Murder in the Sentier

by Cara Black

  “Please, can’t you fit me in?” Aimée asked, letting the whine rise in her voice. “Something’s come up, it’s important.”

  “He handles cases jointly with his nephew,” Madame Goroux said. “Let me see if he’s available.”

  “Merci,” Aimée said. The nephew might help her to get to see his uncle.

  An express delivery man wheeled in a package on a dolly. “Bonjour, Madame Goroux, I need the patron’s signature.”

  “I can sign, Cédric,” she said.

  “Sorry, but the sender specifically required Monsieur Teynard’s signature.”

  “Come back in a while,” said Madame Goroux, consulting her schedule. “He marked himself out until his three o’clock appointment.”

  Aimée glanced at her Tintin watch.

  Twenty minutes. If he was on time.

  She left and descended the worn stairs. In the quiet mosaic-tiled lobby of Teynard’s building, her mind raced. She chewed Nicorette furiously, dying for a cigarette. Within ten minutes, a dapper white-haired man in his sixties in a wheat-colored linen suit entered the lobby.

  “Monsieur Teynard?” she asked, standing partially behind a pillar.

  He removed his sunglasses and blinked, adjusting his eyes from the glare outside to the darkened lobby.

  “Mademoiselle, are we acquainted?” he asked, a smile spreading over his face. A whiff of scented aftershave accompanied him. Perhaps he fancied himself a ladies’ man.

  “Indirectly,” she said, walking toward him. “That’s what I’d like to talk about.”

  He squinted.

  Aimée hit the light switch, flooding the lobby with light.

  Teynard’s brow furrowed as he stared at her.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he said in a low voice, “I’d say the past has come back …”

  “To haunt you?” she finished for him. “Let’s go talk.”

  Aimée pointed to the café in Passage du Bourg-l’Abbé directly opposite Teynard’s office.

  WITH A wary look, Teynard watched her set two espressos on the café table. She pushed the round aluminum sugar cube bowl toward him. The young owner, wearing a Lakers tank top and prayer beads around his wrist, sat behind the counter reading a Turkish newspaper.

  Apart from Aimée and Teynard, the narrow cafe, with its yellowed smoke-stained walls, hammered-tin counter, and brown leatherette chairs, was empty. From the corners came the musk-like smell of lingering genteel decay. Wood-framed windows fronted the passage under a glass-and-iron roof probably unchanged from Napoleon’s time.

  “Monsieur Teynard,” she said, “you were part of the Galerie Arte surveillance on July 15, 1976, weren’t you?”

  “That’s a long time ago,” Teynard said, smoothing back his hair. His ice blue eyes darted over the café.

  “I’m interested in your version.”

  “My version?”

  “You were there along with my father, Dray, and Szlovak.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She nodded, unwrapping the sugar cube’s paper. “Good point. Maybe you weren’t there either. I know Papa wasn’t.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Shouldn’t you tell me, Monsieur Teynard?” She stirred her sugar.

  “I have appointments….” He smoothed his linen trousers and started to stand up.

  “I told Madame Goroux your plans had changed.”

  For the first time he looked surprised.

  “This might refresh your memory,” she said, wiping the sticky table off with a napkin and spreading the file in front of him. “I’m a visual person. Seeing things in black and white brings it home to me. Maybe you are, too. See, there’s your name.”

  Teynard’s chin sagged.

  She pointed. “Here’s another visual.” She pulled out the photo of her and her father. “There’s a date. See Le Figaro on the tabac stand behind us—July 15, 1976. I even checked. The old noon edition came out at eleven A.M. Doesn’t fit with the surveillance record, does it? My father was with me July 15, not on surveillance as this shows.”

  “You’re talking about ancient history,” Teynard said.

  “My father was framed,” she said, “for something he didn’t do.”

  “The facts speak for themselves.”

  “Pas du tout—they lie,” she said. “But the rumor he was dirty follows him and me, even now.”

  “That’s old news,” he said. “If you had more going on in your life you wouldn’t be hung up on the past.”

  Rude man. Maybe that was true. But it was none of his business.

