Murder on the Quai

by Cara Black

  Elise’s face drained to a chalk white.

  “Your papa killed mine like a dog.” Renaud’s voice changed to that of a young boy. A sad, high pitch. “It’s only right he and the bad men got back what they deserved.” He bobbed his head up and down. “That’s right, don’t you think, Elise?”

  His childish voice—how he changed like a chameleon—sent shivers up her spine.

  Elise’s mouth quivered. “You’re Gaubert’s son? How can that be? I don’t understand you, Renaud.”

  “Pretend,” said Renaud, in the little boy voice. “That’s what I’m good at, Maman said. Always pretend, she said, so I’d survive.”

  He never took the gun off Aimée.

  “In the hospital Maman said I must keep pretending, make everyone believe I’m someone else. I’m so good at it, she said. So I promised.” He shivered. “I never saw her again. A man took me away. He was wearing Papa’s coat. Told me if I ever talked, he’d dump me on the road and I’d go hungry with all the lost people. So many lost people in the war.”

  Renaud cleared his throat. His voice adult now. Explanatory in tone. “I’ve had to act parts my whole life, Elise. I’ve never had a real home to live in, a real place to belong, because your father killed mine.”

  A schizophrenic? A deeply damaged person, that much she knew for sure. The hair rose on the back of her neck.

  “Can you see me as Avi, the Jewish orphan at Liberation, adopted by ‘loving parents’ who made me learn Hebrew and have a Bar Mitzvah?” Renaud glanced at his watch. He was waiting for something or someone. “I pretended, hoping Maman would visit. But she hanged herself in the lunatic asylum. I found that report years later.” His words came out matter-of-fact, hollow, his face expressionless. “In Paris, I was a natural for the conservatory, a stellar acting student.”

  Aimée’s hands curled in her pocket around the Swiss Army knife she’d taken from her bag. He wanted to talk, he wanted her and Elise to know. Dramatize his story. But of course he was an actor, over the top. He’d left messages, pointers, a trail to be figured out—she only saw it now. Stupid. The murders had been staged ritualistically: the Sten gun, the Vichy bottle, the gags—like a scene.

  “Greed, your father’s and the others’ greed—that’s what killed my papa. This isn’t about the money, Elise. I’m over fifty, yet a few months ago I discovered my true vocation—revenge.”

  Aimée watched him. He had perfect pitch, perfect timing, he was performing and they were the audience.

  “My parents raised me as un Juif,” said Renaud. “Of course I took a stage name. When they died this year, I put the apartment up for sale and cleared out their cellar. That’s when I found Maman’s letter. They’d hidden it. They were supposed to give it to me when I was eighteen, but they didn’t. She wrote down how your father shot Papa and melted all the gold. The same way they shot Minou, as that stupid Ninette said.”

  Renaud leaned down so he was at eye level with Elise. Smiled. “To think if I hadn’t found Maman’s letter, your father would have gotten away with everything.”

  He cocked the trigger at Aimée’s head.

  “I’ve engineered the bank to fail, the empire to crumble. All I need is your signature, Elise.”

  Just like that? Wasn’t it more complicated?

  “Don’t shoot her, Renaud. I’ll do it. Take what you want.” Elise grabbed a pen, scratched her signature.

  Aimée’s cold fear battled with guilt for having doubted Elise. She didn’t believe Renaud intended to let them live, no matter what Elise gave him.

  “Sign each of the six copies, Elise.” Renaud’s tone was almost conversational. He directed his attention at Aimée now. “Just think, I could have been your age when I discovered the truth about my parents’ past. It could have changed my whole adult life.”

  That struck a chord. “So you’re the only one with family secrets, Renaud? My American mother abandoned me when I was a little girl, and my father lied to me about who she was.”

  Renaud’s flat stare scared her.

  “Elise, my father didn’t want anything to do with your case. But I helped because we’re family. It was selfish, okay, but I wanted to find out about my mother from you. That’s why I helped you. Now I’m going to get shot for it?”

  “Ah, the young—so self-absorbed, so dramatic,” said Renaud.

  “With a pistol to my head, why not?”

