the wall, moldy mildew smells hovered by the skylight. At least he didn’t have to wear the Toulouse-Lautrec guise. Right now, he wished he had a hot rum to give him courage.

He’d left another message on Aimee’s phone. Just her voicemail message answered him. The stairs creaked and a woman in her thirties ascended, her red-hennaed hair knotted in a green clip. She had eyes that reminded him of Paul’s. She wore a long black skirt and a poncho, and carried a string shopping bag filled with nestled wine bottles.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a brisk tone.

“Madame, I met Paul—”

“Ah, you’re the actor. Paul told me about you,” she interrupted. “He wrote a wonderful essay, thanks to you.”

Rene hesitated. He wished Aimee were here.

“Actually, I hoped to speak with you and Paul.”

“Perhaps another evening,” she replied.

What should he do? She was struggling with her key and the heavy string bag.

“Let me help you,” he said.

“Non, merci, I can manage.”

“Mind if I wait for Paul?”

“Why?” Suspicion clouded her eyes.

Rene stepped back. “There’s an important matter. . . .”

A sudden panic showed in her face. “You’re checking up on us, aren’t you? From social services.”

“Not at all,” Rene said, taken aback.

“I know your kind. Worming your way into our life. You want to take Paul away!”

“Relax, Madame,” he said desperately. “Look at me. I don’t know about social services or anything like that. I do know Paul’s a bright boy. Intelligent, talented, but shy.”

A flicker of shame crossed her face. “Shy, oui. My fault, right? That’s what you’re saying.”

“There’s something we need to discuss. Please, let’s talk inside, not in the hallway.”

“Discuss? My place is a mess.” She hesitated.

“You should see mine,” he told her.

With more prodding, he coaxed her inside. By the time he’d helped her clear the small table of dishes, reached up, and rinsed two glasses clean and set them on the table, his hip throbbed from the cold. There was no heater in the slant-roofed one-room apartment. But it was neat despite the sofa bed, desk, and mismatched period chairs that filled the cramped space.

“Chilly, eh?” he said.

She gestured to the stove and unpacked her string bag.

On his tiptoes he turned the knob of the small gas oven. The blue pilot light flickered, hissed, and caught. He opened the door and a trickle of heat radiated out.

“Establish rapport, appear nonthreatening,” said the last chapter in the detective manual. Anxious to disarm her, Rene made conversation. “Those stairs are quite a hike,” he said. “I mean for someone like me,” he added, watching her pour wine from an unlabeled bottle. It looked like generic rotgut with viscous sediment in the bottom. “In my former apartment I had quite a climb. Have you lived here long, Madame?”

“Isabelle,” she said. “You can cut the small talk.”

Easy on the page, harder in real life. Rene realized the detective manual’s advice had limitations.

“Paul’s father left after he was born.” She drained her glass. “We’ve moved around. Always in Montmartre.”

“You’re lucky, great view.” He gestured to the large window with lace curtains.

She rested her elbows on the worn table, seemed to relax. “I don’t know what you want to ‘discuss,’ but I suggest you tell me.”

“It’s better if we all talk together—you, me, and Paul,” he said, trying to stall.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

Might as well get to the point. “Paul told me he saw the shooting the other night on the roof,” Rene said.

“You’re crazy! Paul makes up stories. He has a vivid imagination.”

“Let’s find out. I’ll ask him again, in your presence. Everything will remain confidential.”

She poured herself another glass and noticed Rene hadn’t touched his. “Too good to drink with me at my table?”

He preferred wine at meals, not on an empty stomach, but he knew his duty.

“Not at all, Isabelle.” He took a sip. A toasted walnutlike aroma. Not a bad way to warm up. “An aged Merlot?”

She nodded.

“Isabelle, I’m sure you’re concerned.” He handed her a card; thank God, he had one with him. “Paul says there were two gun flashes. If he gives this evidence to her lawyer, an innocent police officer will be cleared.”

“Innocent policeman? You’re joking.”

About to say “policewoman,” Rene paused. “What do you mean?”

“That one demanded protection money.”

“Jacques Gagnard, the man who was murdered on the rooftop?”

“Look, it’s not my business,” she said. “Forget I said anything.”

“How do you know the flic was bent?” he asked, easing his dangling leg onto a chair rung to relieve his aching hip.

She shrugged. “No big secret if you work the street or have a cafe with machines.”

Like Zette’s bar on rue Houdon, Rene thought. Maybe Aimee had hit the mark after all.

“I need more than that. It’s vital; a policewoman is suspected of killing her partner.”

Isabelle’s short laugh took him aback. “Ask me if I’m surprised.”

Her speech had cleared. After the wine she appeared more lucid. Some drinkers were like that. Then, a blackout.

“Your son saw a man murdered. It happened right across from you.”