  “Move on, young lady,” he smiled. “Get a life. Isn’t that how they say it?”

  Teynard didn’t like women. Or maybe just her. But something about his dapper persona didn’t match his hard eyes.

  “Good advice, Monsieur Teynard,” she said. “I’ll move on to the prosecutor, Edith Mésard.”

  She saw a flicker of interest in his eyes.

  “And Monsieur Szlovak,” she lied. “He has a better memory than you.”

  “Talk with Dray,” he said. “Before you make more of a fool of yourself.”

  And then she knew. Dray and Teynard were thick. Pudding thick, like thieves.

  “It was you two, wasn’t it?”

  Something caught in his throat. “What are you …?”

  “Don’t lie again,” she said. “For more than twenty years, you’ve been afraid someone would accuse you of that, haven’t you? But my father took the fall. Maybe he was just convenient, having a terrorist wife and all.”

  Teynard shook his head. “You aren’t making sense,” he said in a quiet voice. “I need to get back to the office.”

  “But it makes perfect sense,” she said. “Especially if he got my mother to inform, and cut a deal for a light prison sentence for her. He left the force with honors, too. Things don’t often happen like that if a police officer has been under disciplinary review, do they?”

  Teynard looked away. “Typical flic’s kid!”

  “Matter of fact”—she leaned forward and downed her espresso—“in the Commissariat, you probably bounced me on your knee!”

  That should make him feel old. And dried up, like he looked under the tan and his GQ fashion attempt.

  “What do you want?”

  “Papa’s vindication,” she said. “And what you know about my mother.”

  He shrugged. “I’m retired. What makes you think I know anything?” She’d saved the best for last, hoping he’d nibble. Well, he’d sort of nibbled.

  “But I know about the Modigliani paintings, you see,” she said, pulling the Figaro article out. “They weren’t lost at all. You signed for their consignment to the police repository. But here they are in a 1984 London exhibition.”

  He stood up. “I’m not the bad guy,” Teynard said.

  “Maybe from your perspective … what did you and Dray do with the money?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “But the prosecutor will,” she said. “Especially when I reopen the inquiry. You’re in deep, Teynard. Deep and dirty.”

  “How? There’s no proof,” he said. But for the first time his eyes were unsure.

  “Looks like proof to me,” she said. “Laborde’s stolen paintings confiscated from the Left Bank Gallery by you, then showing up in London … sold to willing buyers. One work was acquired for 379,000 FF* in a Paris sale in June 1985. The other was bought for 1,737,000 FF** in March 1991, again at auction.”

  Teynard’s shoulders sagged.

  *(US$ 54,930)

  **(US$ 251,739)

  “Chump change Teynard … they’d be worth so much more now,” she said. “You should have held onto them.”

  He sat down. He looked much older.

  “What have you done with the money?” she asked.

  “I’ve been tracking Jules Bourdon for years,” he said, his voice flat. “He’s here and I get a bad feeling you’ll try to screw it up.”

  “
Screw what up?”

  “None of your business.”

  Is that why Stefan had surfaced?

  “My mother went to Africa with him, didn’t she?”

  “Fool!” Teynard said. He shoved the espresso away. “There’s more. Much more.”

  “More?”

  “Diamonds. Investment-quality diamonds from Africa.”

  Diamonds … is that what Jutta and Gisela were after? Was that what this had all been about? Were the diamonds what had been in Liane Barolet’s mother’s coffin?

  “When the terrorists kidnapped Laborde he was fat with investment diamonds,” Teynard said. “They had perfect planning or a stroke of dumb luck, who knows, but the minister and Laborde’s old Milice comrades were coming for their cut. Laborde had bribed his friends in the government for concessions. They were happy to use the old colonial network and keep the spoils among friends.”

  But nothing for the Africans who lived there, Aimée thought.

  “That’s why Bourdon’s here, risking his life,” said Teynard.

  And she saw it in his eyes, alive and predatory.

  “Bourdon’s what you want, isn’t he?” she asked. “Some kind of vendetta?”

