Murder in the Marais

by Black, Cara

  “Keep going, Morbier, I’m getting everything you say on tape even if I can’t see you,” Aimee told him.

  He was fuming now. “Leduc, I told you…Aaah!”

  Aimee shone the portable LumaLite as she and Serge chorused, “Fireworks!”

  The Luminol glowed, displaying a fluorescent scene of fifty-year-old carnage.

  “Oh my God,” she said into the camera, which was catching every streak and splatter of blood. Javel had been right. Blood was everywhere. Arcs sprayed up the light well and a jagged stream snaked to the drain and disappeared. Luminol lasted less than a minute but she captured it all on video.

  “It’s unbelievable!” Serge inched his way down the stairs beside the trail of bloody footprints. “Blood preserved under concrete and stone for fifty years. I’ll get into police bulletins all over the world!” he said.

  “Let’s spray the staircase again,” she said grimly.

  She prepared her ruler and laid it quickly next to a pair of footprints that fluorescently appeared. The prints led up the stairs and measured nine centimeters. Something else of a muted color was mixed in with the blood.

  “Tissue or organ probably; this area has been remarkably protected,” Serge said.

  She looked up at Lili’s dirty windowpane above them. Aimee figured it had been quick, brutal, and more messy than even the Luminol showed. Her fast take, from the angle of the arc of the blood spray, indicated an attack from above the victim. Footprints walked out of the light well. They resembled a solid shoe, like boots with splayed heels, worn on one edge as if the wearer was slightly pigeon-toed. The ball of the foot was more pronounced and they stopped at the troughlike concrete sink. Smudged bloodstains were on the chipped concrete. It was creepy to think that she’d walked over this. No one had lived in the concierge’s rooms for years; now she realized why they’d been abandoned.

  Morbier stood next to Aimee.

  “Two tracks.” She pointed the camera at a path of footprints. “A small person and a slightly larger one.” She peered down at the sink, examining it with her magnifying glass. “The smaller ones must be Lili’s but whose are the other ones?”

  They stopped.

  Another set of footprints led out from the light well to the sink and stopped.

  Smeared blood and a fine spray of droplets in the sink had been absorbed by the porous stones and concrete. She peered at the cracked porcelain knobs on the faucet.

  “Little bit here, when he turned the water on. He even had time to wash his shoes before going into the street,” she said. “Or were they boots?”

  She felt like she was right next to the murderer. Agonizingly close, but so far away. Fifty years too far. What could she prove?

  HOURS LATER, when the criminologist had finished his job and Inspector Agronski was so suitably impressed that he invited Morbier to supper, Aimee still couldn’t leave.

  She kept retracing the area where the footsteps had appeared next to the smaller ones, trying to figure out what the murderer had been thinking. Then she carefully mounted the stairs.

  She tried imagining herself as the scared sixteen-year-old Lili Stein. A young Jewish girl, her family gone, living alone and dependent on the concierge. A concierge who, according to Javel, had been dangerously involved in the black market.

  “All recorded now, Leduc,” Serge was saying. “I’m packed up, the plasterers are ready to come in, time to go.” He tapped his heel impatiently. “This is union time we’re talking about here, Leduc.”

  Aimee was still not satisfied. “I need one more look. I’ll meet you on rue des Rosiers.”

  The plasterers, in white-caked coveralls, waited, grumbling, in the courtyard. The Steins’ building was getting a reconstructive face-lift long overdue and major renovation, courtesy of the city of Paris and the 4th arrondissement. Records showed that the most recent construction had been done in 1795. She figured it would be that long again before another renovation.

  She had the nagging feeling she was missing something, something that was crying out to her but she couldn’t get it. The high-pitched “beep beep beep” of the plasterers’ van was deafening as it backed into the courtyard and almost drove over her toe.

  “Hey, watch out!” Frustrated, she kicked at the bumper, pounding the metal.

  That’s when she realized the one place she hadn’t looked. The one place a killer would pause, maybe grip the sink, to wash his hands. Wash the blood off his hands.

