“It’s me - Eulalie,” she called out in Guillaumoise. “I’m coming in.”
Still no answer. She opened the door and walked in slowly, making as much noise as possible. The apartment was very dark, with all the shutters closed and the drapes drawn. She tried the light switch, but it didn’t work.
Eulalie activated the flashlight on her cellphone and saw immediately why there had been no response. The couple who lived here – both ex-villagers – were passed out drunk. There were empty bottles of spirits lying on the floor and the pair of them noisily asleep, one on the floor and one on the couch. She had heard rumors of their deep dive into alcoholism, and now she could see it for herself. Would anyone in their right minds entrust a delicate operation like the abduction of a child to these two? She doubted it.
She left the way she had come, closing and latching the door behind her.
The next apartment she needed to visit was diagonally opposite. Apartment 215. As she knocked and began to announce herself, Eulalie had a sudden image in her mind of the person she was looking for wriggling out the window onto his rickety balcony.
“It’s Eulalie!” she said loudly. As she spoke, she backed quietly away from the door and shoved open one of the windows that was supposed to ventilate this dingy corridor. She slid through the window like an eel and put her feet down on the narrow ledge below. Pressing her body against the wall, she edged her way toward the balcony of Apartment 215.
Then she waited. Within seconds, a man’s head and shoulders appeared through the window. Eulalie grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and gave him a hard shake.
“Bonjour, Pierre. Are you going somewhere?”
He jumped at the sound of her voice, and groaned loudly.
“How do you always know?”
“I know, and that’s all that matters.”
She pushed him back through the window, and followed him into the apartment.
“Now, let’s try this again. You should offer me coffee.”
“Would you like some coffee?” He said it grudgingly.
“No, thanks. I want information. Or rather, I want you to confirm information that I already have. Someone came to this building about a week ago looking for help in kidnapping a child. That child was Bibi, the son of Phillippe and Rosa. I want to know who agreed to help him?”
A look of injured innocence come over Pierre’s face, and he opened his mouth to deny everything.
“Don’t even think of lying to me, Pierre. If you want Angel to keep on running a tab for you at the bar, you’d better tell me the truth.”
“Fine.” He gave her a sulky look. “It was that kid who works for Jimmy the Knife. Pietro, or whatever his name is. He approached all of us. The drunks over there.” He used his chin to point in the direction of apartment 212. “Antoine, and even me.”
“Did anyone agree to help him?”
“Officially, no. When we spoke about it afterwards, we all told each other that we had turned him down.”
“But …?”
“But, I suspect that the drunks said yes, because they will do anything for drinking money. But when Pietro saw what they were like these days, he told them no thanks.”
“And you?”
“I turned him down. Seriously, I did. I mean, no one hates the village more than I do, but come on - I grew up with Phillippe and Rosa. We learned to fish together.”
“I know. I was there.”
“The point is, I’m not going to snatch their kid, even if it was only supposed to be temporary.”
“Temporary?”
“Sure. This Pietro guy, he said they’re going to give the kid back when they’re done with him. I don’t know, but that’s what he said.”
“Done what with him?”
“He didn’t say.”
“What about Antoine? If you tell me he had a sudden crisis of conscience, I’m not going to believe you.”
“Well, like I say, he claimed to have turned Pietro down, but I didn’t believe him then and I don’t believe him now. If anyone snatched that kid, it was him.”
“Would Bibi recognize him, do you think?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Antoine left the village before he was born. I mean, how old is that kid now? Ten?”
“Nine.”
“Well, Antoine left more than ten years ago. A lot more. He wouldn’t know Phillippe and Rosa either, because he’s quite a bit older. I think he’d do it if the price were right.”
“Where is he? Is he in his apartment?”
Pierre shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since the kid disappeared. That’s the other thing that makes me suspicious. It’s like he’s gone into hiding.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can find him. Can you tell me whether Pietro specifically wanted Bibi, or would any nine-year-old kid have done?”
“He wanted Bibi and no one else. Bibi, the son of Phillippe and Rosa. You’re going to ask me again if I know what they wanted with him, and the answer is still no. I have no idea.”
“And if you had to take a guess?”
“I’d say it probably had less to do with the kid and more to do with his parents. Maybe Phillippe owes someone money.”
“I doubt that. Phillippe is a villager through and through. I’d be surprised if he had ever held money.”
Pierre shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him in years. He didn’t strike me as the type to get involved with money.”
The people of the village didn’t use money, or any form of currency. They relied on the ancient systems of barter and trade. Occasionally, representatives would come to Queen’s Town with products to exchange for certain essential items, but they were mostly self-sufficient. Still, it was an open secret that some members of the village kept a stash of cash that they spent in Queen’s Town from time to time. Eulalie would not have thought that Phillippe was one of these.
“Any idea where Antoine might be hiding?” she asked.
“Not really. If he was hiding from the law or from his own business associates, I’d say he would probably camp in the forest. If he’s hiding from the villagers, he might be in China Town or Little Russia.”
Eulalie sighed. She could move unnoticed through most of Queen’s Town society, but in China Town and Little Russia, she was known to be an outsider. That made it all the more difficult to get anyone to speak to her.
