Murder in the Marais

by Black, Cara

  And almost too late, she looked up. To her left on another roof, a glinting barrel of a ground-sensor rifle poked over a gargoyle’s ugly snout. Pointing at her.

  Suddenly, the baby stroller reappeared, sliding into the courtyard. The stroller’s wheels popped and hissed, deflating from rifle shots as it sagged into the courtyard hedge. The short figure in the shadow opened a coat revealing a semiautomatic, shooting at the roof.

  She gritted her teeth, rolled over, and fired more rounds at the roof. She heard a scraping noise above her as a black-clad body thumped over the gargoyle’s pointed ears, then the crunch of breaking bones as the body landed. Some vital organ burst, splattering matter over cobblestones and gravel.

  “Aimee, get the hell out of here,” Rene’s muffled voice came from inside the coat. “Now!”

  She ran over to him, trying to ignore the bloody mess in front of them. She looked long enough to see that it wasn’t Morbier. Had her phone been tapped?

  “Rene, my God what’s happening?”

  His arm was soaked dark red and he gasped, “They’re following you.” His hand covered his arm but she tried to pull it off to see. “Don’t. Pressure to stop the bleeding.” He smiled thinly and his green eyes closed. He opened them again with effort. “Don’t go back.” He moaned, then whispered, “Don’t trust anyone, it’s too big.”

  “Rene, I’ll get you to the hospital. Sssh, be quiet until—”

  “No, a bullet just grazed my arm.” He tried to sit up. “Go quickly before they come. Take my keys, hide.” The wailing drone of a siren came from rue St. Antoine. He pulled keys out of his vest pocket. Panic flashed in his eyes.

  “Why the paranoia? Morbier will—”

  “It’s a setup; don’t”—Rene gulped—”go.”

  She hesitated. “But, Rene…”

  “Goddamn it, got to stop them.” His eyes closed as he passed out.

  Aimee backed slowly out of the courtyard as she heard the ambulance screech to a halt. From behind a moldy pillar she heard attendants running with a stretcher crunching over gravel. How did they know so quickly, she wondered. She peered from behind the fluted pillars and saw a Kevlar-suited swat team striding up to the huddled corpse. They leaned into their collars and she realized they were talking into small radios. She heard the static crackle as one of them stopped in front of her pillar and responded in a low voice.

  “Negative. No sign of her.”

  She recognized the dead shooter sprawled in his own bloody entrails; the swastikas tattooed across his knuckles looked familiar. She flashed on Mr. Lederhosen, Leif, as Thierry had identified him. The one who’d almost knifed her in the van, had chased her through the Marais, and was in the crowd when Cazaux appeared.

  Turning towards the back exit, she broke into a run just beyond the last pillar and stopped abruptly, ready to sprint down the arched Place des Vosges through strolling passersby. A police riot van swayed out of narrow rue Birague and careened to a stop directly in front of her.

  The burnt smell of roasted chestnuts wafted down the ancient arcade to where she stood, paralyzed. As the swat team streamed out of the van, she grabbed the elbow of a man next to her. Putting her arms around him, she burrowed into his wrinkled neck. His astounded elderly wife seemed about to bat her with a large handbag when Aimee feigned horror.

  “I’m so sorry. Why, you look exactly like Grandpapa!” she exclaimed, keeping her head down.

  Most of the swat team entered the Hôtel Sully courtyard but a few had fanned out along the Place des Vosges. Aimee kept pace with the old couple as the indignant wife tried to move away from her.

  “You greet your grandfather in that manner, young lady?” she inquired sarcastically.

  The old man’s eyes twinkled as his wife pulled at him. Ahead of Aimee, an accordion wheezed something familiar, echoing off the vaulted brick. At the east corner of Place des Vosges stood an Issey Miyake shop. Aimee swerved through the stainless-steel doors into a stark white interior as the old man winked goodbye.

  Bleached white walls, floors, and ceilings provided a minimalist backdrop with nowhere to hide. Black clothing hung from ropes draped from the ceiling like so many dead bodies. Unless you wore black or white you were sure to stick out here, and Aimee’s dusty and gravel-pitted blue jeans definitely stuck out. Behind the deserted counter were white smocks worn by the salespeople. She grabbed one and buttoned it over her jeans and denim jacket. She heard the whir of sewing machines from the back and slipped through white metal-mesh curtains before a salesperson came out.

