Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

“Not at all, there’s a definite distinction,” he said. “But none of this is new. For hundreds of years, all Grandes Ecoles have conducted tests of courage.”

True. She remembered her first year of premed, the escalating insults and humiliation. But that hadn’t been what made her decide to leave premed. It was the cadaver dissection.

“Our rituals follow the spirit of our school.”

“In what way?” She needed to draw him out. Took a sip of the smooth, clear pinot gris. “Like secret handshakes, that kind of thing?”

He gave a small smile. “No comment. It’s based on discipline. But if you understand our history, the purpose …” He sounded almost religious.

“Which is?”

“The Duc de la Rochefoucauld founded our school in the eighteenth century, initially as a military academy. We evolved into the Ecole Nationale Superieure d’Arts et Metiers after Napoleon visited and decided France must cultivate industry and engineering methods, as well. Soon they were developing the machines that launched the Industrial Revolution.”

Skip the propaganda, she wanted to say.

“Even now a Gadz’Arts comes out able to design, fabricate, and operate complex machines and systems,” he said. “Who else does that today? We’re not only mechanical engineers but high-level technicians.”

Rigid and prescribed. Entering young and impressionable, graduating out the back door in a cookie mold. Not how she’d describe Pascal, from what she had seen of his life.

“Hands-on training, you mean?”

“From mathematical concept to execution. And some go on to hands-on jobs. Not that most of us need to. We teach …”

“Or run engineering departments, like you,” she said. “Sounds more managerial to me. Why didn’t Pascal go that route?”

“Did he care about money?” He shook his head, answering his own question.

She leaned forward. “What did Pascal care about?” This oddball genius.

Pause. Jean-Luc averted his eyes, sat without speaking.

“Besides machines and inventions, I mean,” she prodded.

Jean-Luc was withholding something. “I don’t know. As I said, I failed him. But if he’d just talked to me … He wanted to tell me about a project, I think. But I’m not sure. He only left a message.”

Aimee contained her excitement. “What happened?”

“Just a message. Something to do with the museum. Coulade mentioned he got a message, too.” Jean-Luc checked his cell phone. “But you work at the Conservatoire. No one seemed to know you.”

Of course he’d check. “That’s due to my firm’s pro bono work,” she explained. “We’re digitizing the Musee’s catalogs, a few tie-ins with the Conservatoire.”

“Encore, Monsieur, Mademoiselle?” The white-aproned waiter hovered with the bottle of pinot gris. Aimee kept her breath even. His cell phone vibrated.

“Desole, I’ve got a meeting,” he said.

“Non merci,” she said. “The bill, s’il vous plait.” She leaned across the low table. “Did Pascal’s message deal with his research, Jean-Luc?”

Had Pascal reached out when Coulade didn’t return his calls?

Jean-Luc sat back. “You’re concerned. But why?”

The tinkle of a piano, the low chords of a bass, and the shushing of a snare drum floated from a side alcove. Jazz. Soon the place would fill up.

She debated revealing her investigation. Pondered how to word it. “We’re searching for a file lost in the digitization process. I’m puzzled about what a fourteenth-century document signified to a modern-day engineer. Why Samour thought it important.”

“Lost? You think Pascal stole it.”

Interesting reaction. She needed to allay his suspicion and get information. And come up with a quick lie.

“Samour requisitioned this file as department head. Seemed anxious. We’re trying to furnish it.” Now she’d enlist his sympathy. Try to. And lie more. “Our firm’s hoping to get the museum’s website contract,” Aimee said, thinking quickly. “This means a lot to us. I wondered if you could help?”

“But as I told you …”

“I appreciate your time, forgive my persistence,” she broke in with a smile, “but if you can shed any light on what he might have meant … his contact with your former professor, Becquerel?”

Jean-Luc shook his head.

Becquerel seemed a dead end in more ways than one.

“You cared for Pascal, I see. Took over his class today,” she said. “It would be a way to help his project. See it through as he would have wanted for the Conservatoire. For the musee that was so important to him.”

She saw Jean-Luc weigh the option. Had she laid it on too thick? Or played enough to his Gadz’Arts traditions?

“He left a message on my machine at home last night,” he said finally. “I recognized his number, but heading my new division at work leaves little time for anything else. My cat doesn’t know me anymore.”

“That might have been Samour’s last call,” she said. “Don’t you remember what he said?”

A sadness crossed Jean-Luc’s face.

“He garbled his words. Sounded excited. But he wanted to meet. I remember, oui, at his work studio.”

“You mean at his apartment on rue Beranger?”

Jean-Luc shook his head. “He had an atelier, I don’t know where.”

An atelier?

“Something about a document. Encrypted, maybe? But I’d have to listen again,” he said. “Do you think he meant this one you’re looking for?”

Careful to keep her excitement in check, she nodded. “Could you listen again and let me know?”

A little smile. He touched her hand. Warm. Smooth for an engineer. She saw a cut on his wrist near his cuff link. “Cutting and pasting blueprints,” he said, noticing her gaze. “Blame my training.”

Didn’t he have minions for that?

“And you?” He gestured to the ice pack melting on her wrist.

“Close encounter with a windshield, due to my friend’s new driving skills.” But her mind went back to the man darting in the street. Had he been following her?

“Now you’ve got me thinking,” Jean-Luc said. “I want to help. Tomorrow I’m in an all-day symposium. Let’s meet after. Dinner?”

She’d hoped sooner. But she’d learned that a desperate Pascal had reached out to Jean-Luc about an encrypted document. And that he had an atelier. The key was to find it.

Saturday, 10:15 P.M

AIMEE CHECKED HER Tintin watch. The DST contact was late. She stood at the counter in Cafe des Puys on rue Beaubourg. The cafe was near rue Saint-Martin, the old Roman road, and had been a cafe in some form for several centuries, owned by successive waves of immigrants: Auvergnats, Chinese, and now Serbs, as evidenced by the Serbian national soccer pennants plastering the wall.

Before she could order, the waiter slid an espresso over the counter. “Compliments of the house.”

Her nerves jangled. “Merci.”

She undid the sugar wrappers and plopped two cubes in her cup. Stirred. She scanned the cafe as she waited for the espresso to cool. An old woman with a poodle on a leash, two men in security uniforms, and a young couple holding hands, eyes only for each other. Who was her contact?

She laid odds on the young couple.

She noticed the square of chocolate on her saucer and smiled at the waiter. He nodded. She opened the