“It didn’t happen here, but the body ended up here. I’ll explain later. Right now I need you to see what information you might have on a Ruth Chasen, an American, who died recently in the U.S., listed at 66 rue Jacob. And anything on Robert Pendergrass, her half-brother at 131 boulevard Raspail.”
“Why not call their precinct, Jean?”
“Julien, I need this all on the quiet, and I need it right away. This murder is not being investigated. When you start looking, you’ll see why. Be very discreet. Be very careful. Don’t tell anybody that you’re looking. Nobody.”
“The captain—”
“Especially not the captain.”
“All right, Jean. Give me a few hours. I’ll call you back.”
“I’m coming to Paris. I’ll call you when I get there.”
Renard did not go to Paris often, even though it was so close by train. He did not like the ordeal of going: driving to the station, then paying to park, waiting in line to buy a ticket, then sitting in the train, even if it was just for an hour. It was always too hot or too cold. And his knees were jammed against the seat in front of him. He didn’t like sitting next to some stranger, seeing the landscape fly by. He was always hungry in the train, but whenever he ate, he invariably spilled something down his front or on his pants.
Once he was in Paris, well, he liked Paris. He even envied Julien Petitot a little for his life in Paris, his apartment in the Marais, his modern office with all the latest computer technology, the interesting crimes that came his way. He liked seeing the shops, hearing the noise, seeing all the people.
There were usually musicians playing for change on the Metro. Once, he had heard a gypsy boy singing a song to his own guitar accompaniment. The boy’s voice had been so startlingly beautiful that nearly everyone in the car had given him money. He liked watching the people strolling through the Jardin du Luxembourg gazing at the intricately planted beds of flowers. And the Tuilleries. And the Palais Royal. And the de Parc Monceau. And on and on. All of them.
When Renard reached the rue Jacob, it suddenly started to rain very hard. He stood in the doorway across from 66 and brushed the rain from his hair and arms. Two young women jumped into the doorway, laughing to each other about the rain. They glanced at him and went on with their conversation. There were such women in Paris, thin and tall and beautiful. You saw women like that nowhere else on earth, he was certain of that. They had impossibly long, narrow legs and tiny waists. They were a species all their own.
The doorway where they stood led into a bookstore that specialized in art and travel books, and, on the other side, into an art gallery that was closed for the August vacation. Renard peered through the glass door, but he couldn’t see anything. An elderly American couple stepped into the doorway too, along with a French woman.
The man was speaking. “Of course, I’m retired,” he said. “When Alice and I retired, we sold everything—the house, the car, gave some of the furniture to the kids, got rid of the rest. We’ve been traveling ever since.” His wife glanced around at the others, and then busied herself with her plastic rain hat. “Last year we were in Israel, then Turkey, then Singapore. Of course we go home to see the kids. Like that. But we travel. And you know what? People are nice every place we go. Just nice. This is our anniversary trip. We’ve been married fifty years.” He looked around and smiled at the girls, at Renard, a broad, encompassing smile that was meant for everyone. “How ya doin’?” he said, embarrassed that he hadn’t included everyone in his conversation. They, of course, had not understood a word he had said.
The rain let up. The American couple left with the French woman. The girls dashed off. Renard watched them go. He walked across the street to number 66. There were no names outside, only a small electronic number board for residents to punch in a code, and below it, a bell for the concierge. He pressed the bell and waited.
The concierge opened the door a crack, saw that it was still raining, quickly looked Renard up and down, and opened the door so Renard could step into the corridor. Renard thanked her. The hallway was nondescript and modern. The elevator was to the right, beside a frosted glass door that led to a courtyard. Opposite the elevator, the door to the concierge’s apartment stood open. The sound of a television came from inside.
“Well?” She was short, sixty years old perhaps, had short gray hair, a plain face, and wore the most extraordinary eyeglasses Renard had ever seen. The turquoise-colored fronts were teardrop shaped with the rhinestone-studded corners sweeping up a good two centimeters. The temples of the glasses were undulating black and gold plastic stalks, also dotted at regular intervals with rhinestones.
“Excuse me, madame, but I have to say how I admire your glasses.”
She smiled, revealing several gold teeth, and thanked him. But she was not one to be distracted. “What do you want?”
“I am sorry to bother you, madame, but I am from the police.” He showed her his identification which she peered at, actually leaning forward holding her glasses on with one hand. He closed his wallet before she could read his name. “I am here about Ruth Chasen who owned an apartment in this building.”
The concierge corrected Renard. “The apartment is still in her name.”
“I don’t know if you are aware, madame, but Ruth Chasen died not too long—”
“Of course I am aware. People have been appearing on this doorstep since the day she died to tell me that. Police and more police.”
“They came to tell you that Madame Chasen had died?”
“I’m certain that is not why they came. But in the course of their business they told me that she was dead. Of a stroke. A massive stroke. Her husband found her in their bedroom. Not here. He was never here. Or hardly ever. In their home in Washington.”
“You know her husband?”
“I saw him once. Before he was . . . whatever he has become.”
