Murder in the Marais

by Black, Cara

  This drafty marble-floored hallway of Albertine Clouzot’s apartment on the exclusive Impasse de la Poissonerie could have fit two trucks comfortably. Littered among a child’s bicycle and roller blades were Roman bronze statues and busts resting on pillars.

  Almost immediately, the housekeeper emerged and beckoned Aimee down the echoing hallway. Aimee entered a drawing room—for that was the only thing to call it—that could have come from the eighteenth century. And it probably did. Aimee thought it hadn’t been heated since then either as she saw her own breath turn to frost in the air. She kept her angora-lined gloves on.

  Tapestries with pastoral scenes hung on the twenty-foot-high walls. In the corner, framed by a window with a private courtyard behind it, sat a woman in her late thirties, working on a huge dollhouse, a Southern mansion styled with pillars and “Mint Julep” chiseled above the miniature door. A small portable heater stood by a tray of white wicker doll furniture.

  “Thank you for sparing me the time, Madame Clouzot,” Aimee said.

  “I’m intrigued. Why would a private investigator wish to talk with me?” said Albertine Clouzot. She put a miniature chest down and stood; she wore fishnet stockings, a black leather miniskirt, and maroon lipstick. Her perfectly cut straight blond hair grazed her shoulders. She tottered on faux leopard platform heels. “What’s this about? Florence, you may go.”

  “It might be better if she stayed.” Aimee smiled broadly, turning to the housekeeper. She certainly didn’t want Florence to leave. “I’d like to talk with both of you.”

  She reached in her bag and pulled out a note pad that she pretended to consult.

  “Madame, do you own a pink Chanel suit?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Did you receive it from the dry cleaner’s with a button missing?”

  “That’s right. I had to wear something else.” Florence stood woodenly as Albertine preened in front of a floor-length gilded mirror. “First time I’ve ever had trouble at Madame Tallard’s.”

  “I see. You didn’t go to the dry cleaner’s, am I correct?” Aimee kept a matter-of-fact tone.

  “No.” Albertine Clouzot’s face looked incredulous. “Why would I?”

  Albertine belonged to the world that hired other people to do their mundane chores.

  “Florence, your housekeeper, did, am I correct?”

  Albertine Clouzot nodded absently. She’d lost interest and was pulling open the little doll chest’s drawers.

  “What time did Florence leave your house on Wednesday evening?”

  “Is this an inquisition? I won’t tell you any more until you tell me what this is about.”

  I’m losing her, Aimee thought. “Madame, please bear with me.” Aimee smiled broadly again. She stuck the pencil behind her ear and shook her head. “Detecting isn’t like the movies. Tedious checking of details makes up most of it. All we know is that a pink Chanel button was found near the body of a murdered woman, not two blocks from your apartment.”

  “It must have come off…my God, you’re not trying to suggest that I killed that woman! That woman with the…”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Aimee saw Florence’s arm jerk. Either this housekeeper was the nervous type or Aimee had struck a nerve.

  “Madame,” she spoke reassuringly, “I’m checking out pieces of evidence and constructing a timetable of the murder.”

  She looked straight at Florence. “What time did you pick up Madame’s suit?”

  Florence covered her mouth with her hands. Little feathery spots of white flour were left on her cheeks. “Just before the shop closed,” she stammered.

  I’ve hit it, Aimee thought excitedly.

  She remembered Sinta commenting on the pair of shoes in Lili Stein’s closet, looking at the repair tag and saying Lili had just picked them up. If Lili had picked up her shoes at Javel’s, been trailed by an LBN member, and Florence had followed…But that didn’t explain why Florence would trail her.

  Aimee stifled her eagerness and kept her tone businesslike. “What time was that?”

  If Florence had seen a neo-Nazi trailing an old Jewish woman on crutches she might have been alerted and followed her. Maybe she’d witnessed something.

  Florence hesitated and looked down at the floor.

  “Speak up, Florence.” Albertine clicked her long maroon nails irritably on the dollhouse roof.

  Florence shrugged, “Close to 6:15 or 6:30. Madame Tallard was about to lock her door and so I just got in to grab the suit.”