  Renaud slapped her. “Shut up.” He turned to Elise. “Your father shot mine because my papa had a conscience.” With a thunk, Renaud dropped a gold ingot on the desk with his free hand. “Like a chocolate bar, non? That’s how my mother described it in her letter.”

  Transfixed, Aimée stared at the gold, the dull sparkle, the scratches of time marking it. She imagined its origins and shivered.

  “Think where this came from. The jewelry of déportés, their gold fillings.” She shook her head, sickened. “What do you mean your father had a conscience, Renaud? He took stolen gold, then let people die to keep his secret. It’s tainted.”

  “Non, non, you don’t understand. But who cares? That’s not the point. I’m telling you, Maman wasn’t the type to hang herself over a broken heart. They killed her.”

  Aimée understood. And wished she didn’t.

  “Gold lust, greed—did it ever make your father happy, Elise?” said Renaud. “Paranoid old men living dans le luxe, keeping mistresses, dining at four-star restaurants and always looking over their shoulders. Afraid I’d gotten away and would come back.” He smiled. “Et voilà, I did.”

  Elise shoved the signed forms back at him, mascara tears smearing her cheeks. “I had no idea, Renaud. My parents sent me to boarding school in Montreal.” She wiped her face. “When I returned home, I found a paranoid father and a reclusive mother. Strangers.” Elise shook her head. “Even if what you say is true, this won’t make it right. Or fix the past. Revenge gets you nowhere.”

  “Oh, it will get me a lot of places.”

  “Take all of it, Renaud. It sickens me.”

  He checked his watch again. “Ready to fax these on the secure line to the bank, Elise?” Renaud smiled. An adult doing a business transaction. “Then we’re done, d’accord?”

  Done? Aimée bit her lip, couldn’t ignore the tremor in her stomach. The panic spreading through her. “Elise, he’ll shoot us both.”

  Elise dropped the papers over the desk. “Renaud, I don’t believe a man I love, who loves me—”

  “He shot your father in the head, Elise.” Aimée clutched the Swiss Army knife in her pocket.

  Elise’s eyes darted back and forth. “But Renaud, you’ll let her go.”

  “Fax the documents, Elise.”

  “Okay, okay, just let her go.”

  “You won’t get far, Renaud.” Perspiration poured down between her shoulders blades. So damn hot. If only she could bat that gun out of his hands . . .

  “Think so?” Renaud laughed. “I pretend for a living, med student. There’s no detail I haven’t taken care of.”

  “I know so, Renaud. You missed one big detail—the Corsican gang running rue de Ponthieu and the quartier. You ticked them off, big time, playing a gypsy taxi driver. They want to take care of you their way.”

  For once he looked surprised.

  “Money won’t buy you out of that.” She tried inching closer on the chair, just a few centimeters.

  “Look at what it bought the old men out of for forty years,” said Renaud. “They had a good run.”

  “In my bag’s a number I’m to call if I find you.”

  “I don’t think you’ll make that call.”

  “Don’t have to.” Time for a lie. “I was tailed coming here tonight.”

  Renaud slapped her again. Her cheek stung. “Such a pain in the ass since day one. Damn loose cannon. An interfering brat playing detective. You should have stu
ck to medical school. Now that career option’s over, I’m afraid.”

  “I’d make a terrible doctor,” she said, willing him closer. “I have a bad bedside manner.”

  Renaud’s short bark of laughter unnerved her. “A comedian, too. So many talents wasted.”

  Closer, he’d edged closer now. A few more centimeters, that’s all.

  “Why did you encourage Elise to hire us and risk discovering the truth?”

  “The playwright’s oldest trick in the script,” he said. “No one ever suspects the perpetrator to hire a detective.” He sighed, then squealed for effect. “The audience gasps at that plot twist every time. ”

  The man was enjoying this, for God’s sake. He’d play out his revenge, act his part and kill them both.

  She’d sprung the knife’s blade release open in her pocket as he laughed, aiming at his kidney. If she could get close enough, she’d stick the blade through the thin inner pocket lining. Damn, this was a good jacket, she hated to ruin it.

