Murder on the Quai

by Cara Black

  “Agatha Christie.”

  Chambly-sur-Cher · December 1942

  The German motorcycles rumbled up the road. Nearer and nearer. Any moment now they’d swoop inside, discover the almost molten gold brick. Fear gripped Gaubert—what could he do?

  Minou grabbed a hunting rifle from the wall; Alain leaned and pulled out his knife. Gaubert envisioned the carnage—the German reprisals against the village, against his Fanny and Gaby.

  “Non, non,” he said, gasping. “Put those down right now.”

  Alain’s eyes slit like a wild dog’s. “I’ll take care of them.”

  “Stop him, or we’re dead,” said Gaubert.

  Rooted in terror at the approaching sound of the motorcycles, no one moved. Alain was about to lunge.

  Gaubert grabbed the nearest thing, red-hot tongs, and swung at Alain’s ankles. Alain fell on the dirt, moaning in pain. Then Gaubert punched him in the head like he’d wanted to do for a long time. The idiot boy’s eyes rolled back.

  “Do what I say, everyone,” shouted Gaubert. “Now!”

  “Curfew, monsieur?” Gaubert hiccuped, his fist around Baret’s wine bottle. “Mais oui, we’re warm and toasty in here.” Next to him on the floor an unconscious Alain, leaning against the bench; beside him Philbert, Bruno, and the heavy-lidded Minou. Baret, his back turned, was taking a leak against the back wall. They all reeked of the wine Gaubert had spilled down their shirts.

  The SS man in black jackboots gestured to his patrol, a motley, windblown quartet with dripping leather jackets. Water puddled around their boots on the dirt floor.

  “Die Franzoise, eh?” He mimed drinking with his hand. The soldiers grinned. “Ja wohl, you drink yes and we manage your country.”

  Gaubert grinned. “We French enjoy life, join us.”

  The SS chief took off his moisture-ringed cap, exposing short blond hair and a large forehead. The Aryan ideal, Gaubert thought, and offered him the bottle.

  “Drink?”

  The SS waved off the bottle with a sniff of his nose, muttered “filthy peasants”—one German phrase Gaubert knew. His eyes narrowed, taking in the mare munching hay, the closed metal doors of the burning furnace. “Was machen Sie hier?”

  “Nights when I get my horse shod need good wine. S’il vous plaît,” Gaubert insisted again offering the bottle. Nearby at the water trough, the mare neighed. Hot, so hot. Sweat trickled down the back of Gaubert’s neck.

  The SS man flicked a finger at his corporal. “You’re a farm boy. Check if he’s lying.”

  “Ja wohl.” The corporal hurried to the horse, paused, stroked the neck, patted each leg gently so the horse would lift its foot. “Newly shod, mein Gefreiter.”

  The SS man nodded. The death’s head insignia glinting on his collar. “Gut. Show me what’s inside.”

  “Comprends pas.” Gaubert poked the unconscious Alain. “You understand him?”

  “I said show me what’s in there,” the SS man shouted, pointing at the furnace. “Raus! Get up!”

  Gaubert staggered to his feet, pain lancing his side, and grabbed the blackened gloves. Before he pulled the makeshift furnace door open, he gestured to the date on the anvil. Paused for effect. “Our old tradition, a custom on the longest night of the year. Solstice, comprend?”

  One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “Ja, mein Gefreiter, Wintersonnenwende, solstice, the shortest day of the year. In Bayern we do it with—”

  “I know,” he said, impatient. “But they’re hiding something. Open.”

  A strong fecal smell came from Bruno, shifting and moaning on the floor. He’d shit his pants in fear. A dead giveaway.

  The SS man wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Hurry up. Show me what’s inside.”

  Gaubert pulled the door back and the SS man shielded his eyes from the blazing heat.

  Then he shook his head. Laughed. “Horseshoes?”

  “That’s for good luck, we say . . . viel Glück, non?”

  Beckoned by their Gefreiter, the soldiers came to look, crowding around the hot forge. Gaubert trembled, watching and holding his breath. Would it work?

