Murder in the Marais

by Black, Cara

  Aimee’s American mother had disappeared from her life one evening in 1968. She’d never returned from the Herald Tribune, where she worked as a stringer on the news desk. Her father had sent Aimee to boarding school during the week and on weekends he took her to the Luxembourg Gardens. On a bench under the row of plane trees by the puppet theater, she once asked him about her mother. His normally sympathetic eyes hardened. “We don’t talk about her anymore.” And they never had.

  Three weeks without a cigarette and Aimee’s tailored jeans pinched, so she paced instead of sitting. She’d always thought the crimes investigated by the Commissariat of Police in the Marais rarely matched the division’s elegant accommodations. High-tech weapon sensors hid nestled in brass wall sconces of this Second Empire style nineteenth century mansion. Rose lead-paned windows funneled pink patterns across the marble walls. But the dead cigarettes in overflowing ashtrays, greasy crumbs, and stale sweaty fear made it smell like every other police station she’d been in.

  This palatial building neighbored Napoleon’s former barracks and the 4th arrondissement’s Tresor public, the tax office on rue de la Verrerie. But Parisians called it flics et taxes, la double morte—cops and taxes, the double death.

  She drifted over the scuffed parquet floor to read the bulletin board in the waiting area. A torn notice, dated eight months earlier, announced that Petanque leagues were forming and serious bowlers were encouraged to sign up early. Next to that, an Interpol poster of wanted criminals still included Carlos the Jackal’s photo. Below that, a sign advertised a sublet in Montsouris, a “studio economique” for five thousand francs a month, cheap for the 14th arrondissement. She figured that meant a sixth-floor walk-up closet with a pull-chain squat toilet down the hall.

  Aimee stood in front of the board, reknotting her silk scarf, knowing she’d got it right the first time. She hated lying to flics, especially Morbier.

  Maybe she should convince Morbier she was thinking of converting to Judaism instead of telling him the truth about an old Nazi hunter who had made her fifty thousand francs richer, hiring her to deliver half a photo to a dead woman. Then hiring her to find her killer.

  Madame Noiret pushed sliding glasses up her nose and pointed inside.

  “Go ahead, Aimee, Inspecteur Morbier will see you.”

  She walked into the seventeen-foot-high-ceilinged room of the homicide division. Few desks were occupied. Morbier’s was littered with a stack of well-thumbed files. A demitasse of espresso sat next to his flashing computer screen. His pudgy fifty-nine-year-old body leaned back in a dangerously tilted chair. He cradled the phone against his shoulder while one hand scratched his salt-and-pepper head and the other held a cigarette conspiratorially between his thumb and forefinger. As he hung up, she watched his nicotine-stained fingers with their short splayed nails, rifling in the cellophane-crumpled pack of Gauloises for another cigarette. High above the desks, a TV tuned to France 2 displayed continuous car wrecks, tanker accidents on the high seas, and train fatalities.

  He lit the cigarette, cupping it as if there were a gale wind blowing through Homicide. He’d known her father since they’d been on the force together—but after the accident he’d kept his distance.

  He gazed at her meaningfully as he gestured towards a chipped metal chair. “You know I had to put on a show, especially for the Brigade.”

  She figured that was probably the closest to an apology she’d get for his behavior at Lili Stein’s apartment.

  “I’m happy to furnish a statement, Morbier.” She tried to keep the frost out of her voice. “The Temple E’manuel has retained my services.”

  “So the Temple hired you before she was killed?” Morbier nodded. “Just in case she got butchered?”

  She shook her head, then sat on the edge of the metal chair.

  “Humor me and explain.”

  Morbier could pass for an academic until he opened his mouth. Pure gutter French was what her father used to call it, but then most flics didn’t have graduate degrees from the Sorbonne.

  “It’s not delicate to incriminate the dead, Morbier.” She crossed her legs, hoping her tight jeans wouldn’t cut off her circulation.

  Now he looked interested. “You found her, Leduc. You are my première suspecte. Talk to me.”

  She hesitated.

  “Trust me. I never prosecute dead people.” He winked. “Nothing goes further than this desk.”