  But when Aimee found the body rigor mortis hadn’t set fully in. She knew that the cold could retard the onset of rigor mortis but the intense muscular activity, due to Lili’s struggle, could have released lactic acids hastening the process. Puzzled, she realized that wouldn’t fit with Florence’s timetable. But she had to check with Morbier for the inquest findings.

  Florence turned to her employer. “Madame, I’m so sorry. We must check your suit to be sure but…”

  “Am I being implicated in a murder?” Indignant, Albertine strode up to Aimee, towering over her in the leopard platform heels.

  “Of course not, that just explains one piece of evidence that can be ruled out. The button, unnoticed by Florence in the darkness, fell off,” Aimee said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “Of course, now I understand. It’s perfectly plausible.”

  “But the police haven’t questioned me,” Albertine said. “Why you?”

  “I can’t speak for the police,” Aimee said, tucking her almost empty pad back into her bag.

  “This is absurd.” Albertine turned coldly to her. “If you have any more questions, go through my lawyer.”

  As Aimee turned to leave, she saw Albertine Clouzot glare at her housekeeper. “I’ll speak with you later,” Albertine said.

  Florence walked behind Aimee, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls. “I’ve just recently joined Madame Clouzot’s employ,” she said hesitantly. “Two weeks ago.”

  Pain or fear, Aimee wasn’t sure which, was etched across the older woman’s face. Aimee felt sorry for her.

  “Florence, my intention is not to get you in trouble,” she said. “I’m investigating a murder. I had to be sure who picked up the suit from the dry cleaner’s and if indeed a button was missing. Tell me what you remember hearing and seeing after you walked out of the shop.”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “I hurried back. Madame was waiting.”

  But Aimee saw fear in Florence’s eyes.

  “You might have crossed the killer’s path.” Aimee’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure about the time?”

  Florence nodded, looking away.

  “As you walked from the dry cleaner’s did you see an old woman on crutches?”

  “No.”

  Was she lying?

  “Did you notice any skinheads hanging around?”

  “I just walked quickly.”

  “Or a radio blaring?”

  Florence stiffened. “I mind my own business, that’s all,” she said. She smoothed her floured hands on her apron, sending white powdery mist onto the floor. “I told you I don’t mind anything but my own business.”

  “The Temple E’manuel hired me. Here’s my card,” Aimee said.

  Hesitating, Florence slowly took the card. Her hand shook as she thanked Aimee.

  “The Marais is small. Phone me if you recall anything. This reaches me directly, day or night, no answering machine,” Aimee said. She felt eyes on her back as she walked down the short passage.

  Aimee didn’t think Albertine Clouzot or Florence had killed Lili Stein. Neither had a motive that she could discern. But why was Florence afraid?

  Saturday Afternoon

  “GO EAT SOMETHING,” LEAH said.

  As Aimee nibbled on cul de lapin au basilic, she read the headline NEO-NAZI MOBS OVERRUN DEMONSTRATION AT JEWISH DEPORTATION MONUMENT in Le Figaro. The terse report mentioned several right-wing groups, Les Blancs Nationaux among them.

  Leah’s kitchen,
toasty and warm from the hot button presses, helped her forget the cold. So did the vin rouge she poured from the bottle into a smudged wineglass. The dense, oak-flavored taste trickled down her throat.

  She rooted around for Thierry Rambuteau’s card in her bag. Since Morbier wouldn’t help her, she knew it was up to her to identify who Thierry spoke with on the telephone. Otherwise, when she went to the LBN meeting, she could be walking into a trap.

  She hooked up a code enabler to Leah’s phone Minitel, then spliced the cable and ran it to the small television off the eating area.

  She phoned the main branch of Post and Telecommunications. “Operations, please,” she said.

  “Yes,” a man’s voice said.

  Aimee clicked on the TV screen and fiddled with adjustments. “My ex-husband is threatening me. He’s calling day and night, threatening the children but I can’t prove it.” Aimee’s pitch went higher and higher. “The judge won’t do anything unless I can document it. Can you check my number at work? At least your records would verify that he calls there.”

