Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

organizations. In his later years he’d taught one high-level class on theories in relative connectivity.

Whatever that meant, she thought. But Rene would know.

She hit Rene’s number on her speed dial. Only voice mail. Why didn’t he answer?

She glanced at her Tintin watch. If she hurried she’d make her meeting with Prevost. Her cell phone trilled.

“Rene, where are you?”

Pause. Grinding metal sounded in the background.

“Excusez-moi, but I thought … I’m calling concerning Professor Becquerel?” said a deep voice. “A mistake …”

Stupid. She hadn’t thought he’d return her call so soon, if at all. Instead of preparing a story to elicit info about Pascal, she’d flubbed it. She’d have to salvage this.

“Pas du tout, Monsieur de Voule,” she said. “Forgive me for not checking my caller ID.”

“I’m not sure I remember you at the Memorial. Did we meet?” he said. Polite, cautious, and smart.

No way around this but to plunge right in. And stretch the truth.

“I worked with Pascal Samour volunteering at the museum.” A little lie.

Scraping noises. A long pause.

“I don’t understand, Mademoiselle.”

“Matter of fact, I still do. But his murder—”

“Murder?” She heard shock in his tone.

“You didn’t know? But as Gadz’Arts, his classmate, I thought …”

A sigh. “It’s complicated. Pascal’s not on the Gadz’Arts list. No wonder he didn’t attend the memorial. But why call me?”

“Now I don’t understand,” she said. “A list?”

A snort. “I’m a crapaud, a toad. Not that I bought into the traditions, just enough to get by. Pascal never did. So he’s unofficial. An HU.”

“Which means?”

Pause.

“The Mentus, upperclassmen, enlisted cadres to prove themselves. If you resisted, you’d be labeled ‘outside the factory,’ hors usinage, HU, like Pascal. Me, I did the minimum, a crapaud, so I made the list.”

“Pascal’s not part of the family, then?” She sipped her espresso, trying to understand.

“That’s one way to put it,” he said. “This lore goes so far back.” He gave a little sigh. “Ritualistic traditions passed on in a mysterious booklet with arcane symbols, mystical directions. We were pressured to wake up before dawn, wear long robes, learn chants.” His tone was embarrassed. Almost apologetic. “Exerting constant pressure on us until our class coalesced into a unit, a cohesive mold.”

Not a system Pascal seemed to have fit into. “Sounds like the military,” she said.

“Cadres were coached to do the dirty work. ‘Killers.’ ”

Her breath caught. “Killers?”

The girl behind the counter peered up from her Marie Claire. Aimee turned away.

“I mean, it was perfect preparation for the cutthroat corporate world. Daring each other to man up, take risks,” he said. “Prove they’re worthy, part of the group. This notion of group loyalty and camaraderie through shared suffering. Ridiculous when you think about it.”

Pause. The clanking and shouting of men came from the background.

“I’m sorry about Pascal,” de Voule said. “He looked up to Becquerel. A mentor, even to HU.”

“Outcasts like Pascal?”

“Look, I’m at a work site with heavy machinery lined up.”

“Pascal confided his project to Becquerel,” she said quickly. “But I think it links to the contract we’re working on for his department. Can you think how Becquerel would have been involved?”

“Beats me, Mademoiselle,” de Voule said. “The professor looked toward the future. He was a visionary. Foresaw computing systems, communication networks, fiber optics years ago.”

She grabbed her brown lip liner and wrote “communications networks, fiber optics” on a serviette.

“One more thing. His friend Jean-Luc Narzac, a fellow classmate, you know him, of course?”

Pause.

“Narzac? Haven’t seen him in several years.” De Voule’s tone had changed. “The team’s waiting for me, Mademoiselle.”

He’d shut down.

“May I just ask what you do, what your company does?”

“Solar energy.” Pause. “I tried to recruit Samour, a brilliant research analyst and engineer. But he never cared for an office, four walls.”

“He liked them rounded, Monsieur,” she said. “He lived in a tower, did you know that?”

“I’m sorry.” Another pause. “But I can see him living in a tower, now that you say that. A visionary much in the mold of Becquerel. Both seeing the roots of tomorrow in the science of the past. I can picture him living in a fourteenth-century tower.”

Now she was alert. “Fourteenth century?”

“Samour was obsessed with the fourteenth century,” de Voule said. “It was his passion, studying arts and sciences from that period. According to him, no one’s ever invented anything new since then. Was going to set out and prove it, or so he said when I offered him a job. It’s my company, I told him, you could make your own hours. But he followed his own path.”

“His great-aunt said the same thing,” Aimee said. “Becquerel knew what he was working on, but with his death …” She paused. “Did Pascal have enemies?”

Her phone clicked. Another call. She ignored it.

“Look, it’s terrible. But I don’t know. Sorry if I’m not helpful.” She sensed there was more he wanted to say.

“Au contraire, you’ve told me a lot. If there’s anything else that comes up for you, you’ve got my contact number.”

She slapped five francs on the counter and listened to the message. Mademoiselle Samoukashian, and she sounded afraid.

AT THE APARTMENT door, Mademoiselle Samoukashian took one look at Aimee’s raised Swiss Army knife and stepped back. “Overreacting, Mademoielle?”

“You sounded worried, you stressed urgency,” Aimee said. “Has something happened?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, “but put that away first.”

Aimee slipped the knife in her purse. A high, warbled bleeping, like birdsong, came from the high-end laptop.

An e-mail received.

Mademoiselle Samoukashian blinked and sat down. “That’s from Pascal.” She pointed to the screen. “His e- mail signal. I’ve gotten two of them today.”

“You’re sure?” Aimee asked, startled.

She nodded.

Pascal kept busy for a man on the slab at the morgue. A coldness spread in her stomach. “And you didn’t open them?”

“I wanted to show you.”

Seating herself on the stool, Aimee stared at the address: [email protected].

There was an attachment. A virus, a sick joke? Or had someone hacked his account already? She’d view the message before deleting it.

If something has happened to me, give this to Becquerel. He can lead you in the right direction.