Murder in the Marais
Page 16
“Want to see something?” Lili, plain and pigeon-toed, asked her after school.
Surprised that a sixteen-year-old would deign to notice her, she’d nodded eagerly and followed. At fourteen, she felt proud that an older girl wanted her company. Cool air wafted from darkened courtyards as they passed quiet rue Payenne. Lace curtains hung lifelessly from windows normally shuttered against the heat.
At the Square Georges-Cain they sat on benches in the shade of plane trees, by the Roman pillars. No one was out, it was too hot. There was no petrol for cars and horse carts clomped over cobblestones in the distance. Fetid, dense air clung over the Seine in a wide band.
They took off their white pinafores and dipped them in the urnlike fountain. Giggling, they swabbed their sweaty necks and faces with cool, clear cistern water. Lili sat back, her small eyes full of concern.
“Something fell out of your satchel before mathematics,” Lili said. “But I picked it up so no one would see it.”
She pulled a almond-shaped calisson, a speciality of Aix-en-Provence, from her pocket.
Sarah stirred guiltily.
“Where’d this come from?” Lili asked.
“Look, Lili,” Sarah said.
“Stop.” Lili interrupted her. “Don’t tell me because then I’d have to turn you in. I might have to do that anyway, Sarah Strauss!”
Sarah pulled a box out of her satchel and thrust it into Lili’s palm.
Lili squealed in delight, “I can’t believe it.” She opened the box and popped a sweet in her mouth, moaning. “Luscious!” Savoring the taste, she grabbed some more. “The pink ones taste the best.”
Sarah let Lili finish the sweets in the Provencal metal box painted with fruit and vines. Their legs dangled in the cool, bubbling water. Dragonflies buzzed in the green hedge. Everything felt smooth, peaceful—as if the war wasn’t happening.
Lili’s eyes narrowed. “What else do you have?”
“I can get more if you keep this between us,” Sarah said. “Are you ready to leave Paris if Madame Pagnol finds a way to help us escape to the unoccupied zone?”
“Of course, I’m waiting for her to give the word, she said it might happen next week,” Lili confided. “Madame told me trains are still running down south but you have to hike over the mountains to get to the free zone. Village scouts will take you but they want a lot of this.” Lili rubbed her fingertips together and gave her a knowing look.
“Money?” Sarah asked naively.
“Of course, or jewelry, maybe even food,” Lili said.
Sarah tugged her satchel nervously. She had never traveled outside of the Marais, let alone Paris. “Will we go together?”
“Two yellow stars at once? Hard to say.” Lili eyed her. “Bring more of these. I need to keep the welcome warm with my concierge.”
“But that might draw attention.” Uneasy, Sarah shook her head. “I don’t want that.”
“You’ll get Gestapo attention, Sarah Strauss, if I can’t shut her up!”
The next day at school, their teacher, Madame Pagnol, informed them that an escape opportunity might occur at a moment’s notice. So for several weeks after school, they met at the Square Georges-Cain to discuss plans.
Lili’s identity card, with the J for Jewish, had been issued on her sixteenth birthday, as was the custom in France. Sarah knew if Lili claimed ration coupons, the Nazis would demand her identity card and then ship her directly to Drancy prison. She also realized Lili subsisted on whatever food she shared with her.
Every night Helmut reassured Sarah that he had checked the holding camps for her parents. He promised to find them and do his best to get them food. But he was so generous, she felt guilty. Guilty in taking the food even though she fed Lili and others in her old building.
Most of the time she succeeded in ignoring her warring emotions—her guilt versus her growing feelings for him. She didn’t like to admit to herself how handsome he looked, his dark eyes glowing in the candle-lit cavern, like those of film stars she’d seen in her older sister’s cinema magazines before the war. She told herself he’d understand when she escaped. As a Jew, it was her duty to escape.
Most of Helmut’s food was quite exotic, especially for Jews who were raised kosher. She didn’t care much for the foie gras in the Fauchon tins.
“My concierge says Fauchon is the fanciest food store in Paris,” Lili said one day, munching eagerly. “The rabbi will excuse us for eating food not kosher, won’t he?”