  “I can verify that incoming calls occur,” the man said, not unkindly. “I’m only allowed to check your office number to see calls received.”

  Perfect, she thought. This would reveal who called Thierry while she was in the LBN office. And it would be even more perfect if this enabler worked.

  “Merci, Monsieur.” She switched it on. “That’s a huge help!” she said. “My office number is 43.43.25.45.”

  She watched Leah’s TV screen display the LBN office number she’d given him as he typed from his keyboard. This generated several phone numbers on the screen that were phone numbers calling into the office that day. She copied them all.

  “What is the number your husband would call from?” he said.

  She made up a number and saw those numbers punched in, which resulted in “no correspondence” flashing on the screen.

  “Pardon, Madam. I’m afraid it wasn’t your husband this time,” he said. She thanked him and hung up.

  Next Aimee identified herself as a secretary with the LBN, calling to verify charges on their office bill. There were five phone numbers. The first number was a small office-supply store holding an account with Les Blancs Nationaux, the second was a local cafe that delivered pastries to them. Aimee seriously doubted if the skinny woman ate any.

  The third and fourth were from Bank d’Agricole regarding account information. Aimee called the fifth number, which proved to be Jetpresse, a twenty-four-hour printing company in Vincennes. She had all but given up, but, to be thorough, she mentioned Thierry’s name.

  She was startled to hear the clerk begin apologizing. “They’re ready, Mademoiselle,” she said. “Seems there was a mix-up, we apologize. We don’t deliver, that’s in our contract. Somehow that wasn’t clear to you.”

  “I’ll pick them up,” Aimee said quickly. “Er, what was the final count?”

  “Let’s see. Twenty-five editions, bound deluxe, of Mein Kampf,” the clerk said.

  Aimee almost choked. “I’ll be there within the hour.”

  Saturday Evening

  AIMÉE APPROACHED THE NEO-NAZIS congregating by the shuttered ClicClac video shop. She had slicked back her hair and donned her skinhead outfit. Her fingers, more for protection than decoration, were filled to the knuckle with silver rings. She wished her heart wasn’t pounding so hard, keeping rhythm with the flashing purple-and-green neon sign over the storefront.

  A balding Arab shopkeeper in a flowing gray robe swept the sidewalk near her in front of his produce shop. Strains of whining Arab music blared from inside.

  “Your type, cherie?” several skinheads jeered. “You like sharing the street, why not share the Arab’s tent?”

  She growled. The box with twenty-five editions of Mein Kampf was heavy. She’d liked to have thrown it in their leering faces. Instead, their taunts forced her to establish some Aryan credentials. Hating to do it, she jostled the storekeeper, then bumped into him.

  “Abdul, keep to your side,” she said.

  He kept his shiny head down and pushed his broom further away, mumbling something in broken French that she pretended not to understand. She kept advancing towards him, angling him into a corner. His head glistened with perspiration as he tried to sweep around her biker boots.

  “Can’t you speak French, Abdul?” Aimee said. “Go back where you came from!” She kicked the broom from his hands.

  He cowered against the shop door, while scattered cheers erupted among the skin-heads. He scurried back to his shop and closed his doors.

  As she mounted the side steps of the ClicClac shop she heard, “Who’s the kick-ass Eva Braun?”

  Many pairs of suspicious eyes checked her out. Her heart beat so fast she was afraid it would jump out of her chest. What if she had to do more than kick a defenseless Arab’s broom away? She pushed that out of her mind as she joined a motley heavy-metal-type pair, their arms entwined, filing upstairs.

  A panorama of shining Hitleriana greeted her as she entered an upstairs room. Blown-up photos of Adolf Hitler saluting to gathered masses and huge red swastikas covered the black walls along with a photo of barbed wire and wooden stalags with a red circle and line through it. The caption above it read AUSCHWITZ=JEW HOAX.

  Where were the photos of the living skeletons in rags next to empty canisters of Zyklon B gas that had greeted the Allies who liberated Auschwitz? She figured details like that would probably be missing from the evening.