  The row of Asian seamstresses busy at their sewing machines didn’t even look up as she entered. Many of them kept up low conversations while they guided the material under the punching needles. From the shop exterior she heard voices—loud, officious ones. If she took off the smock, her dirty jeans and scruffy denim jacket would be picked out in a minute. Bins of black and white items of clothing were overflowing and the seamstresses kept adding more finished pieces. Aimee bent over and picked up the bin nearest her. A seamstress looked up questioningly at her.

  “Display sent me for floor samples,” Aimee smiled. “The requisition order is in my van.”

  “Inform the floor supervisor,” the seamstress said. Her thin black eyebrows arched as she looked Aimee over. “Bring it on your way back.”

  “D’accord,” Aimee agreed. She grunted, hefting the heavy bin into her arms. Slogging to the back of the busy work area, she kept her face hidden and set it down with all the others. Piled high, they made an odd-shaped mound.

  Aimee slid a few black pieces out before she closed up the bin and stepped behind the pile. She took off her jean jacket, slipped on a tailored, well-cut black wool jacket, then stepped out of her jeans into a form-fitting tight black skirt. She rifled through a hosiery bin and grabbed thin black-ribbed tights. Sample shoes and boots in assorted sizes were strewn helter-skelter on shelves. She tried several pairs of boots on but the only pair that remotely fit her were sexy suede high-heeled pumps. Not exactly what she’d pick for a great escape. She looked like this season’s fashion victim but she’d blend in more than she ever had before. The challenge would be, could she run in such a tight skirt and heels?

  She bunched her jeans into a ball. The workers’ backpacks and handbags hung from hooks behind her. Quickly she emptied the contents of a stylish black leather bag onto the floor and scooped her cell phone, wallet, cards, tube of mascara and Glock, with one remaining bullet cartridge, into the bag. Next to the contents of the bag on the floor she slipped some hundred-franc notes with a scribbled “Sorry, hope this covers it” in red lipstick on one of them. She unlatched the back workers’ entrance as she heard a loud voice above the clicking sewing machines.

  “Please give your attention to this officer. Have any of you seen…”

  Not waiting to hear more, she slipped out into the night and the darkened Places des Vosges.

  AIMÉE’S HEEL S tapped a rhythm on the cobblestones as she searched for Rene’s Citroën. Finally she found it on the rue du Pas de la Mule, which meant “in the donkey’s footsteps.” She and Rene always joked about that, but no smile came to her lips as she saw two policemen examining his vehicle. They weren’t just giving it a ticket either.

  Going to her office or flat would be stupid, she realized, and hiding at Rene’s would be idiotic. Where could she find a place to hide that contained a computer? She ducked into the patisserie on the corner, bought a bag of warm chocolate croissants, and exited out the rear back to the Place des Vosges. She walked in her Issey Miyake designer suit, munching and looking in boutique windows, slowly working her way under the arcade towards the busy rue St. Antoine. In the children’s playground, plainclothes police blocked her way by the side of the square, talking to the mothers, nannies, and assorted caregivers. Where could she go?

  A group of tourists clustered in the doorway of the Victor Hugo Museum, which, Aimee noticed, the security forces ignored. All French national museums contained state-of-the-
art computers, hooked on-line with government and educational ministries. This would be perfect—that is, if she could play tourist and sneak in the door.

  She slipped among a trio of elderly ladies, greeting them like old acquaintances. She smiled and immediately began chitchat about the weather.

  “Of course, being from Rouen,” Aimee said, “I savor these ancient parts of the Marais.”

  “But the Cathedral of Rouen,” one of the trio exclaimed, “is such a gem! A perfect example of the best in medieval architecture! How could one compare this Bourbon king’s imitation to that!” The old woman spoke passionately. She pointed at the seventeenth-century colonnades above them. Aimee knew little about architecture and nothing of Rouen. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  “Are you just joining the architectural tour then, dear?” an almost hunchbacked old woman asked. “You’ve missed significant parts of the Marais, the hôtel particuliers on rue de Sevigne especially.”

