Murder in the Marais

by Black, Cara

  She got off at Châtelet. At the kiosk she bought a recharger for her dead cell phone. Commuters washed around her like a wave on the platform, parting before her at the last minute. In the black designer suit she blended in well with the professionals at rush hour. After she had inserted the charger her phone beeped immediately.

  “Yes.” She looked at her wristwatch.

  “About time,” Thierry said. “You’re a hard lady to reach. Found her?”

  “We need to meet,” she said.

  “Bring Sarah to my office in Clingancourt,” Thierry said.

  No way in hell would she do that.

  “Meet me at Dessange in Bastille, thirty minutes.”

  “You mean that hair place? How can…?”

  “In thirty minutes. After that I’m gone.” She clicked off and called Clotilde.

  JUST BECAUSE she was on the run, with skinheads and the police all searching for her and unable to return to her apartment, it wasn’t reason enough to have greasy hair. Clotilde lathered Aimee’s hair with henna as Francoise, the proprietress, escorted Thierry to the shampoo area.

  Nonplused, Thierry asked, “What’s this all about?”

  “Sit down. You could use a trim,” said Aimee.

  He snorted. “Cut the smart remarks.”

  “A full-service salon, nails, facials. Why not take advantage?” she said beneath the suds, smiling at Clotilde, who massaged her scalp. Thierry fiddled with his hands and looked uncomfortable. She indicated a space in the light and airy salon, bustling with colorists in lab coats, women with tin foil wrapped in strands like antennas from their heads, and huge blown-up photos of waiflike models on the walls. Hair dryers and vintage disco music kept the beat in the background along with the hot ammonia smell of permanent waves.

  Thierry either had to stand and talk down to Aimee or lie back on a chair and get a shampoo. He chose to stand. “Have you found her?”

  “If I have, what does that mean to you?” Aimee said as Clotilde rinsed her warm soapy hair.

  “That’s your job. I asked you to help me,” he said. “Now that we found my father. My real father.”

  “Why do you want to meet her?” she said.

  “It’s only natural, isn’t it?” he said.

  As Aimee sat up and Clotilde dried her hair, she noticed his bloodshot eyes and jerky movements. He clutched and unclutched the leather belt of his storm-trooper coat. She would never engineer a reunion between Sarah and Thierry in his present condition.

  “Look, I’m going back to the demonstration at the Élysee Palace,” he said. “We’re forcing the Greens to back down. Showing those idiots that people will take a stand. The agreement will be signed.”

  He sounded petulant and whiny for a fifty-year-old man. And scary.

  “Do you mean the European Union Trade Agreement?”

  He nodded. “Let me see her, talk with her.”

  “I’ll ask her. Why did that scum in lederhosen have a heat-seeking rifle?”

  Thierry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Tried to pepper me with bullets like a rabbit. In the courtyard of Hôtel Sully.” Aimee slouched under the warm wet towel as Clotilde kept tousling her hair.

  Thierry reluctantly followed them to a hydraulic chair that Clotilde pumped with her foot. As she looked in the mirror, Aimee found she resembled a drowned furry creature while he looked predatory and disheveled.

  “Maybe you want to tell me about it,” she said.

  “Sounds like you’re getting paranoid,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s busy organizing the demonstrations.”

  “Not anymore,” she said. “And it’s too late to ask him.”

  Thierry twisted the chair around so fast that Clotilde’s scissors and set of combs went flying. Canisters of mousse and styling gel clattered to the floor. All eyes turned to her, straitjacketed in a barber’s smock, and a nearly frothing Thierry, who gripped the armrests, shoving his face into Aimee’s. Several stylists automatically picked up hairbrushes and one clutched a heavy-duty hair dryer defensively.

  “You took out Leif?” Thierry eyes opened wide in disbelief.

  “Him or me. That’s what it came down to,” she said uneasily. “Leif looked too greasy to be Nordic.”

  “Idiot!” he said. “A recognized Korporal in our corps.”

  “He shot at me from the roof,” she said. “I won’t apologize for making it out alive.”

  All of a sudden, Thierry looked up and noticed the stylists watching him with raised beauty implements.

