Femme Fatale

by Claude Bouchard

  “It’s a souvenir with sentimental value,” said Leslie, “And also easier to bring over than a gun which I didn’t think I’d need while on vacation anyhow.”

  “Dominique mentioned you work for the government,” said Henri. “Do you also carry when you’re on the job?”

  “It depends on the job,” replied Leslie. “Monique must be anxious to hear from you. You should give her a call while I start looking around for anything helpful.”

  “Good idea,” Henri yielded, reaching for his mobile phone.

  While he placed the call to his wife, Leslie began searching for any clue which might aid them in determining where the two sisters had gone the night before. She was determined to trace their previous evening’s activities and movements, hopefully to their current location. She had little doubt something sinister was involved but forced herself to believe they would be found alive and unharmed.

  Like her sister, Corinne kept her place quite tidy and organized so by the time Henri was done with the phone call, Leslie had almost completed her sweep of the tiny apartment.

  “Did you find anything?” Henri asked.

  “Not to date,” replied Leslie. “I went through that little pile of notes by the phone and those receipts on the dresser. Nothing but gasoline, groceries and one that seems to be for art supplies. Corinne’s an artist?”

  “Yes, actually a rather good one,” Henri confirmed, “Though she pays her bills working as a claims processor for an insurance company.”

  “Does she have a studio?”

  “Just a few blocks from here,” said Henri, “Near the basilica. She shares it with three other painters. We’ll go talk to them because they might know what clubs she’s been going to lately. Anything else?”

  “There are these,” Leslie replied, bringing over a large ceramic bowl filled with matchbooks from a corner table.

  Henri smiled as he shook his head. “Corinne and her matches. Anywhere she’d go, hotels, restaurants, bars, if she saw a book of matches, she’d grab it. She’s cut down on her collecting habit since smoking was abolished in 2008 in many establishments. Some places still have complimentary matches even if smoking is no longer permitted but never like it was before.”

  “So these would be pretty useless as possible leads,” Leslie surmised as she absently gazed at a couple of matchbooks in her hand.

  Henri nodded. “I doubt any of those are recent.”

  “Oh, well,” said Leslie with a shrug, returning the bowl where she had found it. “Does Corinne have a computer?”

  “You think of everything,” Henri commented with approval. “She has an iPad. It must be around here somewhere unless she took it with her.”

  “I’d doubt that, if they did go off dancing,” Leslie replied. “Can I go through her dresser?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll look in the kitchen.”

  They searched for a couple of minutes without success until Henri exclaimed, “Aha. It was down here in the cupboard between two cookbooks. Are you familiar with these? I’m still most comfortable with my desktop.”

  “I never leave home without mine,” said Leslie, taking the tablet from him and turning it on. “I hope it’s not locked… no, we’re good.”

  She accessed Corinne’s calendar and quickly determined there was nothing of interest recorded, most dates being blank. A few minutes of scanning emails rendered similar results.

  “Nothing useful at first glance but we probably should hang on to this,” suggested Leslie as she closed up the iPad. “We may want to dig deeper later.”

  “We’ll bring it with us,” Henri agreed. “Now what do we do?”

  “Leave Corinne a note, on the off chance there’s a perfectly logical explanation for their disappearance and she shows up here,” Leslie replied, organizing her thoughts. “Next, we should head over to her studio. Hopefully, someone’s there, otherwise, we’ll leave a note so, bring some paper. You should call Monique and have her forward that list of recently opened clubs to Corinne’s email address as soon as it comes in. This iPad will be more useful than I thought. Also, have her email the photo of your daughters you sent to the police. I’ll forward it to my phone so we both have it.”

  Henri nodded in agreement as he listened. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, one more thing I just realized,” said Leslie. “When I called Dominique’s mobile this morning, it rang before going to voicemail. That means it’s on, or at least, it was. The police or the carrier should be able to locate the phone. I think they can even track it if it’s off, as long as the battery is in it. Can you get someone working on that as well?”

  “I believe I can,” Henri replied before placing his hands on Leslie’s shoulders and kissing her on the forehead. “Thank you, Leslie. This situation frightens me to death but your confidence and quick thinking gives me hope that we will find my daughters.”

  “We will, Henri,” Leslie stated, “And if anyone is responsible for their disappearance, if anyone has hurt them, they will pay.”

  * * * *

  “This is the place,” said Henri as he joined Leslie on the sidewalk. “The entrance is on the side street. Those front doors are just for show now. They have been nailed shut and no longer open.”

  They walked the short distance to a narrow door on the side of the building where Henri knocked. With no response after a moment or two, he knocked again then turned the knob and found the door to be unlocked. Shrugging at Leslie, he pushed the door open and they entered.

  “Bonjour?” Henri called out as they walked into a vast open space past the small entrance foyer.

  “Propriété privée,” bellowed a male voice from somewhere within the multitude of canvases mounted on dozens of easels.

  “Imbécile,” Henri muttered before calling out in French. “I’m Corinne’s father.”

  “Corinne isn’t here,” shouted the man, also in the native language. “Now get out of here. I have work to do.”

