The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery

by R. W. Wallace

  Chloé touched the outside of her mug. “Oh, it’s hot!”

  “Wait a couple of minutes, chérie,” her grandmother said. “It’ll cool down in a minute.”

  “Okay.” Chloé smiled and crinkled her eyes, then turned to Louis. “How old are you?”

  Louis took a sip of his chocolate. It was a little hot, but not unbearably so. And it did help. He felt much calmer already. “I’m thirty-five.”

  “Oh good,” Chloé said, then cocked her head as she thought about something very hard, mouth open. “You won’t die for a long time.”

  Louis almost choked on his drink. Setting down his mug, he said, “Well, I certainly hope I’ll be around for a while. What makes you say that?”

  Her mouth set into a serious line, Chloé locked eyes with Louis. “People die when they get old. Maman is thirty-nine. Mamie is sixty-two. Grand-Papy is seventy-nine. He’ll die next.”

  Louis didn’t know what to say. He looked to his mother and sister for help. Audrey seemed resigned and his mother nodded as if this was perfectly normal behavior for a five-year-old. She took pity on her son. “When her grandfather died, that was her first encounter with death. We have explained to her that death is natural, that people get old and die.” They must have omitted the part where grandfather was actually murdered and much younger than her great-grandfather. “She has figured out the logic and is now collecting the ages of everyone she loves to reassure herself they will not die soon.” Except for her great-grandfather, presumably.

  Chloé frowned at her grandmother in concentration, but didn’t appear upset. Louis envied her confidence that everything would be all right.

  Audrey gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Why don’t you take your hot chocolate with you into the living room, chérie? Just be careful not to spill.”

  Chloé was more than happy to comply and hopped down off the chair before carefully taking her mug in both hands and carrying it into the living room.

  Once he was sure his niece was out of earshot, Louis said to his sister, “Your problem is going to be with the police, not the press. If Papa was corrupt, then that press conference yesterday actually meant that they found something when they searched the house. That article”—he pointed to the discarded newspaper—“doesn’t change that in the least.”

  Audrey hadn’t let go of her anger. She turned to her mother. “How come it was so easy for the police to find proof of bribery, Maman? Couldn’t he at least have hid it somewhere?”

  Their mother smiled, but her eyes were sad. “There was no reason for him to suspect the police would show up and go through all his things, Audrey. But I don’t believe he did keep much proof. If they found something, it can’t be much.”

  “That’s hardly reassuring,” Audrey said. “And couldn’t you have checked before they showed up? It was five days between Papa’s death and their search.” Keeping the Saint-Blancat record clean was clearly much more important to his sister than her mother’s feelings. The woman was thinking of her campaign again!

  Some steel found its way into his mother’s voice. “Like I said, your father didn’t include the bribes in his bookkeeping. If they did find something, I don’t know what it could be. And during those five days, I had other things on my mind than going through a room full of papers and books looking for things that weren’t even supposed to be there in the first place.” She turned to Louis, her voice now soft. “How is the chocolate, Louis? Are you feeling better?”

  The casual way his mother and sister were discussing corruption had his stomach churning, but the chocolate did help a little. “Yes, thank you, Maman.”

  He had the feeling that he wouldn’t like the answer, but had to ask. “Why did Papa take bribes, Maman? Didn’t he earn enough as the mayor of Toulouse?” Hadn’t he told Louis time after time that laws and rules were there for a reason and must always be followed? Why had he made an exception for himself?

  His mother sighed and sat down on a chair opposite Louis. “He didn’t take the money because he needed it. I think it was something of a game for him.” She drank the rest of her coffee and reached back to set the empty cup next to the sink. “He only took bribes when he agreed with what they wanted to buy. Take the taxis, for example. So long as the public transport didn’t come up with a viable solution for transport out to the airport, he’d let the taxis bribe him.” Glancing at her daughter, accusation clear in her eyes, she added, “Practically all the money went back to the city of Toulouse. He’d give it to associations and charities, for the most part.”