As she left Majestic Heights, Eulalie sent a text to Chief Macgregor.
Eulalie: The person who helped to snatch Bibi is called Antoine. He’s an ex-villager. Last known address – apartment 208, Majestic Heights, Finger Alley. He’s in the wind. Could be in the forest, or China Town, or Little Russia. Can’t be more precise. Sorry.
The shadows were lengthening across Finger Alley. Because it was so narrow and lined by higgledy-piggledy buildings that jostled each other for space, the nights seemed to arrive here earlier than anywhere else. People were spilling out onto the sidewalk now. The bars, strip joints, and tattoo parlors were switching on their lights and cranking up the music. As the sun went down, the roaches came out to play.
While she might not be completely welcome in China Town or Little Russia, Eulalie was at home in Finger Alley. Whatever language the people spoke, she could either speak it or understand it. She understood the etiquette and the hierarchies. She knew who owed money to whom, and who was waiting to collect a favor.
It wasn’t information she was after tonight. What she wanted to do was leave a trail of breadcrumbs that led straight to her. It was important that it shouldn’t be too obvious what she was doing, so she strolled along Finger Alley, waiting for someone to hail her. The first person to greet her was Daizie who ran one of Finger Alley’s three tattoo parlors. Daizie had done Eulalie’s own tattoo years earlier, and they had remained on good terms ever since.
“Hey, Eulalie,” she called. “Are you on a case?”
“Not tonight. I’m off duty and looking for fun. I might end up at Mo’s later. The tequila is cheap.”
“A little. I’ll probably need to have it re-done in a couple of years.”
Eulalie rolled up her sleeve and showed Daizie the delicate skin on the inside of her arm just above the elbow. The tattoo showed an L and an F intertwined. They were the initials of Eulalie’s parents – Lucien and Fauve. There were days when she felt stupid wearing this memory of the people who had abandoned her shortly after birth. But then she remembered the old village belief that if you carried the memory of someone against your skin, they would come back to you. Eulalie didn’t think her parents would ever come back to her, but she liked feeling that connection to them.
“Yes, the black has gone a bit green, and the red is looking pinkish. Come back in about eighteen months, and we’ll redo it. I haven’t seen you around here in ages.”
“I was here a couple of days ago. Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“About the three guys I put in hospital.”
Daizie demanded to know more. Eulalie told her how she had been set upon by three men who had spoken Russian to each other, and how she had sent them away with their tails between their legs.
“It was funny, really. No one would call me a big woman, but I sent them away bleeding. They must have gone to the ER. They were in bad shape. I haven’t laughed so much in years. If they come at me again, I might tie one hand behind my back just to make it fairer for them.”
Daizie laughed at this, and her eyes glittered at the thought of being the first to know about it. In other communities, the local hairdresser might be the center of gossip, but in Finger Alley it was the tattoo parlors. The story would be flying around within the hour.
Eulalie moved on to keep spreading the news.
“The one guy was bleeding so badly from his ear, I thought I might have sliced it off completely. Perhaps next time I will.”
“Three of them and only one of me. They were like the three stooges. Whoever hired them should ask for his money back.”
“I almost wish they would come after me again, just so I could get some exercise for the day.”
She went from bar to bar, from street corner to street corner, repeating the tale with ever more embellishments. The three men became lazier, weaker, and more incompetent with each telling. If this didn’t drive them into a rage, nothing would. She made a point of telling everyone she spoke to that she would be at Mo’s Bar later.
News travelled fast in Finger Alley. At least twice, it travelled faster than Eulalie herself. She would walk into a new place, only to be greeted with her own story from someone who had already heard it. She laughed, confirmed it was true, and added a few insulting embellishments.
By the time she was ready to go to Mo’s, she half expected to find the men there waiting for her. They weren’t, which meant they would probably wait for her to get slammed on tequilas and leave the safety of Mo’s. Then they would ambush her on the way out.
She made a show of knocking back shot after shot of tequila. Only the most observant would have noticed that she was tossing them down the side of her neck to drip into her collar. It went to her heart to waste perfectly good tequila like that, but it was all in a good cause – staying sober so she didn’t get herself killed.
As the night wore on and the atmosphere in the bar became increasingly rowdy, Eulalie told the story again to a loudly appreciative audience. This time she acted out highlights from her fight with the three men, making them sound like Laurel and Hardy. The laughter in the bar was raucous and mocking.
She wasn’t completely surprised when one of the men walked into the bar shortly after midnight.
Mo made a grab for his beer glasses and told Eulalie he didn’t want any trouble.
“You!” the man said when he saw Eulalie. He was either a very good actor, or had not been expecting to see her.
“Yes, me,” said Eulalie. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to take me on again, without your friends to back you up? I might do worse than put you in hospital this time.”
Then she noticed that the man was looking pale and shocked. He swayed on his feet.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
“My … my associate. He is dead. Come and see. You have to come and see.”
Mo flung his dishtowel down on the bar and nodded to his assistant to take over. He gestured to Eulalie and the man, and they went outside.