  “I’ll catch them next time,” Aimee said.

  She edged closer to the old lady, who smelled of musty violets. Two policemen walked by and she pressed herself against the rose-colored bricks of the building.

  They filed into the foyer and she realized she was the youngest member of this group. The tour leader, a round-faced young man with circular tortoiseshell glasses, spread his arms as if enjoining the spirit of Victor Hugo himself to guide them, and began in a sonorous, droning voice.

  “From 1832 to 1848 perhaps the greatest of all men of letters lived on the second floor of this building.” He nodded officiously to several older men leaning on walkers. “Those unable to navigate the stairs may follow our journey through the museum on our computer access.”

  Despite her predicament, she almost laughed out loud as she saw the look of amusement the old men gave their guide. Most eighty-year-olds ignored computers and these didn’t seem any different.

  The museum, laid out as it had been in his time, showed the daily life of Victor Hugo. Hugo’s bedroom, taken up with a canopied bed, overlooked Place des Vosges through leaded bubbled glass. Worn dark wood paneling covered the walls. A showcase held various colored locks of his hair tied with ribbon, labeled and dated. In the study was his escritoire and a sheet of half-written yellowed foolscap with a quill pen in a crystal inkwell beside it. Almost as if Hugo had paused to take a pee, which she herself desperately needed to do. Aimee stared longingly at a porcelain eighteenth-century bidet with exquisite floral rosettes. Lining the dining-room walls were portraits of his wife, mistresses, and other prominent writers of his day. The room captured his essence, dark and narcissistic. The only touch that could be called socialist was the heavy peasant glassware on a mahogany sideboard.

  The guide continued. “This being the last tour of the day in this historic building, the option of resting is of course available.” His arms waved dismissively toward a vestibule.

  Aimee sat down, rubbing her heel, and joined several old men. The smell of tobacco floated in the air. She’d already cheated death once today. Tomorrow could be another story. Gratefully, she accepted a cigarette from the old man next to her. She inhaled the smoke greedily, savoring the jolt when it hit her lungs.

  After the buzzer clanged, signifying closing time, the men rose and drifted towards the entrance. While no one was looking, she melted into the folds of a faded tapestry near the cloakroom door.

  There could be worse places to spend the night than the Victor Hugo Museum, she decided. She backed up against the damp stone wall, and crouched down behind some tapestries while museum workers rang up the day’s receipts and tallied ticket sales. All the time she worried about Rene, hoping he hadn’t been badly wounded. And then there was the LBN—since she’d escaped, would they abduct Rene? And that questionable SWAT team—were they real B.R.I? But there wasn’t much she could do until the museum closed and the workers left for the day.

  The staff grumbled about the drafts and chill coming from the stone walls. She smiled to herself. They probably went home to warm, cozy apartments with every modern convenience. But she lived in a place like this, never mind that she couldn’t go back there! She felt sure her apartment and office were under surveillance.

  Morbier, whom she’d known since childhood, had succumbed to pressure in his department, betraying her. Yves, the neo-Nazi hunk, alerted by her listening device, had told Leif that she was undercover. But Leif missed and shot Rene in the crossfire. And she’d taken care of Leif—so far, the only thing she didn’t regret.

  She was all alone now. No one to trust.

  She pressed closer to the wall as the museum staff took their time about closing up. Finally she heard a voice. “Check the floor and restroom, then I’ll activate the alarm.” Thank God, Aimee thought, a working restroom. Her legs had been squeezed, holding it in for a long time.

  “Oui, monsieur le directeur,” she heard. That’s it, they had been waiting for him.

  As she peered through moth holes in the tapestry, she saw the tungsten-colored computer, furnished by the French Ministry of Culture, on the director’s desk. The French government was obsessed with computer access, letting the taxpayers foot the bill. Right now, that seemed fine with her if only she could get her fingers on that keyboard. The director, his back turned to her, clicked something on the wall and then she heard a staff member shout, “Ça marche.”

  Probably a Troisus security system, activated by two settings. Pretty standard for government buildings with an indoor switch and one outside. She’d worry about the alarm later or use a skylight since they were rarely wired. She waited a good five minutes, in case anyone forgot something and came back, almost peeing on herself before searching for a restroom.