  And cows can fly. Mentally, she asked Lili Stein’s forgiveness. “Please don’t tell her son.”

  “I’ll keep that under consideration.”

  “Do better than that, Morbier,” she said. “The Temple doesn’t want the family hurt. There were rumors about shoplifting.”

  Morbier snorted. “What’s this?”

  “You know how old people conveniently forget items in their pockets,” she said. “The rabbi asked me to talk with her, convince her to bring the items back. On the quiet.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Scarves from Monoprix, flashlights from Samaritaine. Nothing valuable.” She tried not to squirm in the hard-backed chair.

  Morbier consulted a file on his desk. “We found brass candlesticks, religious type.”

  Aimee shook her head. “She hid things. Like a child, then she forgot where.” She stood up, stuck her hand in her pocket.

  On her way to the Commissariat she’d come up with a logical reason for being in the area. The radio had reported large right-wing demonstrations all over the Marais protesting the European Summit.

  “I’d followed her from Les Halles but I lost her at that demonstration. Neo-Nazis were all over. I figured she returned to her apartment so this evening I went there and then…”

  At least the part she told him about how she found the body was true.

  “Let me be sure I understand.” Morbier inhaled deeply from a newly lit cigarette then blew smoke rings over Aimee’s head. “You followed her in case she shoplifted, lost her in Les Halles at a fascist demonstration, then went to her apartment and found her carved Nazi-style?” His eyes narrowed. “Why were your fingerprints on the radio dials?”

  She did her best to ignore his look.

  “Mais bien sûr! Because I had to lower the volume. The killer turned the radio up to hide Lili’s screams, then dropped used tissues on the floor after wiping off his or her fingerprints.” Eagerly she pointed to the crime-scene photos covering his desk. “But that’s an interesting point, Morbier!”

  “What’s that?”

  “The perpetrator might be used to someone cleaning up after him-or herself.”

  “Or might be a slob.”

  She studied the swastika carved into Lili Stein’s forehead in the photograph. It was then she noticed how this particular swastika slanted differently from the graffiti in the Metro. She grabbed a paper clip from his desk, rubbed it on her silk shirt, and then stuck it in her mouth. Chewing and moving it with her tongue helped her think.

  In the photograph reddish discoloration under Lili Stein’s ears continued along her neck. The thin line of congealed blood showed the ligature that had strangled her. Nothing explained her half–clenched fists except fear. Or anger.

  “I’ll corroborate your alibi after I check with your dwarf.” Morbier plopped himself back into his chair, rubbing his jowl with one hand. “We make a deal, you and me…”

  “Leave Rene out of it.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You want to use me. No one in the Marais will talk to your flics.”

  She knew that ever since uniformed French police had rounded up Jews for the Nazis during the Occupation, no Jew trusted them. Morbier must have figured that if the Temple employed her they trusted her, even though she wasn’t Jewish.

  “Leduc, trust me.”

  She paused. Maybe she could trust him, maybe not. But didn’t they say if you knew your enemy you were at least one step ahead?

  “I’ll agree to share information. Deal?”

  He nodded. �
��D’accord.”

  “Give me the forensics?”

  He snorted. “You did notice the ligature mark under her ears?”

  “Of course. I am my father’s daughter.” She wanted to add, “And more.”

  Morbier winced at the mention of her father.

  “That wasn’t all I noticed, Morbier,” she said grimly. “What about the lack of blood?”

  “You wouldn’t be suggesting that the homicide took place elsewhere and the victim was dragged?” he said.

  “Since the swastika was carved after strangulation, not to mention her stockings were rolled down, her fingernails broken and her palm full of splinters, it would follow.”

  “That thought had occurred to me.” He flicked his cigarette into the espresso cup. It sizzled and went thupt. Typical Gallic response, she thought. She noticed his mismatched socks: one blue, the other gray.

  “The technicians have been combing the courtyard,” he said. “If there’s something there, they will find it.”

  “Time of death?” She riffled her hair, creating more spiky tufts.