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Bring the Jew sow,” he hissed. “Meet me at the office tonight. If not, the dwarf won’t make the morning.”

  It was her turn to be surprised.

  “Room 224 in St. Catherine Hospital—your partner, Rene Friant.”

  And then he was gone, leaving a whiff of stale sweat.

  Francoise rushed over. “Should I call the flics?”

  “No, please,” said Aimee. “Thanks, but nothing really happened.”

  Francoise nodded. “Bad news, eh?”

  “In more ways than one,” Aimee agreed.

  With dripping hair, she grabbed her cell phone and immediately called St. Catherine’s Hospital.

  “Friant, Rene? He was discharged five minutes ago,” the floor nurse told her in a flat voice.

  She called their office. No one answered but she left a message in a code they’d worked out. She warned Rene and told him to meet her at her cousin Sebastian’s later. She left the same message at his apartment. Now she felt somewhat reassured. If she couldn’t find Rene, she doubted Thierry could. At least not right away.

  The hum and buzz of a busy salon had returned and Clotilde looked at her expectantly, comb and scissors poised.

  “Let’s talk about color, this brown’s too mousy,” Aimee said.

  Clotilde just winked and pulled out some swatches. Aimee pointed at several. With a new hair color, dark glasses, and the tailored suit, no one would recognize her in a crowd. In her radical departure from jeans, leather jacket, and scuffed boots she could sing the computers electric anywhere.

  While Aimee sat there, she played out all the scenarios in her head. Even though she wanted to blame Thierry for the attack on her, he had seemed genuinely surprised.

  Suppose Leif worked for Laurent, whoever he was. Could Laurent, with Leif’s help, have disposed of Lili, shut Soli Hecht up, tried to kill her, supposedly shut down Morbier’s investigation, trailed Sarah, strangled Javel, and made it look like suicide? To do all that, they’d have needed more help.

  One part she didn’t get—why not put the rope in her hand, make it look like she killed Javel? The only reason she could think of was that maybe a customer had come in and the killer didn’t have the time.

  Or the killer wanted attention deflected from Arlette’s murder in the past. Make Javel out as morose; after missing Arlette all these years, he’d decided to join her in memorial. That would make sense, Aimee thought. Ever since the TV and morbid tabloid coverage of the Luminol extravaganza, things had heated up. The killer or killers had certainly been working overtime.

  And that all brought her back to Laurent. She had to ferret out his identity and protect Sarah.

  Her cropped hair now streaked with pale blond highlights, Aimee stepped out into the small cobbled street. A loud appreciative whistle came from the old man behind the nearby fruit cart. She winked at him and smiled to herself.

  Opposite the salon, a well-dressed Yves came out of the wrought-iron entrance doors of Brasserie Bofinger. For once she knew her hair looked fantastic and she was dressed to match it. Nervous and delighted, she wondered what to do.

  He looked dapper and businesslike in a navy blue double-breasted suit. Not like a neo-Nazi. Clotilde had brushed off the lint so the black suit looked runway-ready. A few buttons, remnants of the dumpster, had rained on the floor of the salon, and Aimee had told Clotilde the story as they giggled.

  She seriously contemplated raisi
ng her arm to hail Yves, when an unmarked Renault screeched to a halt beside him in the small street.

  The car wedged him into a doorway. Two plainclothes types pulled him, struggling and kicking, into the backseat. The doors slammed and the Renault screeched down the street.

  She leaned against a window, shaken. She assumed they’d been undercover cops. After all, he was a neo-Nazi…wasn’t he?

  Friday Afternoon

  HARTMUTH AND THIERRY S AT across from the Victor Hugo Museum by the playground in Place des Vosges. Children’s laughter erupted from the swings under the barren-branched plane trees. The vaulted stone arcades surrounding the gated square, filled with fountains and grassy patches, reflected the late autumn sun’s last rays. Over the worn stone cobbles wafted the smell of roasted chestnuts. Hartmuth’s hands shook as he folded the newspaper he’d been pretending to read.

  “I only agreed to meet because you said it’s important,” he said. “What do you have to say to me?”

  “Millions of things. You are my father,” Thierry’s eyes shone, almost trance-like. “Let’s start by getting to know one another. Tell me about my German family?”