  The bunch of horseshoes were still cold in the glowing fire. Would it give them away? “That’s our custom, we burn away winter with the old, make way for good crops in the new year.” Gaubert turned his grimace of pain into a lopsided grin. Shrugged and felt a sharp stab from his rib where Alain punched him. Broken? His lungs seized up again and he doubled over, racked by coughing.

  Gaubert pulled out his handkerchief stained with blood long enough for them to see. Blew his nose. “Désolé. Bad lungs. Tuberculosis.” He gasped for breath. “The boys here, too.”

  Baret turned, his fly open, clearing his throat, then lapsing into a coughing fit.

  “You shouldn’t get too close,” said Gaubert.

  To a one, the SS and soldiers stepped back, nervous. Tuberculosis was frighteningly contagious. At least, he hoped they thought it was.

  With another mutter of “filthy peasants,” the SS turned on his jackbooted heel and ordered his men out, shouting about “quarantining the village.”

  “Quick.” Baret zipped up his fly with the tip of his hook. The noise of the motorcycle engines faded. “Pull out the horseshoes. Get shoveling more coke.”

  “We can take our time, eh? They won’t be back.” Philbert grinned.

  “But others will, Philbert.” Gaubert leaned against the wall, shaking. “When Alain wakes, get him working.”

  “With a cracked head?” Bruno said.

  “Nothing cracks his thick skull.” Gaubert winced. “Now grab that rag and help me bind up my chest. And clean yourself up.”

  Twice that night they had to re-pour the gold, a cherry-red-orange molten mixture, into the ingot molds. The laborious process took close to three hours. With nine more buried boxes left to melt . . . they had nights of work yet. It would be impossible, given the German patrols. They couldn’t talk their way out of the same thing again.

  In the early morning light, steam hissed from the cold water bucket as the last bar cooled.

  After half an hour, they had ten ingots, like thick chocolate bars, five hundred grams each. Heavy as half a country loaf of bread.

  “Voilà,” said Bruno, indicating the measured piles. “Bonbons for everyone.”

  “No bonbons for the orphans and widows across the river in Givaray,” Gaubert said, voicing the thoughts that had been plaguing him since the night of the flood. “We’re not going to get away with it forever.”

  “Gaubert, you worry too much,” said Bruno.

  If he didn’t worry, how could he have gotten them this far?

  Philbert wiped his hands. “We’ve got to plan a more efficient way to melt this down. And the hard part—Baret needs a travel permit.”

  “First I need a reason to travel.”

  “But it’s perfect,” said Alain, rubbing the knob on his temple. “Don’t you need a new arm? That one’s beat up, non?”

  Gaubert shook his head. “Think, Alain. First Baret’s got to find a willing contact who can take the gold.”

  “He’ll need a cut for doing business,” Baret said. “Remember that.”

  Alain spit. “How’s that fair? We do the work and—”

  “Any legitimate metals dealer would be taking a risk, Alain. Gold trade’s been restricted since 1939, comprends? You expect a dealer to take a chance from the goodness of his heart? Wake up.”

  Gaubert nodded. “After the contact puts it on the market, it’s just a matter of time until this SS bastard puts it together.”

  “Not unmarked gold on the marché noir,” said Alain. “There are all kinds of things for sale—diamonds, paintings. That’s the Jews’ currency for escape. It’s just knowing the right contact, eh Baret?”

  “More complicated than that,�
� said Baret. “We’ll need a willing dealer with assay equipment who’ll take a reasonable cut. That might be hard to find. Get that through your head.”

  Gaubert thought of the danger fueled by greed. The gold wasn’t theirs, no more than it belonged to the Nazis who’d plundered it.

  “Give me my cut of this batch,” said Gaubert. “Keep the rest, all of it—it’s yours. I’m out of this.”

  Five pairs of eyes stared at him, all tinged with anger and suspicion.

  “You’re giving up your share in the rest?” Alain said finally.

  “My gift to you,” Gaubert said.

  “What’s the deal? What do you want?”

  “My price? Never mention me and my family. I was never involved.”

  “You’re afraid, Gaubert.”

  “Fear is healthy. Baret and I know that from the trenches. It keeps you alert. Alive. When this hell of a war is over, then you should sell. Just leave me out of it. D’accord?”