  He ignored her scarred hand as he usually did. “Say between three and seven last night. The autopsy may pinpoint the time closer.”

  She stood.

  “Beyond sharing information, I’d appreciate your help in my investigation.”

  Now Morbier sounded like her father. He had actually asked for her help. Nicely. She almost sat back down.

  “In other words if I don’t, I’d be hindering it?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He shook his head.

  She started towards the door.

  “Yet.” He smiled.

  “Remember why I got out of this field?”

  “That happened five years ago,” he said after a pause.

  “I’ve quit this kind of work, I do corporate investigation,” she said. “Why can’t you ever look at my hand? If you don’t answer me I won’t consider working with you.” She gripped the edge of his desk, her knuckles white.

  His voice sounded tired. “Because if I look at that burn mark, everything comes back. I see your bloody…” He covered his eyes, shaking his head.

  “You see Papa burning on the cobblestones, thrown by the blast against the pillar in Place Vendôme. Our surveillance van, a smoking rubble from the bomb. And me screaming, running in circles, waving my hand, still gripping the molten door handle.”

  She stopped. Several plainclothes types hurriedly put their heads back behind their computers. She recognized some of their faces.

  “I’m sorry, Morbier.” She nudged the base of his chair with her foot. “This doesn’t usually happen. Nightmares generally take care of it.”

  “There’s one remedy for shell shock,” he said after a while. “Climb into the trenches again.”

  But he didn’t know Soli Hecht had already thrown her back in.

  AIMÉE WALKED along the Seine, speculating about the photo fragments. The sunlight glittered feebly off the water and a fisherman’s nearby bait bucket stank ripely of sardines.

  She trudged over the grooves worn in the stone staircase to her dark, cold apartment, unable to get Lili Stein’s corpse out of her mind.

  She’d inherited the apartment on the Ile St. Louis from her grandfather. This seven-block island in the middle of the Seine rarely, if ever, had seen real estate change hands during the last century. Drafty, damp, and unheated, her seventeenth century hôtel particulier had been the mansion of the Duc de Guise. He’d been assassinated by Henri III at the royal chateau in Blois, but she’d forgotten why.

  The ancient pearwood trees in the courtyard and the view from her window overlooking the Seine kept her there. Every winter, the bone-chilling cold and archaic plumbing almost drove her out. The year before, she’d pitched an army surplus tent around her bed that held the heat in nicely. She couldn’t afford repairs or the monstrous inheritance taxes due if she sold her apartment.

  Miles Davis licked her in greeting. In her tall-windowed kitchen, she turned on the faucet jutting out of the old blue-tiled backsplash. She washed her hands, letting the warm water run over them a long time.

  Mechanically she opened her small 1950s refrigerator. A moldy round of Brie, a six-pack of yogurt, and a magnum of decent champagne that she would pop the cork on some day took up one shelf. Beneath a bunch of wilted spinach was a white-papered package of raw horse meat that she spooned into Miles’s chipped bowl. He gobbled it up, wagging his tail as he ate. She chiseled the mold off the Brie and found a baguette, hard as a crowbar, in her pantry. She left it there and found some crackers. But when she sat down, she couldn’t eat.

  She put on two pairs of gloves, leather over angora. Downstairs in her apartment foyer, she pulled her mobylette from under the stairs, checked the oil, and hit the kick start. She headed over the Seine towards Gare de Lyon and her favorite piscine for swimming. Reuilly wasn’t crowded at this time, its humid aqua blue phosphorescence splashed jellylike against the shiny white tiles.

  “Bad girl.” Dax, the lifeguard, waved his finger. “Didn’t see you yesterday.”

  “I’ll make up for it. Fifteen extra laps.” She dove into the deep lap lane, her mind and body ready to become one with the heavy warm water. She loved the tingly sensations in her arms and legs until her body temperature stabilized with the water. She established her rhythm: stroke kick breathe kick, stroke kick breath kick, completing lap after lap.

  Too bad she couldn’t persuade Rene to join her. Heat helped ease the hip displacement common to dwarves. But, of course, he was self-concious about his appearance.

