AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

helping Nelie. But talking is taking time. Please meet me at Pont Louis Philippe. I think that Stella’s father must be the saboteur. The spy. He must have followed one of us; he’s after Stella, too. In that case, Helene is definitely on our side.”

“Another one of your theories?”

“You have a better one? Suit yourself, Rene, I’m going.”

“If I do this, I want to ensure that Stella is safe. We call the child protection services. Do you agree?”

“Pont Louis Philippe. Ten minutes, Rene.”

She hung up. Avoiding the staring, dead eyes of the mec, she put one hand over her nose, and with the other reached under his lifeless leg for the Beretta 87. She slipped it into her pocket.

By the time Aimee reached Pont Marie, the metal lampposts illumined only the rustling branches of the trees that lined the quai and the glistening cobblestones. The nighttime quiet of the island was broken briefly as a couple emerged from Le Franc Pinot, a wine bar featuring jazz, the moan of a saxophone and the sound of cymbals following them.

She hurried beneath the wine bar’s old metal sign that jutted from the building—the artisanal emblem of a winemaker: a wrought-iron, grape-laden branch pointing toward Quai Bourbon. At the corner of rue Regrattier she paused under the statue of a headless woman in a niche above the street. It, like the king, had been decapitated in the Revolution. Under it was carved the former street name, rue de la Femme-sans-tete: street of the headless woman. Island lore said it really was Saint Nicholas. But over the centuries, no one had proved it either way.

She searched for Rene’s Citroen against the backdrop of lighted Pont Louis Philippe, trying to ignore the pain in her ribs. The bookstore partway down the quai was open late. She became aware of being watched. Again. The feeling of eyes, somewhere. She pulled her scarf around her and retreated into a dark doorway.

Waiting.

Show yourself, she wanted to shout. And then Rene’s Citroen purred as he pulled up alongside the quai. He parked on the curb and opened the door, putting out one foot shod in a hunter green Wellington boot.

“Well, are you waiting for the moon to rise or . . .” He stopped, handing her his handkerchief. “Your head’s bleeding.”

Her hand rose to touch it and came back red. “A scratch. Did you and Saj find any payroll connections between Alstrom and Halkyut?”

“Looks like they were using Tiscali,” he said. “A shell corporation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tiscali’s an offshore corporation registered in Guernsey. Like many others, it’s a company in name only, a front,” he said. “Alstrom remits payments to this Tiscali. And—this is the interesting part—every month Tiscali makes a payment to Halkyut. I faxed this information to the journalist, too.”

This was like unraveling knotted string. Now she had them: the real pollution reports, the copy of the notes under Stella’s arm, the record of secret payments to Halkyut. But she didn’t have Stella.

She motioned to the stone steps leading down to the bank. Took a breath and followed him, alert for any sound. At the top of the stairs, she heard footsteps and froze.

Another Halkyut thug? Or Helene, carrying Stella?

Just then the figure of a dark-haired woman emerged, casting long shadows onto the cobblestones as she walked up the quai beneath the street lamps.

Down on the bank, Jules’s sewer sluice lay in darkness, boarded up again. She wondered if the flics had rousted him for his own safety. On the flooded bank, the water level now was up to her knees. Her leather boots would take forever to dry. If they did. How could Helene bring a baby to this place?

Sirens wailed. An ambulance’s red lights flashed as it went speeding over Pont Marie. Her Tintin watch read 9:34 . . . not a bad response time. Jean Caplan was tough; if his luck held, he’d live.

Rene played his flashlight beam over the partially cemented-up arch. “You can’t mean this? ”

“The second one, there,” she said, pointing to a stone arch farther down.

Rene shone the beam on it. Planks of wood were nailed crisscross over the opening. No access. The flics must have closed this one down, too.

Gone. She put her head in her hands. She’d felt so sure Nelie and Stella would be here. She wanted to kick herself. No Jules, no Helene.

“Another wild-goose chase, Aimee,” Rene said.

“They’re here somewhere.”

Rene just shook his head. Khaki-colored water flooded the deserted embankment.

They climbed back up the wet stone steps to the bridge. Directly across from them, light showed under the red awning of Libraire Adelaide, a bookstore, next to the dark window of a coiffeur.

“Go ahead—say it, Rene,” Aimee told him. “I was all wrong. I should have turned Stella over to the authorities right away.”

A questioning look appeared on his face.

“I should have ignored my gut instinct, right?” she said. “What’s the matter, you think I can’t feel any worse than I do? I agree, I have to call the child protection services. My hope is that Helene may already have taken her to a homeless shelter.”

He shook his head. “I think we’re being invited to the bookstore.”

“I’m not in the mood, Rene.”

“That gentleman seems to know you. I think he wants to talk with you,” he said.

She spun around. Jules, wearing a navy blue pea coat and a captain’s hat, beckoned them from the bookstore’s doorway. A sign in the window read JOURNEY TO THE PYRAMIDS, SLIDE SHOW AND TALK THIS EVENING. They ran across the street.

“Have you seen Helene?” Aimee asked breathlessly.

Jules looked around and then nodded. “Quick. Follow me.”

He appeared to be steady on his feet despite the wine on his breath. Inside the dark bookstore, he walked behind the counter to the rear, gesturing for them to follow. “I know the owner. Shhhh.”

Beyond a bookcase in the next room, bodies were packed together on chairs, viewing slides of golden sand and the Pyramids basking in the sun, accompanied by a droning voice . . . “In this slide we see the smallest of the pyramids at Giza built by . . .”

“Here.” Jules opened a door behind the cashier’s counter.

Aimee hesitated.

“Hurry, she’s waiting.” Then he put his finger to his lips.

Aimee trailed Rene down a narrow wooden staircase, lit by a single hanging bulb. Shelves of books and cardboard cartons filled the stone-walled cavern. A funeral wreath of dried flowers hung on one wall. Suspended from it was the blue, white, and red ribbon that indicated the deceased had been a war veteran. “An old Resistance hideout,” Jules said. “A cache for arms.”

“Funny how these days every place was a Resistance hideout,” Rene said under his breath.

Jules took a bottle from his pocket, uncorked it, and took a swig. He passed the bottle to Aimee. “Courage, Mademoiselle.”

“Merci.” She needed it. She wiped the rim with her sleeve and took a gulp to take the taste of blood from her mouth, then handed it to Rene.

“Use this,” Jules said, handing her the ribbon. She replaced Rene’s blood-soaked handkerchief with the ribbon, wrapping it tightly to stop her bleeding, wincing.

Jules pushed a carton aside with his rubber boot. He bent, stuck his finger into a ring in the floor, and pulled up a trapdoor. “This is as far as I go. Ladies first.”

Noise from the floor above sounded like a stampede of elephants. “Jules!” someone called.

“I have to go,” Jules said. “Close the door after you.”

Prepared for the damp, Aimee climbed down metal rungs and was surprised to find herself in a sandstone tunnel that was dry and relatively warm. Not at all like the sewer. She pulled out her penlight. It flickered and she shook it. She needed new batteries. A thin beam illuminated cables, red and yellow tubes running the length of the