  “Call it payback time.” Teynard rolled his pant cuff up to midcalf. Above his sock, she saw a flesh-colored prosthesis. “He shot my kneecap to bits. They removed my leg to my thigh and called me lucky. Now it’s my turn to make him lucky.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Do you?” Teynard had warmed up. “They’re lice. Punks who called it a political statement when they blew people up or threw bank-robbery money from the Metro windows. Calling it capitalism for the masses. But Jules Bourdon, he was a smart arnaqueur, a con who used the idiots. And he’s never stopped.”

  “So Jules Bourdon fled to Senegal … why?”

  “Not a lot of options when you’re wanted on several continents,” Teynard said. “He worked there as a mercenary.”

  “What does Romain Figeac have to do with it?”

  “Figeac had a score to settle, too. Seems his wife’s baby was Bourdon’s. Not his. He wanted the world to know what a con man Bourdon really was.”

  “So Jules Bourdon killed Figeac before Figeac could expose him? And Ousmane was killed because he hid Idrissa?”

  Teynard’s eyes narrowed. “Something like that. I could have sworn time stood still when I saw you,” Teynard said. His voice had changed. It was low and full of something. Some dark emotion riding near the surface.

  “Why?” But she knew.

  “She took my breath away,” he said.

  Aimée’s hand shook. The way he said it made her sick. Like he had some claim on her.

  He took in her reaction. “Has she been in contact with you?”

  So he was looking for her mother, too.

  Aimée shook her head.

  “And you wouldn’t tell me if she had,” Teynard said.

  STEFAN RUBBED HIS EYES. His back hurt from sleeping in the stiff chair. He’d ordered a meal from the café opposite, had it brought up. He’d spent the whole night and day watching. A woman had gone into the building. The only things visible now were silhouettes in the Action-Réaction window.

  Stefan wished he had company. But he was alone as orange dusk painted the red tile rooftops. He wanted to talk; talk about the past, his feelings, the things he wanted to do. Outline his plan to own a garage specializing in Mercedes restoration.

  He fingered the card she’d given him. Turned it over in his grease lined palm, remembered her engaging silence and how she was the spitting image of her mother.

  He reached for the old-fashioned black phone.

  Friday Afternoon

  “OUI.” AIMÉE ANSWERED her cell phone, turning away from Teynard. She winked, signaling the café owner for two more espressos.

  Silence. Was it Etienne?

  “Allô?”

  “Have some time to talk?” asked Stefan.

  “Tell me where and when.” She stood and walked to the counter, away from Teynard.

  A pause.

  She repeated it; maybe he hadn’t heard her.

  “My therapist said I should talk it out.”

  Aimée bit back her surprise. “Please do, Stefan, I’m listening.”

  “For years I’ve wanted to talk with someone,” he said. “I have to share the burden.”

  He sounded broken, older than he was. It dawned on her that she’d have to protect him.

  “People are chasing me.”

  “Who?” She wondered who else besides Europol and the DST. Teynard?

  “Talk to me, Stefan,” she said. “Have you seen my mother?”

  “Jules came back. Sooner or later he’ll show at Action-Réaction,” he said. “Chances are she’s with him.”

  Aimée’s heart sank. Didn’t her mother want to see her? Or had she been watching Aimée, following her, even as Aimée was seeking her? But purposely not making contact as René had warned.

  “Where are you? I’ll help.”

  His voice sagged. “Help me? I doubt it once you hear what I’ve done.”

  “Weren’t you a little fish caught swimming with the sharks?” she said. “Or did you become a shark, too?”

  “The old hunter,” he said, his voice jagged with regret. “I buried his things under a tree. His family should know what happened to him.”

  She nodded. “Making some amends will help you.” She held back the questions about her mother, realizing Stefan had to unburden himself in his own way.

  Then what sounded like a glass shattering.

  “Ça va?”

  “Later,” he said and she heard the dial tone.

  He’d wanted to talk but something had happened. She slapped the counter … so close, yet again out of her reach!

  She hit the call-back key.

  The phone rang and rang. She was worried. The steaming espressos were on the counter and she reached for them.