  The steamy shower stalls stood empty except for the mildewed tile and soapy aroma. She padded into the changing room, wrapping her old beach towel with ST. CROIX in faded letters around her chest. From her locker she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rene’s number. Then she stopped. He wouldn’t be back yet from the martial-arts dojo where he practiced. She punched in the number again. This time she left a message. Her cell phone trilled and she answered eagerly.

  “Leduc, I checked that demonstration you mentioned passing in Les Halles,” Morbier said. “The group’s called Les Blancs Nationaux, infamous for harassment in the Marais.”

  She cringed.

  “What if a member of Les Blancs Nationaux followed her home?” he said.

  Guilt caused her to hesitate…what if there was some link?

  “You still there?” he said.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” she snapped.

  “Jump-start your brain and help me. I need more than info sharing.”

  There was no way to put him off. Besides, it would be a logical place for her to start.

  Abstractedly, she dressed and applied makeup. After she shuffled everything into her gym bag, she looked in the mirror. Her feet were rooted to the damp floor in fear. She realized her black wool trousers were inside out and the label hung outside her silk shirt. Mascara had run on her pale cheeks and given her panda eyes. Her thin lips were smudged with red.

  She looked like a scared clown. She didn’t want to investigate neo-Nazi punks. Or this old woman’s murder. She wanted to keep the hovering ghosts at bay.

  Thursday Morning

  HARTMUTH STARED AT THE fluorescent dial of his Tag Heuer watch—5:45 A.M. Place des Vosges, swathed in mist, lay below him. A lone starling twittered from his balcony ledge, lost when its flock headed south, Hartmuth imagined. He sipped his cafe au lait in the gray light. The aroma of buttery croissants filled his room.

  He felt overwhelmed by regrets–his guilt in loving Sarah and most of all for not saving her all those years ago. A knock on the adjoining door of his suite startled him. He pulled his flannel robe around himself, redirecting his thoughts.

  “Guten tag, Ilse.” Hartmuth smiled as she entered.

  Ilse beamed, eyeing the work pile on the desk. With her snowy white hair and scrubbed cheeks, a gaggle of grandchildren should be trailing behind her begging for freshly baked mandelgebäck. Instead, she stood
alone, her stout figure encased in a boxlike brown suit with matching support hose, pressing her palms together.

  Almost as if in prayer, he thought.

  “A milestone for our cause!” she said, her voice low with emotion. “I am proud, mein Herr, to be allowed to assist you.”

  Hartmuth averted his eyes. She bustled over to close the balcony doors.

  “Has the diplomatic courier pouch arrived yet, Ilse?”

  “Ja, mein Herr, and you have an early meeting.” She held out a sheaf of faxes. “These came earlier.”

  “Thank you, Ilse, but”—he raised his arm to ward off the faxes—”coffee first.”

  Ilse did a double take. “What’s that on your hand?”

  Startled, Hartmuth looked at the rusty crescents of dried blood in his palm. The fluffy white duvet cover on his bed was streaked with brown stains, too. He knew he clenched his fists to combat his stutter. Had he done this in his sleep?

  Ilse’s eyes narrowed. She hesitated, as if making a decision, then thrust the blue leatherette pouch at him. “Diplomatic courier pouch, sir.”

  “Ja, call me before the meeting, Ilse.”

  “I’ll organize the trade comparisons, sir,” she said, and closed the door of the adjoining room behind her.

  Hartmuth punched 6:03 A.M. into the keypad attached to the pouch handle and then his four-digit code. He waited for a series of beeps, then entered his alphanumeric access code. He paused, recalling a time when a courier’s honor had been enough.

  A hasp clicked open, revealing new addenda restricting immigration. He shook his head, remembering. These were like the old Vichy laws, only then it had been quotas for the Jews.

  The treaty mandated that any immigrant without proper documentation would be incarcerated, without benefit of a trial. He knew France’s crippling 12.8 percent unemployment rate, highest since the war, was the reason behind this. Even Germany’s unemployment statistics had grown alarmingly since the Reunification.

  The phone trilled insistently next to him, jolting him back to the present.