  Upset and scared, Elise shot her a what do I do look? Then Aimée’s eyes rested on the power strip under the desk near her feet.

  Think, think . . . she had to come up with something. Or they’d be dead and in the taxi trunk within five minutes. She worked her booted toe toward the power strip connecting several cords. The red power button at the opposite end.

  “Pinel called, didn’t he? I heard the phone ringing. He’s on his way, Elise.”

  “Nice try,” said Renaud, pushing Elise to the fax machine. “Pinel’s tied up in the closet. I’ll deal with him later.”

  Merde. How could she stop him? She’d only get close enough for him to put a bullet in her head if she rushed him with her short-bladed knife.

  “If you think you’ll get away with leaving a body in the closet . . . ”

  “No one knows I’m here. Or who I’ll be when I leave.”

  His words chilled her. Stupid, she’d given René Elise’s home address. Desperate, she racked her mind.

  “I’ve heard there’s a German asking questions.” She worked her toe forward to one of the outlets. “An old man. Is he the fifth German?”

  “Shut up.”

  “In Ninette’s diary, she wrote that only four bodies washed up. They never found the fifth soldier.”

  “Liar.”

  “If Elise hadn’t burned the diary, I could show you. Right, Elise?” She kept talking. “Your mother was afraid he’d come back—that’s why she made you drive to Chambly-sur-Cher.”

  Tears welled in Elise’s eyes. “She saw him on the riverbank, she kept saying. He’s back. It gave her a stroke.”

  Her toe couldn’t shove the cord off. Too tight. But if she could time it right and kick when he wasn’t looking . . .

  “The Wall’s down, the fifth German’s come back, hoping for his piece of the pie, Renaud.”

  The phone rang, piercing the air. Two, three rings.

  “That’s the bank, answer it,” said Renaud.

  Elise nodded, her eyes wide with fear.

  But it didn’t happen how Aimée thought it would. Elise picked up the phone and screamed. Galvanized, Aimée kicked the outlet hard and half the room went dark. The computers and fax machine sighed. Died. Renaud rushed forward, grabbing Elise and the phone.

  Aimée lunged. Her knife connected to something soft, then hard in Renaud’s side. Elise was screaming. Aimée twisted the knife and heard a groan of pain. Felt his hand around her neck, squeezing her windpipe. Choking, she was choking. Sucking for air.

  Then she heard a shot.

  Mon Dieu. Elise?

  The hand let go. Gasping and breathing hard in the shadows, she grabbed whatever she could with her left hand, the answering machine, yanked it from its cord and whacked his face.

  A light flickered on. Then another as a backup system kicked in. Renaud was on the floor, he wasn’t moving. Catching her breath, she knelt down. His carotid artery wasn’t pulsing either. Her hand came back sticky. A chalky gunpowder residue hovered in the air.

  “Elise?” She heard sobbing. “Are you hurt?”

  Elise had curled up in a fetal position beside the fax machine. The pistol by her ankle on the floor.

  “We’re damned,” said Elise. “Cursed.”

  Aimée pulled herself up. Reached for Elise.

  “I shot him.” Elise’s shoulders heaved. Her breath came in gasps. “Shot him like my father shot his.”

  •••

  “So Elise Peltier claims self-defense, Aimée.” Morbier stood at the crime-scene tape, a glaring yellow in the night illuminated by the red and blue police car lights on the cobbles.

  “So it’s not Leduc, anymore, Tonton?”

  Morbier shrugged. “You all right?”

  She rubbed her neck, nodded. “Bon, better believe her. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. You’ll find his gypsy taxi somewhere nearby. The old Sten gun in the trunk will match the ballistics, no doubt. Somewhere, too, a letter from his mother about his father’s murder and the Nazi gold—”

  “Oh, we found some gold all right,” he interrupted. “Blood on it in more ways than one, I imagine.”

  “So sad, but . . .” Aimée paused, wouldn’t say she’d told him so, even though she wanted to. That would be childish, non? “Have fun with the Corsicans. They contracted out for him. Just keep my name and Elise’s out of it, d’accord?”

  “Issuing orders now, Aimée?”