  There was a photo of a Vietnamese whose brains were being blown out by an American officer and one of a toothless, grinning Palestinian boy, with burned-out Beirut in the background, pointing a machine gun at a corpse riddled with holes. But all in all, the vignettes of hate were predominantly Nazi.

  Thierry Rambuteau, in an ankle-length black leather storm-trooper coat, stood at the front of the room. Despite his youthful shaved stubble, faded blue jeans, and hi-tech track shoes, he looked old for this crowd. Around his piercing blue eyes were age lines; he could be fifty, she thought. Something about Thierry was off, he didn’t belong. Maybe it was his attempt at a youthful appearance or maybe that he had brains.

  She shoved the box of Mein Kampfs on the table. Thierry nodded at her, indicating a seat he’d saved for her. She sat down. Many of the faces in the smoky room surprised her. Scattered among the shaved heads were truckers in overalls, a few professor types in corduroys, and what looked like several account executives in suits. But the crowd was mostly skinheads, average age mid-twenties, who milled around the room. Among the thirty or so assembled, most wore black, smoked, or were busy shoving cigarette butts in empty beer bottles.

  She felt eyes on her and looked over at the man sitting beside her. He had dark sideburns, slicked-back hair, and wore a mousy brown sweater vest with black jeans cinched over nonexistent hips. His deep black eyes and curled lip were what got to her. Like metal filings to a magnet, she felt repelled and attracted at the same time. His eyes lingered a second too long before he averted his gaze. Behind that look she saw intelligence and felt animal attraction. Bad boys were always her downfall.

  A table had been set up with stacks of free videos, a keg of beer and plastic cups, SS armbands, and Third Reich crosses on chains. There wasn’t exactly a rush for the videos but the beer and crosses were going fast. She quickly snagged a pointy-edged cross to complete her fashion statement.

  “Kameradschaft!” Thierry had moved to the dais. “Welcome! Let us begin our meeting, as always, with our moment of reflection.”

  Heads bowed briefly, then, on a signal Aimee didn’t hear, loud shouts of “Sieg heil” rang through the room in unison. Arms shot up in the Nazi salute.

  Thierry saluted back. This quasi-religious brotherhood feeling sickened her. Even though she knew the philosophy of the neo-Nazis, it shocked her to watch them in action.

  He launched into a diatribe about Jews being scum. She surveyed the crowd’s reaction. Hate was reflected in every face. True, Thierry carrie
d fervor and a certain charisma. He explained earnestly that scientists had proven that certain races were genetically inferior. A historic fact, he pointed out simply, shown by culture and society. She felt that Thierry had convinced himself of his own words.

  Then the lights dimmed and the video was shown. This was no amateur home video, but a slick production costing real money. The title, in large letters, read “The Hoax That Is Auschwitz.” Scenes of present-day Auschwitz, surrounded by bucolic farmlands tucked into a green pastoral valley, flashed by while a pleasant, businesslike voice narrated, “As a nonpartisan group, we came to view the so-called ‘death camp’ using state-of-the-art equipment to detect mineral and bone content in soil compositions. After careful measurement in many areas of the camp where there had supposedly been gas chambers, we found no chemical residue or traces of Zyklon B gas. We discovered no evidence of mass graveyards, or anything resembling them, for that matter. The remaining compound buildings, of solid wooden construction, attest to its use as a work camp and to the skill of the German builders, in that they are still standing after more than fifty years.” The camera focused then on the railroad tracks that ended at the iron gate of Auschwitz with the slogan wrought in iron still above it: “Arbeit macht Frei”—”Work Makes You Free.”

  After the video, a skinhead wearing tight lederhosen and a leather vest exposing pierced nipple rings connected by chains shouted, “I’m proud to be a member of the Kameradschaft.”

  A chorus of grunts backed him up. She noticed a banner near him emblazoned with ‘1889 Hitler’s birthdate-When the world began!’

  “We are heroic Volk,” someone shouted from the back. “Like the Führer says in Mein Kampf. We have to start at the root of the problem, the mutant bacteria that contaminates everything it touches, to halt its growth. We have to strike now!”

  Thierry slammed his fist down as he emphasized the Nazi tenets. “In every way, the Aryan is superior; our confidence should rise and soar.”