  Following the voice, they made their way through the maze of artwork to find a tall, gangly man in his late twenties, his long, greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail. Several piercings adorned his attractive visage which, like the rest of his body and the denim overalls he wore, was splattered with paint.

  “You’re Louie, yes?” Henri asked as he stopped before the man.

  “What difference does it make who I am?” Louie scoffed. “I must finish several pieces for a show and you barge in here and waste my precious time.”

  “Asshole,” Leslie muttered in English.

  “What did she say?” Louie demanded, still in French.

  “Trou de cul,” Leslie translated and continued in the local tongue. “Your studio partner and friend, Corinne, and her sister are missing. Their father and I are trying to figure out where they went last night before disappearing and all you can do is whine about your work and your time.”

  “Calmez-vous,” said Louie, holding up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t know Corinne was missing and I’m sorry but I don’t know what I can do to help you.”

  “When did you last see Corinne?” asked Henri.

  Louie thought for a moment. “I think she was here on Thursday. I did not actually see her or speak to her but I heard her talking to one of the other girls for a few minutes.”

  “Who was she talking to?” Leslie enquired.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Louie snapped. “Most likely Suzanne or Rachel. I come here to work, not to listen to other people’s conversations.”

  “Do you happen to know what clubs Corinne has been going to lately?” Henri asked.

  The young man shrugged before picking up his palette. “I don’t know. I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on a deadline.”

  “Do you know where we could reach Suzanne and Rachel?” Henri persisted.

  “Sorry,” Louie replied, not bothering to turn back from his canvas. “Make sure you close the door on the way out.”

  “Come on, Henri,” said Leslie. “Co
rinne has an address book on her iPad. I’ve had it with this moron.”

  * * * *

  Once outside, they settled into Henri’s car where Leslie found the telephone numbers for both Rachel and Suzanne, Corinne’s two other studio partners. Henri placed the calls but reached voicemail on both counts.

  “Probably sleeping in after a late Friday night,” he muttered, slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket.

  “It is only ten o’clock, Henri,” said Leslie. “Even if we figured out where they went last night, we won’t be able to talk to anyone at any clubs this early in the day.”

  “Some do open at eleven for the day crowds and terraces,” Henri replied, “But you’re right. We can’t do much until we at least have some idea of where to look. What do you suggest we do in the meantime?”

  “I’d say we go back to your place,” said Leslie. “I can run through Corinne’s iPad in more detail, you can print up some photos of the girls for when we do start knocking on doors and Monique won’t be worrying at home alone. When you do start receiving the information you requested, we’ll be better off at your place than on a street corner somewhere to establish our plan.”

  Henri nodded. “I can’t disagree with anything you’ve said. Once again, let me say how happy I am you’re here.”

  “I’m certainly not disappointed with you either, Henri. Let’s go.”

  She slid out of the car and jogged the short distance to where she had parked the scooter. Henri watched her as she stored the iPad, strapped on her helmet, swung onto the bike and fired it up, her movements and poise exuding confidence and efficiency. She glanced back at him, flashed a smile and a wave and was gone.

  Henri smiled as he started the car. Yes, with Leslie’s help, he was convinced they would find his daughters before too long.

  * * * *

  “I have that list of clubs,” Henri announced as he joined Leslie and Monique in the dining room.

  “That’s good news,” Leslie exclaimed, looking up from the iPad. “I’m not finding anything useful on here.”

  “I’m not sure how good the news is,” Henri replied, shaking his head as he scanned several sheets of paper. “There are one hundred forty-seven.”

  “Are you serious?” Leslie asked. “That’s crazy.”

  “The best the city could supply me was a list based on new alcohol permits issued in the last six months,” Henri explained. “These can be anything from small cafés serving wine and beer to larger, full service bars, dance clubs and cabarets. I’m not sure where we should start.”

  “Would you print me a copy of the list?” Leslie requested. “I can start looking the places up to see which ones are dance clubs. Also, do you have a map of the city?”

  “I’ll go print another,” Henri replied, sliding the list across the table to Leslie. “And I have a map book in my car.”

  “I have a map of Paris in the kitchen,” said Monique, rising from her seat. “Let me go get it.”

  “Good. You and Henri can start marking club locations on it.”

  Leslie started scanning the list of clubs, looking to see if their names could be used as a preliminary screening element. Halfway down the second page was a name which was vaguely familiar.

  “Does the name Femme Fatale ring a bell?” she asked as Henri and Monique returned to the dining room.

  “It means an alluring, mysterious, possibly dangerous woman,” Monique offered.

  Leslie laughed and replied, “I know what it means. I meant in terms of a club name. Femme Fatale is on the list and for some reason, it stands out for me. It’s almost as if I can see the logo or the commercial lettering.”

  “Perhaps we drove by the club earlier this morning?” Henri suggested.

  “It could be,” Leslie replied, hesitating, “But I don’t think so. Let me check.”

  She opened up the maps app on the iPad and entered the club’s address. “No, we didn’t go anywhere near there this morning. It’s on Duperré Street just off Place Pigalle.”