  After she had gratefully relieved herself in Victor Hugo’s bidet, which was closer than the toilet, she sat down in the director’s chair, clicking on an electric heater to take away the bone-chilling cold.

  Familiar with this state-of-the-art system, she tried several versions of the director’s initials until she hit the right one that logged her onto his terminal. She slid off her high-heeled pumps and chewed the last chocolate croissant. She tried several generic access codes. On her third try, she accessed the Archives of France.

  She rang Martine on her cell phone. “Martine, don’t trust the flics anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Martine sounded more tired than usual.

  “They took Rene out.”

  “Your partner?” Martine said.

  “Listen, I need two things, d’accord?”

  “Where’s my story? You promised me,” Martine said.

  Aimee pushed the director’s chair back and peered out the tall window. Shadows lengthened in Place des Vosges. Figures moved back and forth. They could be passersby or B.R.I., she couldn’t tell.

  “Send a reporter to check on Rene in the hospital. I can’t go because they’re looking for me. Break a story like ‘Mysterious Shooting, Neo-Nazi Assassin with Swastika Tattoos.’ Blow it up big on the front page. Right now, fax me that last cheat sheet.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in?” There was concern in Martine’s voice. “Who is after you?”

  “Take a number, who isn’t? Here’s the fax where I am.” Aimee read it off the machine near the director’s computer. “Check on Rene first, please! Do it right now, OK? And I promise you this whole thing is yours.” She didn’t add if I make it.

  On the alert for a night cleaner, she wandered the rooms. Prosperous writers in Hugo’s time couldn’t be said to have lived in a sumptuous mode. In his bedroom she looked out and saw the dusk settling over the plane trees in the square. If there was a police presence she didn’t see it, only parents attempting to round up their children from the playground.

  She noticed a placard next to the folds of a brocade canopy that cascaded heavily to the floorboards announcing that the great writer had expired in this bed. Uneasiness washed over her. Did Victor Hugo haunt these rooms? Ghosts, ghosts everywhere.

  The fax
feed groaned. Startled, she bumped into a wooden armoire, which creaked, sending the mice under it scurrying down the hall. Rodents. She hated rodents. Dust puffed over the wooden floor. From somewhere deep in her shoulder bag, her cell phone tinkled and she choked back a cough.

  “Look at this,” Martine’s voice crackled over the phone. “Can you find her with this photo?”

  Aimee ran to the fax machine. She gasped when she saw the face, clear and unmistakable.

  “I already have,” she said.

  Thursday Evening

  “T HIS IS AIMÉE LEDUC,” she said into her cell phone. “I need to see you.”

  A long silence.

  “You’re in danger. Go out the back of your building, there’s a courtyard in the rear, right?” Aimee didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring a hammer or chisel. Find the door to the alley, there’s always one. It’s where the horses were stabled; break it open. Do you understand so far?” Aimee waited but all she heard was a sharp intake of breath over the phone.

  She continued, “Go to the button factory Mon Bouton, around the corner from Place des Vosges on rue de Turenne. Tonight it’s open late. Go inside, but nowhere near a window. Leave now and I should get there just when you do.” Still silence at the other end. “Whatever happened between you and Lili Stein is in the past. I’m doing this because she didn’t deserve to be murdered. They’re after you now. Leave immediately.” Aimee hung up.

  Aimee’s brightly lit goal, the button factory, twinkled from over the rooftops and through the trees. One street over from the Place des Vosges, Mon Bouton inhabited a small courtyard.

  Victor Hugo’s canopied bed bordered on comfortable and apart from the scurrying noises, she felt safe. But now Aimee had to leave the museum without setting off the alarm. She tied assorted cleaning smocks and rags from a utility closet together with sheets she’d found under the bed of the great writer. She grabbed the guard’s chair and slung it over the toilet. Few museums bothered to include skylights more than three stories high in their alarm systems. Here, two metal bars were strung across the thick, webbed glass. She swung the roped rags over the bars and hoisted herself onto the chair. Hunched below the rectangular skylight, she aimed her right foot and kicked one of the bars.