  She ran back into the courtyard and crawled under the sink. Sharp cobblestones dug into her sore shoulder, mildew assailed her nostrils. Shining her flashlight in every crevice and knobby ridge, she strained to reach as far as she could, lying on her back. Then she saw it.

  “Get your Luminol out again, Serge. Tent and cover the sink. See the very faint ridges of a fingerprint in the crack?” she said. “This fingerprint will shine up nicely when you’ve done your stuff. I’ve got him!”

  Tuesday Late Afternoon

  RENÉ BUMPED THE CITROËN over the narrow gutter lining rue des Rosiers.

  “I thought you were in Lyon,” she said, surprised.

  “Get in, Aimee,” he said.

  Rene’s Citroën was customized for his short legs and arms, allowing him to clutch, shift, and zoom like any other speed demon in Paris. And did he ever. The car was adjustable, so Aimee could manipulate the levers to fold her five-foot, eight-inch frame into the marshmallowy interior.

  “I got him, Rene, I knew the answer was here,” she said. “Now I just have to figure out who he is or was.” Her eyes shone brightly and her cheeks were flushed. “I took a Polaroid of the fingerprint. At the office I’ll magnify and scan it into the computer.”

  “How does this involve Lili Stein?” Rene asked as they roared around the curb into another medieval one-way street.

  “I’m working on that,” she said. “I’ll find it.”

  “You and Morbier are stars on the evening news. Not worried about undercover anymore, Leduc?” he said.

  “The press weren’t there at my invitation, Rene, I tried to stay away from the cameras.”

  “Cut the defensiveness, Aimee. I saw your feet in those fluorescent little booties on France 2,” he said. “That Luminol might illuminate things you hadn’t bargained on. Stay at my place.”

  She rubbed her hands at the memory of Herve Vitold’s scissor-like grip.

  “When was the last time you cleaned it up? I’m not a snob, Rene, but certain standards of hygiene need to be maintained.”

  “Haven’t you considered someone doesn’t want this Pandora’s box opened?”

  Vitold had made that loud and clear.

  “That’s why it has to be opened,” she said.

  Several horns blared as his Citroën swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic. Grudgingly, she took the spare key to his flat.

  Rene let her off on the corner of rue de Rivoli. “Miles Davis is upstairs.” She bounded up the stairs of her office building, anxious to log into FRAPOL 1, the police system, and search for a match with the Luminol fingerprint.

  The muffled bark of Miles Davis didn’t sound right as she ran up the last flight of stairs. And the frosted-glass door of her office stood slightly ajar, so she couldn’t put her uneasy feeling down to intuition. Rene would never leave the door like that. Someone had been inside and today wasn’t the cleaner’s day. Instead of entering, she kept on climbing to the next flight. Éditions Photogravure Lapousse had its door open and she could hear the click of computer keys.

  “Bonjour, ca va? Permit me,” she said to the older woman with headphones typing data entry who nodded distractedly and then ignored her.

  Aimee walked past her and opened the double windowed doors to the street. She climbed over the black wrought-iron balcony guard, gripping the thick rail, and was greeted by a dusky sunset over the Louvre and the Seine beyond. It was almost enough to sweep away the anticipation of finding out who was in her office.

  The moon dangled over the distant Arc
de Triomphe and the traffic hummed below her. Carefully, she wedged her toe into a crack in the limestone facade and rested her boot heel on the metal sign support. Four stories above the rue du Louvre, she slowly climbed down the first E of the LEDUC DETECTIVE sign to peer into her office window for an intruder.

  From the slightly open window, a smell of fresh paint hit her. Very fresh. She knew Rene wouldn’t schedule the office to be painted and forget to tell her. She slipped her Glock 9-mm from the strap around her leg.

  As she molded her body to the semicircular curve of the window, she hesitated. She had the firearms permit but not the license to carry her Glock. Drawing an unlicensed gun on anybody spelled trouble. French firearm laws, still enforced by the Napoleonic code, didn’t allow her the right to bear arms. Even in self-defense or equal-force situations. If the flics were inside, she’d really be in trouble. Her PI license would be revoked immediately, if Herve Vitold of the Brigade d’Intervention hadn’t already done that.