  “Please don’t tell Papa. I’ll tell him myself, in my own way.” She had a lot to tell him, like her decision to quit medical school, but she’d have to steel herself for that.

  “As long as you hit the books,” said Morbier.

  The last thing on her new to-do list. Morbier wouldn’t say it, but she’d proved she wasn’t bad at this. She’d proved it to him, to all of them, but most importantly to herself. She’d made mistakes, bien sûr, but her investigation had felt right.

  Elise stood shivering with a blanket over her shoulders near the back of the ambulance. Pinel was being carried on a stretcher.

  “In an investigation isn’t it important to tie up as many threads as possible?” she said. “The fifth German’s a loose thread.”

  “Ah, the ignorance of youth, as if you knew as much as you think you do,” said Morbier, lighting a Gauloise. The orange tip glowed. “In 1957, according to the gendarmerie, a fifth German soldier was discovered in a shallow grave by the river at Givaray. The priest had given him last rites and buried him, so they said.”

  “How does that figure . . . ? Wait, didn’t the Germans execute the priest’s parents? Is he the same priest?”

  A shrug. “Alors, if there’s more, that’s between him and God. But it seems his brother just claimed his body.”

  “His body?” she said. “How could they tell?”

  “A matching pinkie ring.”

  Paris · November 14, 1989 · Tuesday

  Jean-Claude Leduc stepped from the second-class car onto the platform at Gare de l’Est, lugging his valise. He hadn’t told Aimée when he’d be arriving. He’d page her to call—the only secure way he could avoid their wiretapped phone.

  Damn the secret security branch who monitored him. A decade had passed but the nastiness continued.

  After finishing today’s job, he was meeting the Ministry contact. Washing his hands. Blowing the whistle.

  Passengers milled on the platforms under the dirty, grey glass roof; a loudspeaker announced train departures in a nasal voice amidst the usual clatter and bustle.

  By the time Aimée rang him back in the phone booth, he’d snagged an espresso and several gougères, cheese puff pastries. Starving. That German food, so heavy, didn’t agree with him.

  Two rings. He picked up in the cabin.

  “Aimée?”

  “You’re in Paris, Papa, I can tell by the number. A
t the station?”

  “And no time to talk. The border’s so crazy, the train was five hours late.”

  He heard her take a breath. That little intake he so loved. “What is it, Aimée?”

  “Did you find her files?”

  He sighed. Weary. So weary of lying.

  “I found her.”

  Pause. A baby cried on the platform, pigeons pecked at the gougères crumbs near his feet.

  A gasp. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  “We’ve got things to discuss.” He glanced at the station clock. “Merde, I’m late. You did reserve the van?”

  “It’s in your name at the garage by Gare du Nord.”

  The same garage he always used.

  “Pick me up at the corner on rue du Louvre, Papa.”

  “Don’t you have class?”

  “I’m coming with you. Papa, I have so much to tell you. But first you’re going to tell me—”

  “No time, Aimée. The surveillance got moved up. I don’t know why. I need to get the van in place.”

  “Papa, I’m dropping out of medical school.”

  “What?” Nice bombshell to drop on him. But when did she do what he expected of her? Or listen to him? Mon Dieu, but he had a level-three surveillance in Place Vendôme, and he had no time to spare. Doing the dirty for the last time, and then he was out of it.

  “Not now, Aimée. We’ll talk when I get home.”

  “But Papa, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Listen to me for once. Just once.”

  But she’d hung up.

  Aimée ran to the courtyard and found her bike tires flat. Her pump was nowhere to be found. Merde. She jumped on the Métro at Pont Marie and got off at the Tuileries. She hurried, turned up rue de Castiglione, and ran under the arcades. Past the designer boutiques, gypsies hovering near tourists—running faster, her scarf flying behind her.

  So much to tell Papa—so much for him to tell her.

  She crossed rue Saint Honoré, her heart racing. Bien sûr, he’d be mad at first, but he’d understand why she couldn’t go to medical school, she’d convince him. They’d work together, she’d earn a real PI license. And her mother . . . that flicker of hope burned into a flame.