  Alain snorted. “I don’t trust you.”

  “That’s rich coming from a man whose life I just saved. All of your lives.”

  “He’s right.” Baret nodded. Picked up a bar. “Each bar’s worth a hundred thousand francs, give or take.”

  A hundred thousand francs? The men looked at one another.

  “Mon Dieu,” whispered Philbert.

  Silence except for the horse’s hoof pawing the dirt floor.

  “Not just pocket money then,” said Baret, his smile grim. “Wait until the war’s over. Invest. God knows you’ll have to launder the profits, hide it.”

  Morning light slanted from the forge’s one window; the dying embers glowed faintly.

  “Gold lust, it’s a curse,” said Gaubert. “It will ruin your every day . . . worrying, thinking, afraid, always looking over your shoulder. That’s the price you’ll pay the rest of your lives. It’s not worth it to me. So I’m out.”

  “It’s not that simple, Gaubert.” Bruno shook his head. “You’d put us all at risk.”

  “Why?”

  Philbert shot the others a look. “We owe you for last night. We won’t forget. But we can’t have you using gold which could be traced back here.”

  Gaubert would later wonder, if he’d relented and stayed with the group right on that dirt-floored forge, could he have changed what happened? But in that moment everything was decided for him.

  “Papa?” A voice outside, drowned by cart’s wheels rumbling over the stones.

  “Gaubert!” called Fanny. Laughter. “We’re home! My brother brought us. Gaby can’t wait for you to catch the Christmas fish.”

  Gaubert stuck a bar in each pocket, strode out before any of the other men—exhausted, sore, and short-tempered—could stop him.

  He never saw the looks on their faces.

  Or saw, as he grabbed Fanny and Gaby in his arms and hugged them to him in the cold morning sunshine, the five men in the forge drawing from five pieces of hay. The man who’d drawn the short straw squeezed his eyes closed. Then he grunted and picked up the German rifle the sandbaggers had recovered from the truck.

  “You’ll have to do it tonight. On the riverbank.”

  Paris · Saturday, 4:00 p.m.

  In this quartier below Parc Monceau, the crimson Chinese pagoda with jade roof tiles stood out like a red thumb, Aimée thought as she chained her bike.

  “Your friend lives here?” said René.

  “It’s a surprise party . . .” She caught herself before adding, “planned by the birthday girl herself.”

  In the entrance hall, red lanterns dripped from the high ceilings and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” pumped from the speakers. They followed the music past red-lacquered screens festooned with lucky peaches to a black wood-paneled room where a trio of Martine’s sisters shrieked the chorus. Shimmying and laughing, they waved to Aimée; each of them sported lace leggings, off-the-shoulder tops, jean jackets, and curly side-parted bobs.

  René’s green eyes bulged. “I’ve never seen so many mullets and shoulder pads in a pagoda.”

  Pink spirit lanterns, red peonies in black lacquer vases, sandalwood incense, and a giant gold Buddha completed the scene. Couples were dancing, embracing. She felt as counterfeit as the faux gold-painted Buddha.

  “Finally,” said Martine. Her hair had been gelled into blonde waves, and she wore a black mini, lace leggings, and short-heeled boots. She kissed Aimée on both cheeks with her maroon bee-stung lips. “Got a new boyfriend?”

  Martine’s voice boomed in the brief lull in the music. Twenty or so couples and assorted guests turned and laser-stared. René shifted in his shoes.

  She shot Martine a don’t go there look and handed her the wrapped gift. “Happy surprise birthday, Martine.”

  Neda, who had been Aimée’s nemesis at the lycée, said, “Love your accessories,” looking pointedly at René and then Miles Davis—as if a dwarf and a dog were accoutrements. Everyone was looking at them. “Exotic. Your taste in men’s changed since the lycée.”

  Aimée sensed René tensing up. She wanted to melt into the Chinese rug. Why had she brought him? This had turned awful. Cruel.

  Beyond salvaging? Not while she still had breath. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile and aimed a carefree laugh at Neda. “Meet René, a computer wizard. Absolute genius. And this is Miles Davis, whom I’m dog-sitting.”