  Hartmuth stirred guiltily. “You had a sister once,” he said after a long pause as he watched the children. “Her name was Katia. I wasn’t a very good father.”

  Thierry shrugged.

  “Who raised you?” Hartmuth asked.

  “Some conservatives who lied to me.” Thierry kicked at a pigeon anxious for crumbs. “But I’ve always been like you, believed in what you fought for. Now I know why I joined the Kameradschaft, it’s natural that I would carry Aryan beliefs like you.”

  Hartmuth shook his head. He stood up and walked along the gravel path. He stopped at a slow gurgling fountain near the statue of Louis XIII on his horse.

  Thierry stirred at the memories of Claude Rambuteau handing him crumbs for the pigeons at this very statue. Why hadn’t the Rambuteaus told him his true identity?

  “I said goodbye to her,” Hartmuth said. “Here.”

  Startled, Thierry asked, “Who do you mean?”

  “Your mother, before my troop shipped out to the slaughter at the front.” He paused. “She’s still beautiful,” he murmured wistfully.

  “How can you say that?” said Thierry, aghast. This wasn’t how he imagined his Nazi father would act.

  “I loved her and I still do,” Hartmuth said. “She thinks it’s all in my mind. Let me show you where we used to meet.” Hartmuth strode across the square, pulling Thierry along.

  None of the scurrying passersby paid much attention to them, a piercingly blue-eyed man and slender silver-haired gentleman, who, if one looked carefully, had a definite resemblance.

  Halfway down the rue du Parc Royal, Hartmuth turned and pointed up at the arms of Francois the First, the marble salamander sculpted into the archway.

  “I first saw her here, on these cobblestones,” Hartmuth said. “But over there is where you were conceived, underground.”

  “Underground? What are you saying?” Thierry asked uneasily. Opposite, on rue Payenne adjoining Square Georges-Cain, Hartmuth agilely climbed over the locked gate. He started rooting in the plants among the ancient statuary. Thierry could hear clumps of dirt landing in the bushes. He was afraid Hartmuth was losing his mind.

  “What are you doing?” Thierry asked, after he climbed in behind him.

  “Come help me,” Hartmuth said. He beckoned to Thierry, his eyes shining as if possessed. “Move this pillar.” Hartmuth tried to push the broken marble column. “It’s got to be around here.”

  “You’re crazy. What are you going on about?” Thierry raised his voice.

  The dusk was settling and the street lamps came on one by one.

  “The entrance to the catacombs!” Hartmuth said. “We’ll find it, they’ve been here since the Romans. They haven’t gone away. This city is honeycombed with the old Christian tunnels.” He took Thierry’s hand and stared at him. “I used to hide in them with your mother every night.”

  Thierry felt embarrassed by the longing evident in Hartmuth’s eyes. “Why do you call her my mother? I never knew her, she abandoned me, she was a filthy Jew!” His hysterical laugh climbed to a high pitch. “Filthy, that’s perfect! Rutting in the dirt with an Aryan.”

  “Odd. She said the same thing.” Hartmuth shook his head sadly. “You mustn’t hurt her. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “That an Aryan could sleep with a Jew?” Thierry said accusingly. “Was it because you were far from home and lonely? Maybe she seemed exotic and seduced you?”

  Tears welled in Hartmuth’s eyes. “Where did you get all this old hate?”

  “I know Auschwitz was a lie,” Thierry said. “My responsibility has been to expose those death-camp coverups.”

  “I smelled the stench of too many of them,” Hartmuth said wearily and leaned against the broken marble column. “Your grandparents, Sarah’s parents, ended up there.”

  Stunned, Thierry shouted, “No, no! I don’t believe you.”

  A few passersby on the sidewalk turned to stare, then moved on.

  “Our regiment troop train was bombed somewhere in Poland,” Hartmuth said. “We had to rebuild the tracks in the snow while partisans shot at us from the woods. There was a terrible smell, out in that godforsaken forest, that never went away. We didn’t know what it was because we saw no villages, only tunnels of black smoke. When the train ran again we passed a spur track. An arrow pointed to a sign saying Bergen-Belsen. Rotten corpses of those who’d jumped off the train littered the side of the tracks. I’ll never forget that smell.” Hartmuth spoke in a faraway voice.