  Louis wasn’t sure if that made it any better, but kept his mouth shut. Having finished his chocolate, he felt as empty as his mug. “Why didn’t you stop him, Maman?” Did everyone have to insist on ruining the image of his father when the man himself was no longer there to explain himself, or to make up for the mistakes he’d made?

  His mother gave him the look that she always used when telling him everything would be all right. “It was not my place to tell him how to run things. He was the one elected—four times.”

  Louis wished he could be five years old again.

  Eighteen

  “That’s her, over there,” Catherine said to Louis as they crossed the Minimes Bridge over the Canal du Midi. They had started their stroll at ten—apparently the time when most prostitutes started working—but it was now an hour and a half later and none of the numerous prostitutes they’d seen were Mademoiselle Diatta. Catherine regretted her choice in shoes; sneakers would have been more appropriate than the heels she was wearing. Small heels, but still.

  In the shadow of an overhanging magnolia with her hands in the pockets of a short black leather jacket, their target chewed gum and stared dispassionately at the cars driving by. As the two sleuths drew closer, Catherine noticed that the woman wore red tights and black high-heeled boots. Her clothing didn’t actually make her look like a prostitute. It was the way she stood there waiting for customers. Catherine had been mistaken for a prostitute herself about a year earlier. She was waiting for a friend at a bus-stop late at night—so there would be no buses—when a man had stopped, rolled down his window, and asked, “Vous travaillez?” Catherine hadn’t even understood why the man wanted to know if she was working, but replied “no” since she wasn’t out chasing an article. Only when the man had driven away with a red face did the penny drop. Since then, she had been very careful of standing alone on a street, looking at cars rolling by.

  As they crossed the street to the corner where Mademoiselle Diatta stood, the woman recognized Catherine. “What do you want?” she said.

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” Louis greeted her with a big smile. “We were wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m working. It’s Friday night and I’ve already been away for almost a week because of…” She nodded in the direction of Catherine. She presumably didn’t imply it was Catherine’s fault she’d taken time off from work, but now associated her with the whole finding-the-mayor-dead business. “I can’t afford to lose my regular customers.”

  Catherine shifted from foot to foot. She’d thought her feet hurt before, but once they stopped, it was even worse. Ironically, the woman worked less than a hundred meters from where Catherine lived. Down the short rue Gutenberg and to the right, and she would be home. Mademoiselle Diatta was probably one of the prostitutes who regularly brought her customers back to Catherine’s street for some privacy. From the mezzanine where her bed was, Catherine had a perfect view of what was going on in the cars that parked for ten minutes at a time in front of her house.

  Louis did not appear to suffer from their walk along the city’s avenues. He was all smiles and charm with this black woman whom his father had worked so hard to stop from plying her trade in the city center. “Of course we don’t want to hurt your business, Mademoiselle. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name. I’m Louis.” He extended his hand.

  To Catherine’s surprise, the pro
stitute shook his hand and replied, “I’m Alima. But I still have to work.”

  Louis cocked his head to the side and gave a charming half-smile. “What if we pay for your time?” He looked like he was about to say something else, but hadn’t quite figured out how to say it.

  Alima gave a deep-throated laugh. “It’s thirty euros for ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?” Both of Louis’s brows shot up in surprise. The duration seemed to shock him more than the price. Poor, innocent rich boy. Catherine decided to let him manage this part of the discussion.

  Alima also smiled, flashing white teeth that almost glowed against her black face in the shadows. There was no mistaking the half-flirtatious, half-mocking expression. “Yes. Thirty euros, up front. Ten minutes.” She put one hand on her hip and tapped the finger of the other hand on her full lips. “However, you don’t appear to have a car. And there’s an audience.” She pointed to Catherine. “So I might have to charge you more.”