  She zoomed down to street level and examined the buildings, trying to determine precisely which one housed Femme Fatale. Unfortunately, the club was a recent one and had not existed when the images had been taken.

  “I’ve got it,” she exclaimed a moment later as she remembered. “The matches, Henri. Corinne’s matchbook collection. One of the matchbooks I looked at this morning was from Femme Fatale.”

  A quick search led her to the club’s website and easily confirmed it as a dance club which, although open to men, catered more so to women, describing itself as the number one destination for ladies to let loose.

  “I don’t want us to get our hopes up,” said Leslie, “But this place certainly warrants a visit. The location is right, it is a dance club and Corinne has obviously been there.”

  Their discussion was interrupted by a call coming in on Henri’s mobile phone. He answered, spoke briefly, suddenly seemed surprised then thanked the caller and cut the connection.

  “It seems the police have managed to locate Dominique’s phone,” he announced, seeming a little dazed.

  “Really?” Leslie exclaimed. “Where?”

  “As best as they can determine,” Henri replied, “It’s somewhere near Place Pigalle.”

  “At Femme Fatale,” Leslie gasped. “Henri, we have to get over there.”

  “We’re going right now,” Henri agreed. “The Prefect has kindly offered to send a few officers over to meet us there. Let’s get going.”

  * * * *

  Femme Fatale turned out to be a club which did open for the day crowd and its terrace was already half full by eleven-thirty while a handful of tables were occupied in the front bar. Beyond, the nightclub area with its multiple dance floors, bars and various seating arrangements was dim and deserted, access denied by a velvet rope and the watchful eye of the bartender.

  Upon their arrival, Leslie and Henri found two police officials, Sous-Brigadier Morel and Officer Dupont, waiting for them on the sidewalk nearby. Following a brief discussion, they agreed the police would take the lead in dealing with the personnel of the establishment and proceeded inside.

  “Bonjour,” Morel addressed the barman as they approached.

  “Bonjour. A table for four?” the young man asked in French.

  “Unfortunately, my partner and I are on duty,” Morel replied with a smile. “We are looking for two sisters who have disappeared. Information leads us to believe they may have been here last night.”

  A partially open door behind the bar, probably leading to an office, swung open and out walked a stocky man of average height, his swarthy complexion suggesting North African origins.

  “What is the problem here?” he demanded, summarily dismissing the bartender with a gesture of his head.

  “As I was telling your colleague,” Morel replied politely but with a lessening smile, “We are looking for two young women who seem to have gone missing and -“

  “What does this have to do with us?” the man interrupted.

  “Would you let me finish and stop asking questions, Mister…?” said Morel, his tone now curt.

  “Hassan, Rashid Hassan,” the man replied. “I am the owner and manager of Femme Fatale.”

  “Very well, Mr. Hassan. Now, we have reason to believe these two women may have visited your fine establishment last night and we are trying to trace where they might have gone.”

  “I don’t see how I can help you,” Hassan scoffed. “Hundreds of women come here to enjoy themselves every night, more so on Fridays.”

  “Were you here last evening?” asked Morel.

  “I am here most days from opening to closing time,” Hassan replied. “Yes, I was here last evening.”

  “Perhaps you remember seeing these two ladies,” said Morel, sliding a print which Henri had supplied across the bar. “They are very attractive and may have caught your eye.”

  Hassan looked at the photo for a couple of seconds and shook his head. “I have never seen the
se women, last night or any night.”

  “Monsieur,” Morel beckoned the barman before turning to Hassan. “Perhaps your colleague might recognize them.”

  “He never works nights,” Hassan retorted then addressed the barman. “Rémi, you have never seen these women, right?”

  Rémi glanced at his boss then looked at the photo and shrugged. “I see so many pretty women in here. These two don’t look familiar.”

  “As I told you,” Hassan snapped at the cop.

  “Are you sure?” Morel pressed, ignoring Hassan.

  Rémi shrugged again. “If they have been here, I don’t remember seeing them.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help,” said Hassan, his expression smug.

  “There is one more thing,” Morel informed him. “We managed to trace the mobile phone belonging to one of these ladies and it’s highly probable it’s in here somewhere. Do you mind if my partner and I have a look around?”

  “Your presence is disrupting my business,” Hassan replied, his tone sour.

  The sous-brigadier looked around, noting that none of the patrons were paying any attention to them.

  “Mr. Petit here with us is the women’s father,” he told Hassan, “He is also good friends with Prefect Dubois, the head of police in Paris. It would be very easy to obtain warrants to search the premises and bring in a team of officers this evening to do so. Wouldn’t that be much more disruptive?”

  Hassan glared at the cop for a moment before responding. “Do not disturb my customers.”

  “We’ll start back there,” Morel replied, pointing past the velvet rope. “Your customers won’t even see us.”

  Delivering another angry stare, Hassan stomped to the end of the bar, slammed open the counter gate and unhooked the velvet barricade.

  “Hurry up and then get out of here,” he muttered as the foursome walked past him.

  Scanning the large, rectangular space, Morel said, “We can each search a quarter of the room. Look under tables, in between and behind seat cushions in the booths. Be as thorough as possible.”