AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

She raised her eyebrows. Not bad, this one. What was it about a man in a tuxedo?

“A little late, young man,” she said. “Like closing the barn door after the horse has been stolen.”

“The bomb squad fears other bombs will, er, may have been set, Madame.”

“Set?” She shook her head. “If they had been set, we’d have been vaporized into mist floating over the Seine by now. This wasn’t a professional job, you know.”

“Madame Radziwill?” Deroche, the CEO, bent and kissed her gloved hand. “You are a legend, and now I’m honored to meet you in person.”

She knew him right off—suave, distinguished, and with the roving eye of a roue. And the man in power. Her favorite kind.

“Monsieur Deroche, my compliments on the hors d’oeuvres,” she smiled. “Bibo approves, and he’s very selective.”

“Merci, at least someone’s enjoying them. But in the interest of your safety, please, let this man escort you outside.”

“The excitement’s over.” She sighed. “A little crisis, non, a turbulence like on the airplane when a minor bumpiness occurs and then, voila, all is once more smooth. Wouldn’t you concur, Monsieur Deroche?”

Deroche raised an eyebrow, giving a dismissive wave to the waiter. “Why do you say that, Madame Radziwill?”

She showed him her best profile and smiled. “Bombs, seeking attention, pointing the blame—aah, I recognize the hallmarks of my day.” She sighed again. “But wonderful champagne. Vintage, non? ”

He refilled her waiting flute.

“And you’re still bewitching,” he said. “Now, you haven’t shared this observation of yours, have you, Madame?”

But of course he’d noticed the journalists hovering at her side, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to talk to her.

“Chopin insisted that a shovelful of Polish dirt be placed in his casket at Pere-Lachaise,” she said. “We Poles birthed anarchism. Being contrary is part of my heritage.”

“Won’t you let me take you to dinner?” He glanced at the security force checking the room. “When I finish up here.”

She took a deep swallow of champagne. Then another. “The journalists were fascinated when I explained that the danger had passed. Of course, as a former chemistry professor, I know that if a bomb in a hot kitchen had been meant to detonate it would have done so, and this landmark with us inside would have been vaporized.” She fluttered her mascaraed lashes and paused for effect. “I’m dining with some of them later.”

Deroche sat heavily in the chair next to hers. He was straight as a rod, but his eyes darted about. Her words had struck home.

She couldn’t remember the last time a powerful man had squirmed in her presence. Or when she’d last felt this quiver of excitement. Now she’d make him grovel.

She fanned herself with a linen napkin. “We owned this hotel once, you know. It was Prince Czartoryski’s former residence, the gathering place for Polish aristocrats exiled from Warsaw by corrupt mercenaries working for the tsar. ”

“That occurred more than a century ago, Madame,” Deroche said in a frosty tone.

“Governments, corruption . . . some things never change, do they, Monsieur?”

She enjoyed his barely suppressed wince. He’d love to throttle her, she knew, if he could have gotten away with it.

“But I am available for dinner tomorrow,” she said. Bibo loved dining in four-star restaurants.

She noticed his calculating eyes as he gauged her potential value. Then she saw something else.

“Of course,” he said. “But between you and me . . .” He leaned forward, his voice edged with titillation. “Is it true you persuaded your lover General Von Choltitz not to burn Paris despite Hitler’s orders?”

She stifled a yawn. Always that tiresome question when people felt emboldened enough to ask it. “Semantics, Monsieur Deroche. The bombs were set. I just persuaded him not to ignite them. It is an important distinction.”

She fed Bibo another foie gras–spread cracker.

“I’m sure you have to do—what’s that phrase?—damage control.” She stood, Bibo in her arms. “Merci, quite an exciting evening. Tomorrow then; somewhere we can arrive fashionably late?”

Wednesday Night

AIMEE TWISTED HER arms free of her jacket, and, kicking her legs in the Seine’s sediment-laden cloudy water, rose again to the surface. Gasping for air, she was carried away by a swirling eddy. River grass entangled her arms.

She kicked with all her might against the sucking wake of the boat. Then a cold water current swept her away. She spit out the brackish water, inhaled and dove again. Her arms caught in the branches of a submerged tree, her breath almost gone. She struggled until she snapped the branches and shot to the surface.

Spluttering, this time she inhaled frigid air layered with diesel exhaust. Her leg brushed something hard, mossed stone, and she grabbed on. She realized she’d travelled down current to the stone legs of Pont Louis Philippe. On the bank, a yellow glow flickered. The fires of the homeless? Or of the clochards?

Shouts mingled with the sound of rushing water that filled her ears. A figure stood, calf deep in water. Then a cresting wave from the Bateau-Mouche slapped her up against the stone bridge support.

She had to try for the bank, battle the current, and pray she’d make it. She climbed partway up the support, slipping and scraping herself on its ridges, then dove. She kicked as hard as she could. The current seized her and she battled, kicking harder. Her hands hit something. She grabbed at it and missed. Someone held out a tree branch to her. She caught it and felt herself being pulled toward the shore. Her face smacked into the embankent and then arms held hers. Limp and spent, she was dragged, knees scraping, onto the water-filled walkway. She was soaked and freezing, in a little black dress that clung to her like her skin.

“Can you walk?” Krzysztof panted.

Where had he come from?

She heard the whine of a Zodiac outboard motor. Searchlights scanned the black turgid water. The Brigade Fluviale. This would not be a good time to renew her acquaintance with Capitaine Sezeur.

“Quick . . . kk.” Her teeth chattered. She got to her feet, slipped, and grabbed Krzysztof’s arm. She made her frozen bare feet support her. Licks of firelight came from one of the half-boarded-up arches of a sewer drain. Someone had to be in there.

Krzysztof pounded with his fists on a piece of warped board half covering the sewer’s dank opening.

“What do you want?” The words were slurred. The board was scraped back. Smoke and flames haloed the face of a man with a white beard and flushed face. “Too late.” He hiccuped. “I gave at the office.”

“Hurry up and let us in.” Krzysztof didn’t wait for an answer and tugged the board away; he helped Aimee to step inside and climbed in behind her.

“You young have no manners!” the man said. “Eh, show some respect. Did I invite you?”

In the high-vaulted sewer cavern, flames came from a raised blackened-metal barbecue grill that radiated heat. Aimee waded knee deep in the cold water, then climbed an improvised staircase of wooden crates to a bunk made from an old door chained midway up the wall to iron rings. At least it was dry. A scratchy transistor radio tuned to the weather channel echoed through the tunnel.

She noticed the open can of Sabarot lentils bubbling on the grill, its odor mingling with the smoke and damp. It was like camping in flood conditions. Bottles of unlabeled wine sat on wet boxes near an old pair of rubber boots.

Her arms shook; chills ran up her legs from her numb feet. She’d lost her shoes. Good Manolos, too. And she had to get out of this dress.

The old man squinted. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”