  She didn’t feel like bursting into her office when the door had been left ajar, without any kind of backup. She pulled her cell phone out and punched in her office number. The phone rang right below her toehold, inside the window.

  As the answering machine came on, she waited, then shouted, “You’re in my crosshairs, salope. I’m at the window directly opposite.”

  Heavy footsteps beat below her, then the office door slammed shut. This is going to be easy, Aimee thought, I’ll just wait and see who comes out of the building.

  Five long minutes later, no one had emerged from the entrance. Of course, she’d realized she’d told them they were being watched from across the street. Only an idiot would exit from the front. Now she’d have to go in, not knowing if they’d really left or not. She steadied her gun. The flics wouldn’t act like that. At least, she didn’t think they would.

  As she slid down and perched on the rusted tin drain she heard an ominous creak below her and grabbed the big D. Just in time, too. The drain came loose and went crashing down four stories to the street. Luckily, no one was on the pavement below. By the time she’d jimmied the window lock and fallen into her office, it was empty.

  Papers and files were strewn everywhere. Her desk drawers had been dumped upside down, every nook and cranny searched. A professional job by the look of it, she thought. She kept her gun drawn as she slowly opened the closet. Miles Davis tumbled out, ecstatic to see her. Cautiously, she searched her office to make sure no one was there.

  She inched into the hallway. A chill breeze blew from the open window facing a shadowy passage between prewar boxlike apartments. She heard the creaking of the rusty fire escape swinging below her. Her intruder had probably made it to the Metro station by now. Dusting herself off, she took a swig of mineral water and called Martine.

  “Someone’s ransacked my office!” she said. “Can you fax those sheets again?”

  “Aimee, be careful, I’m serious,” Martine said, all in one breath. “Give me the exclusive on this one, please? With this story I’d get into editorials and off my back with Gilles.”

  “You sleep with Gilles to keep your job?” Aimee couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “Of course, this story is yours.” She paused. “But no print yet, nothing. I’ve got to document everything airtight. Do we have an understanding?”

  “D’accord,” Martine spoke slowly. “It’s not that bad with Gilles, we have an arrangement. I know I’m good at what I do but I’ve never been like you, Aimee. You don’t need a man.”

  “I wouldn’t call screwing the neo-Nazi hunk I met at an LBN meeting a smart relationship choice. That’s a whole other story.”

  “Probably spices up his performance,” Martine giggled. “I’m still checking one name.”

  A ring and click signaled a fax coming in. “Is this from you, Martine?”

  “Yes. Don’t forget—this is my story,” Martine said.

  The smell of paint was stronger now and came from near the fax machine. Aimee walked around her office partition to confront a terrifying image. A black swastika was painted on the wall, angled and off center like the one incised in Lili’s forehead. Next to it were three words in dripping red paint:

  YOUR TURN NEXT!

  WEDNESDAY

  Wednesday Morning

  AIMÉE PERCHED ON THE thick black velvet sofa in her red suit, the one she could afford to pick up from the dry cleaner’s. She had begrudgingly slipped a few hundred franc notes to the hotel clerk. Plush hotels rated high bribes; it was the cost of doing business.

  “Mademoiselle Leduc?” came a deep voice in heavily accented French. “You wish to have a word with me?”

  Hartmuth Griffe gave a modified bow, and looked expectantly into her face. He fit perfectly in the Pavillion de la Reine lounge among the discreet clink of crystal and silver. Suave, tan, and very handsome. Curt Jurgens and Klaus Kinski, move over, she thought.

  “Herr Griffe, please sit down. I know you have a long day ahead of you. Would you care for coffee?” Aimee spread her arms, indicating the plush sofa.

  “Actually, I’m running late,” he said, glancing at her cafe au lait on the table and his watch at the same time.

  “Just a quick one. I know you’re extremely busy.” Aimee caught the waiter’s eye and pointed at her cup. She gestured towards a deep burgundy leather armchair. “Please.”

  “Only for a few moments then,” he said. “Of what do you wish to speak?”