  Thierry glared at him. “You’re lying, Jew lover!”

  He climbed over the fence and ran off down the street. Hartmuth sank to his knees among the ruins but he had no more tears left. From deep inside came the old lullaby that his grandmother sang to him: Liebling, du musst mir nicht böse sein, Liebling, spiele und lach ganzen Tag.

  He sang the words as he dug earth and moved stones. Long after the streetlights shone he was still digging.

  SATURDAY

  Saturday Morning

  SOLANGE GOUTAL LOOKED UP from her work, her eyes swollen with crying. “Soli’s dead…the rumor is that he was killed.”

  “It’s more than a rumor, it’s the truth,” Aimee said, setting her leather bag on the granite counter below the chiseled words Never forget.

  Solange averted her eyes. “Go in, the director will see you now.”

  Annick Sausotte, director of the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine bustled over to greet her. Extending her hand, she pumped Aimee’s, then pulled her into an office.

  “Ms. Leduc, it’s unfortunate we meet after Soli Hecht’s tragic death.” Her quick darting eyes flicked over Aimee’s suit and took in her leather bag. “Please sit here. I’m all yours for five minutes. Then I must run to a memorial luncheon.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Sausotte. I’ll get right to the point.” Aimee perched on the edge of an uncomfortable tubular metal chair. “The Temple E’manuel has retained my services in the murder of Lili Stein. I believe Soli Hecht, at Lili’s request, was investigating someone whom she recognized as a collaborator from the war. There’s a connection and I want to know what Soli worked on the day he supposedly got run over by the bus.”

  “Supposedly run over by a bus you say, Ms. Leduc?” Annick Sausotte said.

  Aimee looked at her sharp dark eyes. “Someone pushed him in front of the bus,” she said. “But I can’t substantiate that, Ms. Sausotte. Don’t you wonder why he would take a bus when his rheumatoid arthritis had been so severe he needed help down the stairs and with his coat? And after he told Solange he’d take a taxi?”

  “What do you want from me, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Annick said.

  “Access into computer files that Soli worked on that day,” Aimee said. “I came across his name in Lili’s belongings. I believe she’d recognized a former collaborator and asked S
oli for help to obtain proof.” Aimee paused. “That’s what got her killed.”

  Annick Sausotte leaned forward, her chin cradled in her palms, elbows mirrored on her polished desk. “Soli was the only one who could have authorized access to his files, but now…” She stopped, a look of sorrow crossing her face. “Of course, that’s impossible. Only the foundation can grant such permission.”

  “I know he was murdered in the hospital. But I can’t prove that either.” Aimee stood up and leaned close into Annick’s face. “There’s another woman in danger, a survivor whose family perished in the Holocaust.”

  “Are you Jewish, Mademoiselle Leduc?”

  “Is that a job requirement? Because I get the feeling that might be more important to you than someone’s life.” Aimee paced over to Annick, who rose. “Someone’s after me, too, but they don’t seem to care about my religion!”

  “You’re taking this personally, Ms. Leduc. Please understand…”

  Aimee interrupted. “I tend to take things personally when my life is in danger. Will you help me or not?”

  Annick Sausotte escorted her to the door. “I don’t even handle that end of the center’s operations. Let me check with those responsible and Soli’s foundation. Call me in a few days.”

  Aime shook her head. “You don’t seem to understand.”

  “That’s the best I can do,” Annick said as she put her arms into a too large overcoat that engulfed her small frame. “Please call me tomorrow or the day after.”

  As Annick Sausotte rushed out, loud, buzzing erupted behind the reception desk. Aimee paused at the desk, studying the visitors’ log intently.

  “Solange, there’s a delivery in the receiving bay,” Annick said. “I’ll hit the door opener here if you can go down and take it.”

  Solange grabbed her key ring, as Annick’s footsteps echoed in the marble foyer.

  “I’ll use the restroom then let myself out with the director,” Aimee said.

  Solange hesitated. A shrill voice came over the intercom. “Frexpresse delivery, I need a signature!”