“Secretary of state.”
“Yes, that. He came here once and asked to be let in. I refused. It is not my right to let strangers into my apartments. I told Madame Chasen later, and she said I was correct, and that I was never to let him in.”
“These people who came after she died, who were they?”
“You know,” she said, looking at Renard curiously, “you are the first one to actually ask questions. I told you, they were police, like you. But they didn’t ask anything.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted to be let into the apartment.”
“Did you let them in?”
“They were the police. They are not the secretary of state, they are the police. Of course, I let them in.”
“Did they take anything from the apartment?”
“They took everything.”
“The police?”
“The police.”
“By everything. . . .”
“I mean everything. Furniture, clothes, books. They even took the lightbulbs, the telephones. They cleared the place out like I have never seen an apartment cleared out before.”
“Did they take it all at once?”
“They showed up one day in a large truck and cleared everything out. Blocked the street until they got the truck up on the sidewalk.”
“May I see?” said Renard.
The concierge shrugged and got the key from inside her door. The apartment was on the sixth which was the top floor. It was bright and spacious, with white walls and high ceilings. A continuous wall of large windows looked out on the rue Jacob. The sun had come out again. Renard gazed down at the doorway across the street where he had waited out the rain. He looked at the light switches and empty light sockets, at the receptacles where the telephones had been.
“Madame, did Ruth Chasen have many visitors?”
“You are the first one to ask me any questions,” she said and shook her head. “She did not have many visitors, though she had friends who called from time to time.”
“Men or women?” asked Renard.
“Both,” s
aid the concierge, a small smile catching the corners of her mouth. “You mean did she have any special friends?” said the concierge, her hands on her hips. She was enjoying Renard’s discomfort. “Yes, she did. Men. Well, lately, one man. An American. A handsome fellow. A nice man, too. The last two years, he gave me flowers at Christmas. I did them little favors. That’s why he gave me flowers.”
“Favors?”
“Little things, you know: taking in their cleaning when it was delivered, mailing letters. Like that. Little things.”
“For him too?”
“For both of them. Of course, Madame Chasen always was very generous at Christmas.” She patted the pocket in her smock, probably remembering the money she had been given. “But he didn’t live here. He often stayed with Madame Chasen when he was in Paris.”
“He didn’t live in Paris?”
“Oh no. He always arrived with luggage and left with luggage. I’m sure he didn’t live in Paris. But he gave me flowers. I thought that was very nice.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“It was Robert.”
“And the family name?” Renard tried to keep his voice flat and calm. He thought he sounded too eager, but the concierge seemed not to notice.
“It is one of those long American names. It was difficult to understand it, when he said it. It is difficult to pronounce. Perpe . . . Pegga . . .” She tried to remember it.
“Could it be Robert Pendergrass?” asked Renard.
She looked at him sharply. “It could be. I’m not certain, but I think so.”
“Madame, do you think this man, Robert Pendergrass, could possibly have been . . . be a relative of Madame Chasen’s?”
She studied him again, scrutinizing his face to see what he was getting at. “I don’t think so,” she said smiling.
“Isn’t it possible that they were related?” asked Renard.
“Are you joking with me?” And then immediately: “No, it isn’t possible.”
“How can you be so certain, madame?”
“You are teasing me, monsieur.” She studied his face before smiling again. “I can be certain they were not related to one another, because, monsieur, he is black. Robert Penda . . . Pendergrass is a black man.”
By the time he had walked the two kilometers to the boulevard Raspail address, Renard had had enough time to recognize that every possible explanation for what he had just found out led nowhere. For a long moment he stared up at the white enamel numbers—161—as though they might hold the key, as though the one, the six, the one could somehow explain the black half-brother who was a lover, the traveler with a Paris address, the police who had cleaned out the apartment. Hadn’t Louis said to him, that investigating this case would only raise more questions than it would answer? That you would know less once it was solved than you had known before? He had said something like that. When he had said it, Renard had thought it was just more of the old man’s philosophical ruminations. However, as he stood there at the entry way to 161 boulevard Raspail, he saw the doorway in his mind’s eye as the way into chaos and uncertainty.
At that moment, a tall, pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties stepped quickly through the door and almost ran into Renard. “Oh, pardon,” he said with a strong American accent.
“Monsieur Pendergrass?” said Renard, taking a chance.
The man’s expression darkened. He glanced up at the building. “No, I’m sorry,” he said, this time in English. “I’m sorry, excuse me, I’m late for an appointment,” and he hurried away.
“Who came out next,” asked Louis, when Renard was telling him about the encounter the next day on the telephone, “the white rabbit?” But Renard did not know anything about Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and Louis did not feel like explaining.
One sixty-one boulevard Raspail was a sprawling modern building made of gray granite, with large plate glass windows. It had shops below—a dress shop, a shoe store, a bakery, and a computer shop—and offices and apartments upstairs. Again, there was a number pad at the door, but there was no bell for the concierge. He asked in the computer shop how to get inside. “The building is managed by an agency,” said the woman he spoke to. She stepped behind the counter and handed him a business card with the name of the agency and their phone number.
