Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

building across from the Carreau, rose-colored curtains. “My daughter lives there. I don’t like to be far away.”

“Could this help?” Aimee said, laying fifty francs on his sleeping bag. He gestured with a grimy hand for her to come closer. Welcome heat from the grill vent toasted her face.

“I heard Clodo’s in a bad way,” he said. “In the hospital.”

Startled, she leaned closer, trying not to breathe in his unwashed smell. “After last night?”

“Clodo sidelines in cell phones. Where he gets them …” A shrug.

So that was where Samour’s cell phone went.

“Word says a dealer confused Clodo’s stash niche for his powder, ma chere,” he said. “A misunderstanding.”

News via the homeless grapevine traveled fast. “That put him in the hospital?”

“Got him pushed on the Metro tracks today.”

“A bit harsh for a misunderstanding,” she said, interested. “Sounds like retribution.”

“That’s life on the street.”

“More like under.” She didn’t buy it. “Sounds to me like someone wanted to silence him after he witnessed the murder.”

“Tell me, ma chere, would you believe Clodo, who talks to angels and devils?”

More than she’d believe the flics.

The man peered around her shoulder, his attention on the window. His face crinkled in a smile. For a moment he looked almost lordly, as if surveying his territory from his rumpled sleeping bag. “Light’s on. My daughter’s doing her homework, nice and early. Good, she looked tired today.”

His voice was like that of any father. And it saddened her. But she sensed he knew more. “Could we trade a new radio for that phone Clodo found?”

He shrugged. “Not my thing, but I’ll check into it. No promises.”

“But I’ll depend on you for the weather forecast so I know what to wear.” She winked. Slipped him her card. “Why don’t you use that and let me know.”

He winked back.

This smelled like it went somewhere.

Saturday, 4:30 P.M.

AIMEE PICKED OUT Coulade, surrounded by students, in the office at the Conservatoire National des Arts et Metiers, adult division. The narrow two-person office he’d shared with Pascal—she recognized it from the photo. She sat down to wait in the anteroom, a high-ceilinged affair painted a faded institution green. A welcome warmth radiated from the chipped heater. She took off her coat and rolled up her sweater sleeves. A few minutes later, the students left, papers in hand.

“Oui, Mademoiselle?” Standing at the office door, Coulade gave a quick glance at the card she handed him. He was in his late twenties, black hair sprouting from a widow’s peak, stocky of frame under a dark sweater and tweed jacket. A typical academic. He looked rattled. “I’m sorry, nothing to do with me.”

“But I think it does,” she said.

Coulade took in her stovepipe suede leggings, his gaze resting a moment on the low V-neck of her black cashmere sweater.

“Since Pascal Samour’s murder—”

He stiffened and put his finger over his mouth. “Inside.”

Mock drama, a chance to grope her? She didn’t like him already. But she stepped inside the office. She needed answers and access to Pascal’s work computer.

Coulade’s face blanched in the hanging fluorescent office light. “We kept this terrible news from the students. I took over his symposium today. There are thirty-five students finishing their exams. And my notes …” He scrambled around amongst the papers on his desk. “…  somewhere …”

Overwhelmed, she saw that. Nervous? Or guilty?

“This won’t take long,” she said, scanning the two cluttered desks. “Where’s the green dossier?”

“Eh?” His eyes gravitated again toward her neckline.

Her dislike for Coulade grew by the minute. “Pascal said you had the green dossier.”

“He told you that?”

Why couldn’t Coulade answer a question?

Coulade grabbed a pile of notebooks. Checked his watch. “Listen, I’m late. There are waiting students.”

“But Samour—”

“Zut! We share this office, but I’m only here part-time. My day job’s teaching at the lycee. I don’t know of any green dossier.”

“Two weeks ago there was one,” she said.

He expelled air from his mouth. “Et voila.” He gestured to the files. All blue. “I’ve got no clue what Samour meant.”

Her stomach turned. “You really don’t know?”

“No idea,” Coulade said. “He was an absentminded type. Half the time, his head spun with ideas and he’d forget to write anything down. A dreamer.”

But it still didn’t explain Samour’s letter. “When did you last see Pascal Samour?”

Coulade hurried to the door and beckoned her to follow. “Last week, non, Monday. We were supposed to meet here yesterday, but …” His face fell. “I couldn’t.”

Coulade had to know more. Even if he didn’t realize it. She wouldn’t give up. “Meet regarding what, Coulade?”

“He didn’t tell me.” Coulade shrugged, eyed the door.

“Think back to the green folder.”

“Green folder?” Coulade shook his head, his face blank. “Color-blind, Pascal. All our folders are blue.” He waved toward the file cabinets. “But these folders, all they have are student grades. No way you’re allowed to look at them. Compris?”

Another bump in the road. A road going nowhere. She wanted to get Coulade’s eyes off her chest and nail his feet to the floor.

“Alors, Coulade, last night my partner and I discovered Samour’s body chewed by rats in the snow.” She stepped closer and pointed out the thick bubbled-glass window. “Juste a cote, not far from here. I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

“Eh?” Coulade ran his hand nervously over his neck.

“He told me to talk to you.”

Coulade reached for the door handle. “But I don’t—”

“Bon,” she said. “I’ll let the flics know you’ve got something to tell them. Let you sweat it out at the commissariat.”

Coulade stiffened. “Nothing to do with me, I tell you.”

“Too bad. I’m surprised they haven’t questioned you.” She shrugged. “I play fair, but they don’t.”

Coulade blinked, hesitating. “Half the time I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. He’d found this document misfiled in the Musee’s holdings. Or so he said. Ranted about how he’d found a link. But he needed more.”

She suppressed a shiver. “A link to what?”

Coulade shrugged. “Some design he worked on. But it never made sense.”

“I need something more specific.”

“He hadn’t put the pieces together. Or so he said.” Coulade shrugged again. “Yesterday he left me five messages here at the office. I’d turned off my cell phone.”

“Messages saying what?”

“To meet him here. He sounded excited. Paranoid, if you must know. Couldn’t leave specifics on the message, he said. Mentioned a fourteenth-century document. That’s all. But I’d taken my students on an all-day field trip to the Meudon Observatoire.” Coulade looked shaken.