  “I’ve never met a computer genius,” said Martine, her mascaraed eyes widening.

  René blushed. “Happy Birthday, Martine,” he said.

  “Mon Dieu, I thought the puppy was my present,” said Martine, taking a drag of her cigarette. “So you’re the two handsome new men in Aimée’s life. Champagne?”

  René nodded. “Why not?”

  Martine winked. “Don’t mind me, René. Welcome to the family.”

  Martine handed him a flute of fizzing champagne and kissed him on both cheeks. The next moment everyone’s attention had returned to the champagne. Phew, Aimée thought, watching René relax.

  The black lacquered walls around them were inlaid with gold lotus leaves. There was teakwood furniture everywhere.

  “What is this place?” René asked.

  “Monsieur Loo’s pagoda,” Martine replied. “Amazing, non? My uncle’s on the board of his arts foundation. He suggested a chinoiserie theme.”

  Martine’s extended family included a chunk of the aristos and old money at the party. Aimée saw a lot of them in this eclectic crowd of young and old, scattered amongst lycée friends and their dates.

  Aimée had made her appearance; now she had to get to a phone.

  “Do you know where I can make a call?” she asked Martine.

  “Try my new present.” Martine lifted up a grey brick-sized handset. Grinned like a satisfied cat. “The latest cell phone.”

  It was attached to a battery pack the size of Aimée’s anatomy book.

  “Incroyable, non? It fits in my Vuitton.”

  Just.

  “But no one’s been able to figure out how to turn it on,” her uncle said, champagne in hand, joining them.

  René’s eyes gleamed. “Mind if I . . . ?”

  Within seconds he’d switched on the power, pulled out the antenna, hit a button, and got a dial tone.

  Martine kissed René again. “You’re brilliant, René.”

  Martine made the first call on the new device—her coiffeur for an appointment. “How did we ever live without these? Your turn, Aimée.” She took René’s hand and danced away.

  “Love Shack” blared. Not again. Poor Miles Davis whimpered at the pounding beat. She wrapped her silk scarf around his ears, took refuge in a red lacquered room behind the golden Buddha, and consulted her now behaving pager. A number she didn’t recognize. She punched it into Martine’s phone.

  “Allô?”

  Aimée recognized El
ise’s voice. The connection crackled. “You sound far away.”

  “Comment?”

  “Hold on.” Aimée stood and walked around fiddling with the antenna until finally, at a teak-framed window, she got better reception. “Elise, we need to speak fast. I might lose the connection.”

  “You found Suzy?”

  Aimée took a breath. “My report’s ready.”

  Elise’s voice rose in fear. “You tracked her down by yourself?”

  “Yes, and spoke with her at length. She met up with your father the night he was—”

  A gasp. “Suzy killed him?”

  “Non, Elise. I need to go over the report with you. I’ll explain.” And learn what you know about my mother.

  “Does she know who killed him?”

  Fuzzing and clicks. Merde, this connection could cut out anytime.

  “Listen, last night the police discovered the body of a man floating at the quai—murdered like your father. Was he your father’s friend? Is that why you left the apartment?”

  Pause.

  “Elise, what’s wrong? Why are you afraid?”

  In the background a door shut. “I can’t talk.”

  Couldn’t or wouldn’t?

  “Elise, tell me the other men’s names.”

  “Other men?”

  “The men your father ate dinner with at Laurent every month,” she said, exasperated. “I think this man . . . Can you hear me, Elise? They could be next.”

  “I’m counting on you to find Papa’s killer.”

  This wasn’t going how she’d planned. Hardly professional.

  “Technically you hired us to find Suzy, Elise. I did.”

  “But you said Suzy met him. She knows,” Elise panted. “You promised to find out.”

  She hadn’t really agreed to find Bruno Peltier’s killer. Shouldn’t the flics have seen the pattern by now? Besides, Elise had wanted her father’s help, not Aimée’s. What would he say if Aimée pursued this? Did she really care right now, since he’d lied to her? One lie deserved another.

  “How can I if you won’t help me?” she tried again. “I need to know—was last night’s murder victim one of your father’s friends?”