  Catherine was tempted to tell her they could use her place just down the road and that in any case, she had probably watched Alima in action already, but figured that wouldn’t really help.

  Louis, Catherine was delighted to discover, turned beet red. “Very funny.” He cleared his throat and looked up to the dark sky before addressing Alima. “Like I said, we only have a couple of questions. I’ll be more than happy to pay thirty euros for ten minutes of your time. For answering questions.”

  Alima’s smile now covered most of her face. She was having fun, and so was Catherine. But the prostitute’s smile fell. Pointing a thumb in Catherine’s direction, she said, “No matter what price, I will not be talking to her. She didn’t believe me the last time we talked and made me look like an idiot in the newspaper.”

  Catherine grimaced. She hadn’t anticipated this. Like the upper class English girl she was brought up to be, she hadn’t thought the prostitute might read her article. How she had assumed a girl with that many books in her home would not know how to read, Catherine couldn’t explain. So much for walking away from the hypocrisy her parents were masters of. She took a deep breath. Time to apologize.

  “I’m sorry about the way I portrayed you in that article, Mademoiselle Diatta,” she said. “Like everybody else, I found your tale to be too outlandish to be credible, so that’s what I wrote.”

  Alima crossed her arms under her impressive breasts. “That’s not what I’m upset about, you ignorant Catholic. If you don’t believe me, don’t put what I said in the stupid article. But that’s not what you did, was it?” She stepped closer to Catherine so they stood only a pace apart. “You put it all in there, but then said it was all rubbish and that I was most likely drunk or high so it was all a hallucination.” A hurt look on her face, she turned to Louis. “If my friends or family ever figure out I’m the one she wrote about, they might punish me or not want to see me again. Muslims aren’t allowed to drink alcohol, you know.”

  Louis’s mouth drew into a thin line. He glanced at Catherine long enough for Catherine to see the accusation in his eyes, then focused on Alima. “Yes, I do know that. In fact, my best friend is a Muslim. His name is Mouad Bensaïd. He’s been with the Socialist Party for a long time. Perhaps you know him?”

  Alima relaxed a little. “I think I see who you’re talking about.”

  Catherine searched her mind for a way to make up for her mistake. “What if we buy you dinner, Mademoiselle Diatta? We could find a nice restaurant and chat over a delicious meal.”

  The reaction was the opposite of what Catherine was hoping for. The woman started yelling. “You think I don’t have money to pay for my own food? I probably make twice as much money as you, writing stupid articles for a stupid newspaper.”

  Catherine refrained from commenting on the repeated use of “stupid.” Especially since the prostitute was most likely right. At thirty euros for ten minutes and no taxes paid, she would make more in a night than Catherine did in a week. It was almost enough to make her reconsider her career choice. Well, no. Not really.

  Louis again came to the rescue. “I’m sure that’s not what she meant,” he said to the woman in calming tones. It contrasted with the volume Alima had been using and was efficient in defusing the situation.

  Catherine thought the man really was his father’s son; charm and charisma must be in his blood.

  Louis gave Alima a crooked smile. “In any case, I couldn’t afford it. A whole night at a hundred and eighty euros an hour—plus the food!—would ruin me.”

  Alima conceded a small smile.

  Catherine decided to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the night.

  Louis looked at his watch. “We’ve already taken up ten minutes of your time. I only ask for ten more minutes, then I’ll pay you sixty euros and we’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

  Alima stared at him, clearly debating whether or not to go along with the deal.

  “Please, Alima.” Louis made puppy eyes at the prostitute. If that look was part of his arsenal, no wonder he’d never needed to buy the services of the likes of Alima. “I only want to figure out who killed my father. To get justice and to stop him from killing anyone else.”

  With a small jolt, Alima said, “Your father?” Then, after looking at him for a second, “Oh, right. You came back for the funeral. Toutes mes condoléances.”

  She did read the papers, and had good manners offering her condolences. Catherine shifted her weight to her right foot wishing for a place to sit down.