She heard doubt in Lili’s voice for the first time. “There’s not much choice. Anyway, it’s goose liver, not pork.”
Lili had looked away but not before Sarah saw relief on her face.
That night another roundup occurred in the Marais. Bottle green open-backed buses rumbled through the dark streets, full of Jews clutching crying babies and suitcases. She and Lili grew nervous. Every day it became more dangerous to walk on the street with a yellow star.
An unusual orange dusk had painted the sky, she remembered, in late October. One afternoon after Sarah had said goodbye to Lili she returned to the catacomb. She had always liked coming back to its dark, cool safety. She had even discovered another exit to the Square Georges-Cain and some large marble busts poking through the dirt. One looked like the picture of Caesar Augustus Madame Pagnol had pointed out in their history book. Like the bust they’d seen on a class field trip to the park when Madame took their photo.
Behind a wooden post, she heard crackling and looked up. Lili stood, wedged in a niche littered with femur bones. “Who are you informing on?” she said matter-of-factly, her mouth half-full of nougat.
Sarah stood bolt upright in surprise, bumping her head on the earthen ceiling. “How did you get in here?”
Lili ignored her question. “You must be an informer to get this food. Come on, I won’t say anything.” She paused. “You better be careful, you don’t look so thin anymore.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I’ve followed you for days, silly. You’re not very observant,” Lili said, crawling through the dirt. “Nice and cool in here.”
“You followed me—why?” Then Sarah added it up. “Lili, don’t be greedy. I share with others. You get enough.”
“My concierge is greedy. Another family moved into my apartment,” Lili said, picking at stones embedded in the dirt wall. “If I don’t give her more I can’t stay with her.”
Sarah registered the dark shadows under Lili’s eyes, her gaunt cheeks, and the patched soles of her shoes. “I’ll try to get more. The trains will be running again soon. We’ll escape!”
Lili stared at her. “Who do you inform on?”
“No one! A soldier trades with me,” Sarah said defensively.
“What kind of soldier? What do you do for him?”
“What do you care, Lili? Thanks to me you’re eating.” She tried not to feel ashamed. “Leave it at that.”
Some clods of dirt fell. Panic-stricken, she saw Helmut descend, blocking the weak light. Lili began screaming and backed into the wall. A black-uniformed Helmut smiled quizzically, staring from one to the other. Then he gently put his hand over Lili’s mouth, sat her down, and beckoned to Sarah with his finger.
“It’s all right, Lili, he won’t hurt you,” she mumbled.
Lili’s terror-stricken expression alternated between accusing glances and a dawning recognition of why this Nazi was visiting Sarah. Helmut pulled some fancy tinned salmon out of his pocket and put it in Lili’s hands.
“Ja, ja, take it, s’il vous plaît,” and he put his finger over his mouth. “Shhh…ca va?”
His eyes narrowed. Lili’s blotchy red face registered both hunger and fear. She opened her fists and gingerly took the tins of salmon without touching his fingers.
He shrugged. “Sarah,” he said, putting his arm around her waist. “Ja, your guest has few manners.”
Her cheeks were on fire. Lili looked jealously at the two of them. She realized Lili viewed them as lovers.
“Merci,” came out of Lili’s mouth in a high-pitched squeak. She quickly scrambled up the ladder rungs.
Helmut asked, “Who is she?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Just my schoolmate, silly and stupid, she wears a yellow star. Don’t worry.” She pushed Lili’s expression out of her mind.
Helmut looked at his watch. “I just came to say I’ve something to pick up then I’ll be back.” He’d traded his shift because he hated leaving her alone at night.
He pulled out a string of oily bratwurst from his SS kit bag and winked. “Some butcher in Hanover’s contribution to the war effort.”
Later he returned with duck terrine marbled in aspic and herbs. They ate while candle wax dripped lazily across the tea box. She tutored him in French after they ate, as she usually did. Her large wool sweater fell off her shoulders as she corrected his verb conjugations with a thick pencil.