The man led them to a nearby apartment building. At first glance, it seemed to be derelict, but a closer look revealed that there were people living there. They trudged up the stairs, past an abandoned washing machine and the sound of a television blaring out a game show in French. Old cooking smells were layered over cigarette smoke and garbage that had been standing for too long. And under it all, Eulalie detected the sour smell of death. If somebody had passed away in here, it wasn’t recent.
“In there.” The man indicated an apartment door, shuddering slightly.
Eulalie pressed send on a text message she had been composing to Chief Macgregor, letting him know where they were. Then she and Mo went inside.
In the glow of an outside street light, they could see a room with a television and some basic furnishings. Lying on the floor was the man Eulalie had identified as being the ring leader of the three who had attacked her – the one who had spoken Russian. His hands were loosely tied with rope in front of him. There was a transparent plastic bag over his head, taped securely to his neck. And from his chest, there protruded a kitchen knife.
Chapter 20
“Are you drunk?” Chief Macgregor asked Eulalie who had been waiting in the road for him to arrive.
“Drunk? Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“You reek of alcohol.”
“Oh, right.” She gave him a sheepish look. “I’ve been throwing tequila down my neck all night. Literally, down the side of my neck. The smell wasn’t noticeable in Mo’s Bar, but I guess it is now.”
Chief Macgregor shifted his position so that she was downwind of him. “It is.”
“I came to Finger Alley because I wanted to speak to the three Russian men who attacked me. I wanted to find out who hired them. I’ve been telling everyone what idiots they are all evening to try to lure them out. And it worked. One of them turned up at Mo’s. He came stumbling in looking as though he’d seen a ghost. He told us his friend was dead and that we should come and have a look. It’s on the first floor. You really want to see this.”
They went upstairs.
Chief Macgregor stared at the body for a long time. Then he asked Eulalie and the man who had finally introduced himself as Ziggy whether anyone had touched anything.
“Not me,” said Eulalie. “I look with my eyes, not with my hands, just like my grandmother taught me.”
“What about Mo?”
“I didn’t see him touch anything. He went back to the bar. If you want to speak to him, you can find him there. Did you touch anything, Ziggy?”
Ziggy shook his head violently.
“I didn’t walk in further than the doorway,” he said in French. “You can see he is dead from here. You can … you know … smell it. I went outside because I wanted to throw up.”
Eulalie glanced at Chief Macgregor to check whether he was following this. He clearly was. When he spoke, it was in heavily accented French.
“What was his name?” he asked.
“Henri,” said Ziggy. “Henri Popov.”
“Did he live here alone?”
“Most of the time, yes. Sometimes he had a woman staying for a few days.”
“Any woman in particular?”
“Non. Just different women, you know?”
“Why did you come here tonight?”
“I had heard that this woman,” he glanced at Eulalie, “was in Finger Alley talking trash about us. I came to tell Henri about it. I thought he would want to come to Mo’s with me. Just to talk to her, you understand.”
“Of course.” Eulalie man
aged not to roll her eyes.
“What time did you get here?” asked Chief Macgregor.
“I don’t know. It was after midnight. Maybe twelve-fifteen.”
“Was his door open or closed when you arrived? Locked or unlocked?”
“It was closed, but unlocked. I was surprised. He normally locks his door.”
“When was the last time you saw him alive?”
Ziggy had to think about this. “It must have been … two days ago. I saw him coming out of the boulangerie downstairs.”
“So, this was after the three of you attacked me?” asked Eulalie.
“After you attacked us, you mean.” He touched a strip of sticking plaster that decorated his jaw and gave her a resentful look.
“Who hired you to attack me?”
Ziggy looked from Eulalie to Chief Macgregor, and back again. She thought he was going to refuse to answer.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I never knew who ordered that job. Henri talked about the boss, but he wouldn’t tell me who it was.”
“Was that unusual?” asked Chief Macgregor.
“Not really.” Ziggy shrugged. “I don’t always know who the job is for. Henri knows, and that’s what matters.”
“Who was the third man?” Eulalie asked.
“You mean Louis? He is Henri’s friend. He sometimes brought him in on jobs where we needed three people. I haven’t seen him in days either.”
“Can you tell us anything about him? His surname, his last known address, anything?”
Ziggy shrugged again. “Sorry.”
“Ziggy, Henri, and Louis,” said Eulalie. “Not a Russian amongst you. Why did Henri speak Russian that day?”
Ziggy shrugged again. “He spoke Russian sometimes. His father was Russian. He knew how to say lots of things in that language. He was hoping to get more jobs from the Russians in the future, I think. The Leonovs used us sometimes.”
A commotion downstairs told them that the medical examiner had arrived. Ziggy asked rather optimistically if he could go now, but a junior officer came to escort him to the police station for further questioning. Eulalie was told she could go home. As the medical examiner and her team clattered up the stairs, Eulalie stood and took one last look at the scene. It was a perfect reproduction of the death of Marcel Faberge, from the looping of the rope to the type of plastic bag and tape. The only difference was the knife. It was not one of Fleur’s branded chef’s knives, but a much cheaper variety. Still, it had done the job just as effectively.
The Eulalie Park Mysteries Box Set 1 Page 18