  “Thank you,” Louis said. “Do we have a deal?”

  Alima looked at Catherine with narrowed eyes, but relented when she turned back to Louis. “All right.” She raised her index in the air. “But I don’t want money.” Pointing at Catherine, but looking at Louis, she said, “I want an article.”

  Catherine opened her mouth to object, but closed it when Louis gave her a pointed stare. Fine. Let him manage it. But she was not writing an article to apologize for the previous one.

  Louis turned all his attention to Alima. “What type of article are we talking about here?”

  Alima set her jaw and explained. “Over the last year, since your father moved back into the Capitole, the working conditions for us girls has gotten worse and worse. He’s kicked us out of the more profitable neighborhoods and sent the police after us to drive the point home. We’ve had to find new clients in new, more dangerous locations. And nobody cares.” She locked her gaze on Catherine. “I want an article about this, but written in a way that’s good for us, not explaining how good it was of the mayor to get rid of us.”

  The woman had a point. Catherine wasn’t in charge of the political articles until very recently, so hadn’t thought of the second point of view on that issue. She’d only heard the mayor congratulate himself on cleaning up the streets of Toulouse.

  Louis took the attack on his father with great calm. In fact, his frown could mean he wasn’t quite happy with how his father had managed that situation. To Alima, he said, “That’s a great point, Mademoiselle.” Then he turned to Catherine. “What do you think? Is it a fair deal?”

  Catherine nodded. “I can write that article. But please be warned that I’m not on the best of terms with my boss right now, so I can’t guarantee the article will actually go into print.”

  Louis clearly wondered what she had done to piss off her boss—she was not about to tell him the joke she’d made about his father’s death!—but only said, “That sounds good to me. Alima?”

  “Fine,” Alima replied. “So what are these questions of yours?”

  Louis looked to Catherine, apparently at a loss now that the deal was made.

  Praying she wouldn’t put her foot in her mouth again, Catherine said, “Is there anything about what you saw that night that you didn’t tell me the last time?”

  Alima shook her head. “I told you all the horrible details about that woman. I saw them, touched her, she turned into a skeleton, and then I called the police.”

  Louis spoke up. “The
re was nobody else around? I’m a little surprised that at two in the morning, place du Capitole was deserted.”

  Alima shrugged. “There were some people going through when I passed the place fifteen minutes earlier, but that second time, I was all alone. A man came along just a minute after me, but the woman was already dust then.”

  Catherine drew in a quick breath. “You went though there fifteen minutes earlier?”

  “Yes.” Alima nodded. “I was going home for a quick shower before returning to work.”

  Catherine prodded further. “And what did you see that first time through?”

  “Well, there were no dead bodies.” Alima arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  Catherine couldn’t care less if the woman thought she asked stupid questions—she was the journalist here. “Who were the other people you saw? You said you weren’t alone?”

  Alima rolled her eyes and sighed, but gave the question some thought. “There were two couples in their late twenties, probably going home from a party. They came out of rue Saint Rome and moved toward Saint-Sernin.” She cocked her head. “Then there was an SDF,” she used the acronym for Sans Domicile Fixe, the French way of referring to homeless people, “dragging something down the Galerue from rue des Lois, or somewhere over there.”

  “What was he dragging?” Louis asked.

  “I don’t know.” Alima moved hands to indicate something chest-high. “Some sort of giant box. I figured it was a cage for his dog or something. It was covered with a blanket.”

  Catherine and Louis shared a look. What kind of homeless man would even have a cage for his dog?

  “The dog wasn’t in the cage?” Louis asked.

  “No, he was running circles around his master and that big box thing, barking all the way.”

  “And you didn’t see him when you came out the second time?” Catherine said.

  Alima shook her head.

  “How big was that box?” Louis’s brow drew together so far it looked like he had a single thick brow. “Big enough to house the scene of the two dead bodies?”