  She wanted to stall him until he got his coffee.

  Loudly she demanded, “Quickly! For the monsieur, s’il vous plaît!”

  Immediately, a cafe au lait in a Limoges cup and a bountiful fruit tray appeared.

  “Compliments of the hotel,” the manager said, almost scraping his chin on the table with a low bow.

  “Merci,” Hartmuth said, reaching for his cup.

  She tried not to look at his hands. Tried not to stare at the pigskin leather gloves he wore. Most of all, she tried to hide her disappointment at not being able to lift his fingerprints. She decided to get to the point.

  “Did you know Lili Stein?”

  “Excuse me, who?” Hartmuth Griffe stared at her.

  She noticed the creamy foam in his cup trembled slightly.

  “Lili Stein, a Jewish woman maybe a few years younger than you.” She paused.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m in Paris for the trade summit. I know no one here.”

  She sipped, watching his eyes as they met hers. His stare had grown glassy and removed.

  “She was murdered near this hotel,” Aimee said, slowly setting her cup down on the table. “Strangled. A swastika was carved in her forehead.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know that n-name,” he said. He blinked several times.

  She heard the stutter and saw his mouth quiver at the effort to stop it.

  “Her family said she’d been very scared before it happened. I think she knew secrets.” Aimee watched him. “But you’ve been to Paris before, maybe you met her then, non?”

  It was a long shot but worth a try.

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else. This is my first time in Paris.” He stood up quickly.

  Aimee stood up also. “Here is my card. Odd bits and pieces lodged in one’s memory tend to emerge after conversations like this. Call me any time. One last question. Why are you listed as dead in the Battle of Stalingrad, Herr Griffe?”

  He looked truly surprised.

  “Ask the war office. All I remember is seeing bodies stacked like cordwood in the snow. Mounds of them. Frozen together. Kilometers of them, as far as the Russian horizon.”

  Then Hartmuth stiffened like a rod, as if he remembered where he was.

  “But go ahead, Mademoiselle Leduc, and pinch me, I’m real. If you’ll excuse me.” He clicked his heels and was gone.

  She slumped on the velvet sofa. Did he wear those gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints? All she knew was that something was bottled up inside him. Tight and close to explosion.r />
  Aimee finished the fruit platter; it would be a shame to waste raspberries in November. But she’d learned at least one thing. He was either an incredible liar or a mistake had been made. She opted for the former. After all, he was a diplomat and a politician.

  HORDE S OF protesters chanting, “Not again, not again!” blocked her way to the Metro. Buses lined narrow rue des Francs Bourgeois, the air thick with diesel fumes and high tempers. Aimee wished she could get past the seventeenth-century walls, high and solid, hemming her and passersby in to the sidewalk.

  Police encased in black Kevlar riot gear squatted between the Zionist youth and skinheads screaming, “France for the French.” A light drizzle beaded in crystalline drops on the clear bulletproof shields of the police, who crouched like praying mantises.

  Ahead, a polished black Mercedes limousine, stuck in the Hôtel Pavillion de la Reine courtyard, caught Aimee’s eye. The driver gestured towards the narrow street, arguing with a riot-squad member. The smoked window rolled down and Aimee saw a veined hand stretch out.

  “Phillipe, please, I want to walk,” came the unmistakable voice. She remembered the last time she had heard it—on the radio after she discovered Lili Stein’s body.

  The highly waxed door opened and Minister Cazaux, the probable next prime minister of France, emerged into the stalled traffic. The plainclothes guards rushing to surround his tall, bony figure caught the crowd’s attention.

  “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur le Ministre, these conditions—” a bodyguard began.

  “Since when can’t a government servant walk among the people?” Cazaux grinned. “With the treaty about to be signed, I need every chance to hear their concerns.” He winked at the small crowd around the car, his charm melting many of them into smiles as he moved among them shaking hands, totally at ease with the situation.

  He smiled directly at Aimee, who’d become awkwardly wedged among the hotel staff. He appeared younger than he did in the media but she was surprised at his heavy makeup. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I hope you will support our party’s platform!”