“Très bien, Helmut, good work.” She smiled. “Bravo.”
He set the notebook down and pulled her toward him. Unbuttoning his uniform with one hand, he spread the jacket down as a pillow over the dense earth. She grew alarmed and gripped her fingers in the dirt. She’d had no brothers, never even seen her own father without his shirt. Taut muscles spread above Helmut’s lean chest, his skin glistened.
Torn between gratitude and fear, she was paralyzed. Wasn’t he looking for her parents? Giving her food? The Nazis who’d supervised the police roundups in her neighborhood hadn’t been like him. Helmut was always so funny and generous with food. Under the flickering candlelight he laid her down and her black hair tangled in the storm trooper insignia glinting off his jacket. She went rigid.
She shook her head. “Non, Helmut.”
Tracing her features with his finger, he cupped her face in his other hand. As he opened his mouth to speak, she winced. She wanted him to stop.
“Don’t worry, Sarah, I won’t h-hurt you.” He drew close, rubbing her pearl white cheek with his.
She inhaled his smoky scent as he burrowed his face in her neck. He gently brushed the side of her neck with his lips, his kisses went down the front of her throat.
Tears welled in her eyes. Why was he doing this? His lips trailed down her navel and waves of heat passed through her. He kissed under her nipple and up the side of her breast, all the time caressing her face. For a long time he stroked the hollows of her cheeks and kissed behind her ears and her eyes, just holding her. She moaned. Now she didn’t want him to stop. Finally their shadows entwined and rocked back and forth on the cavern walls of the old Roman catacomb.
On her way to school the next morning, she thought everyone would notice the straining seams of her school uniform. Too much rich food. But they only noticed the star. She entered the “synagogue,” the last Metro car and the only one Jews were allowed to ride in, feeling so tired. She’d only fallen asleep at dawn when Helmut left. In her classroom there was a new teacher and an empty desk. Madame Pagnol was gone. So was Lili.
TUESDAY
Tuesday Morning
AIMÉE WOKE UP AND pulled on a crumpled T-shirt full of Yves’s musky smell. He’d gone. Part of her felt angry with herself for jumping in his bed last night. And part of her purred contentedly. A year had passed since Bertrand, her hacker boyfriend, had waffled on his commitment and moved to Silicon Valley.
She and Yves had spent a lot of time in the tub again. Things had only gotten better. La relation fluide seemed a good term to describe their involvement. She decided to mop up the tiled bathroom.
Aimee paused to savor the previous night’s pleasure. Yellow sunlight streamed from the street-level windows above the bed. Mentally and physically they’d moved in rhythm, which so seldom happened to her. Something felt right about him. Except for his Nazi affiliations.
There was no way to get around that.
Her bare leg scraped something and she reached to move it. Her state-of-the-art tape recorder, out of its plastic bag, came back in her hand.
How long had this been here? She’d been concentrating on the videos and had forgotten this the other night. She must have been drunker than she’d thought. Had Yves noticed? She clicked the play button and the tape started. The tape had definitely been rewound to the beginning.
Her heart sank. Yves must know she wasn’t who she pretended to be. Had he planned on confronting her but got carried away? Had he told the others? If he’d known, why hadn’t he told her? What an idiot I am, she thought.
Disgusted with herself, she bolted from the bed and pulled on her black jeans and jacket. Whatever game he’d been playing, she quit. Perhaps he’d been about to expose her tape recorder and illustrate his loyalty. Lili’s mutilated forehead swam before her eyes. All the way to her office, she wondered how she could have been so wrong.
Tuesday Afternoon
RENÉ FOLDED THE CORNER of the page and slammed the paperback down as Aimee entered the office.
“I’ve got a bank promissory note from Eurocom. Twenty thousand francs,” he said.
Aimee hugged him. “Superbe!” She picked up the book, The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir, flipping the pages. “You read too much, Rene.”
“Nom de Dieu!” Rene covered his eyes with his short arms. “This is a classic, Aimee. You might pick up some pointers.”