  But Teynard had opened the door and was walking down the passage. Rude again.

  She grabbed the first bill in her pocket, threw down a hundred-franc note, and rushed after him. Pedestrians crowded the busy corner of rue de Turbigo. She ran to catch up with him. He stood at the curb facing the zebra crossing stripes, his back to her, white hair glinting in the late afternoon sun.

  “Look, Monsieur Teynard, you’ve got to stop … ,” she called out.

  He turned and the rest of her phrase was lost in the revving of a motor scooter.

  She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “We didn’t finish talking.” They were still several feet apart.

  “Quit following me,” he said.

  Teynard’s annoyed look turned to surprise. His shoulders jerked. Then jerked and jerked again.

  And she knew something was wrong.

  He clutched his side, grimacing as if in pain.

  Aimée pushed through the crowd of hot, tired Parisians. Several exclaimed in irritation. Teynard staggered toward her, then slumped to his knees, as the crowd parted around him. A woman screamed as he reached for the handle of her baby stroller. Three gaping red-black holes showed in his linen jacket. Teynard staggered and fell face down onto the hot pavement.

  Startled, Aimée looked up to see the scooter with a black-helmeted driver pull away. A battered green scooter. The rest of her view was cut off as a bus pulled up and the pedestrian throng crossed the street.

  Everything had happened in seconds.

  “Call a doctor!” someone shouted.

  And then it hit her. The green scooter was the one René had loaned her. Her spine tingled. Someone had stolen it. Teynard had been shot by someone riding her scooter. And if she wasn’t mistaken, that someone was Jules Bourdon.

  So he was watching her. Or Gisela was. Or her mother? Waiting for her to lead them to the diamonds?

  Scared, she backed away. She heard murmurs in the crowd … “raised her arm” … “following him.” Were they talking about her? The eyes of the couple standi
ng next to her narrowed in suspicion.

  An ambulance siren bleated, coming closer. She tried to melt into the crowd. Disappear. She had no wish to explain and no time to spend at the Commissariat. She was being hunted, too.

  She’d almost made it to the passage when the woman with the stroller looked over and pointed at her. “Her … her … it was her … she shot him!”

  As Aimée turned her heel broke.

  She took off both shoes and ran.

  “Stop … don’t let her get away!” the woman yelled.

  Aimée ran by the two sculptures of Commerce and Industry flanking the white stone of Passage du Bourg-l’Abbe.

  The café owner came out, waving a fifty-franc bill at her. “Keep the change!” she yelled. Footsteps sounded behind her. There was a loud ouff as he knocked whoever was chasing her to the ground. She turned around to see the café owner wave and give a big grin.

  She ran out of the passage and turned right onto rue Saint Denis. Sex shops and wholesale clothing stores lined the street. She entered the first one and plunked five hundred francs on the smudged glass counter, careful to avoid touching it.

  “That one,” she said, panting and pointing to the pink pageboy wig. “And this.” The man handed her the leather choker-type bondage necklace. She looked around. Most of the outfits had too many holes to wear on the street. She chose the one that provided the most covering. “This one, too.” He pushed the items over the counter. She heard the siren wail in the distance. She had to hurry.

  “I need to change.”

  He jerked his head toward a back booth. She went straight there, not looking to either side, or at what was going on outside.

  She tried to hold her breath for as long as it took her to shimmy out of Michel’s miniskirt and into the tight black vinyl PVC cat suit. But she couldn’t. She tied the choker, adjusted the wig, and pulled a snub-nosed pair of Manolo Blahnik’s sexy version of Minnie Mouse heels onto her feet, then stuffed her clothes into her bag.

  Now if she didn’t have to run, she’d be okay. Black PVC in this humidity could become a steambath.

  By the time she’d gone a few blocks, a middle-aged man had offered her five hundred francs, which she’d declined; she hadn’t really planned on recouping the investment in her outfit. A police car cruised by but she blended in with street life. Perfectly. Prostitution was legal, though solicitation was not and since the Middle Ages, rue Saint Denis had been the working girls’ beat.