Renard called Petitot. “Jean,” said Petitot, “give me five minutes. Let me call you back.”
“Here’s the number,” said Renard. “I’m at a brasserie.” Renard ate a sandwich at the bar and waited for the telephone to ring.
“I had to go outside the building,” said Petitot. Renard heard the noise of traffic in the background. “Jesus, Jean, what have you gotten involved in here? The files on Chasen and Pendergrass are gone. There were files on both of them, and they were extensive, I know that much, but they’ve been cleaned out. Paper files and computer files. So there’s nothing. In fact, the computer wanted an authorization code just to proceed with my inquiry.
“There’s nothing under her address either, but his address, the Pendergrass address, is kind of interesting.”
“Don’t tease me, Julien. What did you find?”
“The building is owned by some big property management company. So there are descriptions on file in the tax office on all their buildings. Here it is for 161 . . . let’s see . . . Constructed 1974 by . . . just a second: square feet . . . plumbing . . . elevators.”Hereaddown the page. “Here it is: ‘mixed use office-residential; basement; sub-basement; six stories.’ These reports are always very exact; they’re checked and rechecked by the person that files the reports and by the inspectors. Their signatures are at the bottom.”
“And?”
“Can you see the building from where you are?”
“It’s right across the street.”
“How many stories has it got?”
Renard counted. “It’s got eight, not six. What does that mean, Julien?”
“It means, Jean, somebody—Espace Enterprises—has a building with two stories that officially don’t exist. And whoever is in those nonexistent two stories is somebody with connections in the tax office and in the building inspector’s office. In short, it is somebody with influence, somebody very powerful.
“And, wait a second, there’s more. Espace Enterprises, which is run, as far as I can tell, as a legitimate property management company, is a subsidiary of Antel Systems, which is in turn owned by the Advanced Projects Group of Rockville in the state of Maryland in the United States. Their telephone there is picked up by a machine. In short, the owners of those missing two floors do not want to be found. By the way, Jean, Rockville in Maryland is right outside Washington, D.C.”
Renard stared at the card the computer sales clerk had handed him. ESPACE ENTERPRISES, it said, and gave a telephone number.
“What are you going to do, Jean?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” said Renard.
“Be careful,” said Petitot. “I’ve got to get back. Be careful, Jean.”
“Thanks for your help, Julien.”
Renard dialed the number for Espace Enterprises. “I’d like to inquire about the seventh and eighth floors of 161 boulevard Ras-pail.”
“I’ll connect you to one of our agents.”
“I’m interested in the seventh and eighth floors of 161 boulevard Raspail,” he said when the agent came on the line.
“Let me check for you, monsieur,” she said. “Those floors are completely occupied.”
“Could you tell me by whom?” he said.
“I’m sorry, monsieur, but we are not permitted to give out information about our tenants.”
“Is a Robert Pendergrass one of your tenants?”
“I’m sorry, monsieur. I cannot give out that information.”
Renard spoke very little while he and Jean Marie ate supper that evening at the small restaurant just downstairs from his son’s apartment. Renard had a magnificent view of the enormous white arch of the Defense Building through the restaurant wind
ow, and he could hardly take his eyes off it. He had seen it before. But now the sun was setting behind it, and the building darkened in silhouette against the crimson sky. The hundreds of windows disappeared slowly into the shadows. It seemed to Renard as if they were taking countless secrets with them. The great sail inside the arch undulated slowly in the wind.
“Have you ever had a murder before?” asked Jean Marie.
“It turns out to be more unsettling than it is exciting,” said Renard. “It is my first.” They climbed the steps under the sail.
“Before the building was finished,” said Jean Marie, “they discovered that it was like a big wind tunnel. And the wind was so strong in here that they had to put up the sail to deflect the wind and keep people from being knocked off their feet. Imagine, being the architect of such a big building and of such a big mistake. I forget his name, for which he would probably be grateful. I bet he can’t even stand to look at the building now. I could help you out, Papa. The customs service has access to lots of information. What’s the company called?”
“No, Jean Marie, this is not for you. It could cost you your job. Besides, there’s nothing you can do.” Was Jean Marie really only twenty-four? Renard took his son’s arm as they climbed the stairs. They stood in the wind and gazed out past the blinking semaphores that were, Renard supposed, modern sculpture, into the dark cemetery beyond.
That night Renard slept in Isabelle’s arms and dreamt a strange dream. He was swimming in the Dême, which in his dream was broad and swift. However, while Renard could really barely swim, he was a strong swimmer in his dream, making rapid progress even against the swift current. Then suddenly he saw that the water around him was buckling and pulsing as great creatures crowded around him, surfacing and diving into the depths, brushing against him. Their skin was slick and smooth and dark. They were enormous and they frightened him. The water was full of them, and he found himself running across their backs toward the shore. That was all he could remember of the dream when he woke up, and he soon forgot even that.
A French Country Murder Page 13