“Pointers?” She snorted. “I thought I got lucky last night. Turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
She chewed her Nicorette gum furiously. “Why don’t you badger our overdue Lyon account? Explain it to that nice director, face to face. It would be hard to throw you out of the office,” she said.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Rene said.
She threw his Citroën keys at him. “Go on. You love to drive. Just don’t kill yourself. And while you’re there, get an advance out of him.”
He grinned. On his way out, he looked back over his shoulder. “Where’s your protection?”
She patted the pistol bulging in her silk pants pocket. “Here.”
BY 3:00 P.M., Aimee had obtained permission from Abraham Stein and the other tenants, a clearance from the MCCHB (Marais Citizens’ Council of Historic Buildings), a writ of permission from the 4th Arrondissement Supplemental Housing Federation, and the required demolition permit to expose the wooden staircase. Having a search warrant from Morbier certainly had expedited the process. He was grumbling because he couldn’t smoke. Luminol was highly flammable.
“Where the hell is that crowbar, Leduc?” he said.
But she couldn’t hear. Inside the tent in the darkened courtyard of the Steins’ apartment on rue des Rosiers, Aimee and Serge, the middle-aged, bearded criminologist, were busy. Wearing fluorescent Day-Glo jumpsuits to avoid the chemical’s being absorbed into their skin, they sprayed Luminol on the old oak boards exposed in the courtyard by the sink. Luminol showed blood and its traces on any porous surface. Despite whatever had been painted or scrubbed over it, traces of blood would remain.
“An unsolved homicide fifty years ago and you think you’ll find the murderer’s footprints?” Serge’s voice was muffled through his mask. “Seven years is the outside edge, maximum has been shown at eleven years. Why do you think it’ll show traces?”
“If it’s worked on a seven-year-old stain, why couldn’t it work on a fifty-year-old one as well?” she said. “No one has ever proved it wouldn’t.”
Her arguments for using Luminol had been predicated on that assumption. But now she wondered if it would work. And what if it didn’t?
She went outside the tent to look for Morbier and came face to face with a camera crew. Immediately, the bright lights glared on her.
Reporters shouted, “Are you with the Brigade Criminelle? What do you hope to uncover?”
Her jumpsuit was already causing her to sweat as if she was in a sauna. The lights made it worse.
“Official crime recovery scene. Press is not allowed,” s
he said. She whistled to a blue-uniformed flic, who approached the camera crew.
She hadn’t counted on this Luminol test to go public. Wouldn’t the killer become suspicious if there was a connection between the two murders?
Her silence would be the killer’s objective. She filed that disturbing thought away. If this caused the rat to surface, all the better, she told herself.
Back inside the tent, she put on another pair of booties to avoid contamination, and began taping everything with a lowlight-sensor camera. Serge sprayed Luminol on the cobblestones in the courtyard and on the old concrete around the sink to see if anything would show. He continued spraying as he backed away from the old boards in the light well and slowly retreated up the stairs. He saturated the original wood steps, all the way along the wooden planks that stretched to the Steins’ door.
He yelled down at Aimee, “Get Morbier. If it’s gonna work, and I said IF, there should be a light show in three minutes.”
Aimee knew the wood should show blood traces in cracks or fissures and hoped that the concrete and stones over it had protected and preserved any remaining evidence. Well, they would find out. After five years, the blood couldn’t be typed, but that didn’t matter to her. That wasn’t what she was looking for.
Morbier entered the tent, letting in a wide slice of light.
“Hurry up,” Serge shouted, pausing at the Steins’ door. He couldn’t move until the Luminol took.
If it did.
“Secure the panel from the outside,” Morbier shouted as he fumbled blindly with his Day-Glo booties.
Inside the tent it was pitch dark.
“Jesus, Leduc, this had better work. My ass is in a harness here. We’ve blocked off half the street, relocated these tenants courtesy of the Parisian taxpayers, who are as tight as ticks, there’s some idiot from the 4th arrondissement who thinks we’re making a science-fiction movie and tells the press. On top of all that, Agronski, some sharp-eyed inspector from Brigade Criminelle, came because he told me he ‘just loves Luminol.’”