Murder in the Latin Quarter (11 page)

Morbier pulled out a pack of unfiltered Gauloises from his pocket, reached for the kitchen matches by her Aga stove, and flicked the match.

“It was a ritualistic murder.” In typical fashion, he had steered the conversation in another direction. Like a prizefighter, a feint to the left, then a quick jab to the gut. “Symbolic, Leduc.”

“Symbolic of what?”

“Think about it. A deserted place at night,” Morbier said. “A circle of salt surrounded him, like some vodou rite. Mirielle could help us with our inquiries, if she wasn’t trying to frame you.”

Vodou? Did it add up: the signs of a struggle, his missing ear, the circle of salt? If only she’d had time to ask Mireille what it meant.

“
Non,
Morbier you think his murder is tied to Papa some-how. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come here. And whatever that means, you’re not telling me.”

Morbier let out a deep breath. “And why would I think that? Like I said, the
flics
noted your scooter plates.”

“You and Papa were partners. Why didn’t Papa confide in you? Or me?”

“Maybe because you’re his only daughter,” Morbier said. He took a drag, expelled the smoke, and checked his phone. His thick brows knit. “Why do you think she’s your sister?”

“I don’t know that she’s not.”

He pointed to the Polaroid of Benoît. “You really don’t rec-ognize him?”

She shook her head. She was clueless, but sure Morbier knew more than he was letting on. “Don’t tell me you haven’t ID’d him by now.”

“Azacca Benoît, resident of Haiti, according to his International Driving License. Visiting lecturer at Ecole Normale Supérieure, researcher, consultant to the World Bank.”

The World Bank. She’d learned something new. “So he’s the
créme de la créme?
”

Morbier’s cell phone rang. He stubbed out his cigarette in the sink. “
Oui?
” He listened, then flicked it closed. “We’ve got a lead to that Fiat Uno seen speeding away from the Pont de l’Alma tunnel!” But he sounded spent. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual. A day’s growth of whiskers shadowed his cheeks.

“Immigration’s interested in this Mireille,” he said. “Next time she contacts you, alert me.”

“So you can turn her over to Immigration?” She wanted to bite her tongue. “What put them on her trail? Why do they think she’s illegal?”

“Leduc,
charette de guillotine’s
not my department.” He used the nickname for immigration raids in old vans, ending with airport deportation. One-way tickets to their country of origin, often guaranteeing the immigrant involved a short life. Like the guillotine.

Morbier set his half-full glass on the tiled counter. At his feet, Miles Davis yawned, then licked his tail.

The blue light from a barge illumined Morbier’s expressionless face. His hollow look made her skin crawl. She saw the cold detachment of a professional who dealt with murder, rape, and violence. The ugly side of life was a daily occurrence for him. His mind was always cataloging, filing the bits and pieces that came his way for future use.

“A former colleague works in Immigration,” he said slowly. “If she’s innocent, I could help Mireille sort this out.”

That was the deal. But his look unnerved her. He might use her as bait for Mireille.

The muffled peal of a church bell drifted from l’eglise Saint-Louis.

“You always wanted a sister, eh, Leduc?” Morbier was saying. “I remember you played with dolls, pretending. . . .” He shrugged. “You gave tea parties, like all little girls do.”

Right at this table. Every day after school, waiting for her father.

“What aren’t you telling me, Morbier?” she said. “Some pressure from above, is that it? Or your health?”

A lost look crossed his face. Despite his distant, gruff façade, Morbier remained a tenuous anchor to her old life. To her father. Now he seemed to be drifting away from her.

He coughed, checked his cell phone again, then glanced out the window. A
flic
car with a flashing orange-red light waited on the quai.

“Damned Fiat Uno!” He shook his head. “Thanks for the wine. Superb, Leduc.”

And just like that, he left. She ran after him.

At the half-open door he paused, his face in shadow. “Next time Mireille makes contact, I expect you to inform me. As usual, Leduc, I’ve stuck my neck out for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Brigade’s focused on this Fiat Uno hunt. But it’s a matter of a day or two at most.”

“Until they find it?”

“Until they haul you in. There’s a limit to how long I can keep them off.”

Her shoulders tightened. “Why?”

“Every time I try to help, you throw the past in my face. Can’t you move on? Find a good man and, for once, keep him? Make babies?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I promised your father I’d watch out for you. But there’s only so much I can do if you aid and abet a homicide suspect.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Mireille’s a suspect instead of giving me this song-and-dance? But what if someone framed her? Have you thought of that?” Now
her
anger took over. “No wonder they’re watching me.”

“Watching you? You’re paranoid, Leduc.”

“Weren’t your men sitting in a car on the quai this morning?” She pointed outside the window. Now there was only Morbier’s vehicle with the telltale light on top.

Morbier shook his head. “Not from our division, nor from the Brigade. Their plate’s full with the Princess Diana investigation. The world’s watching, as they never tire of telling us. Top priority.”

Merde.
If the
mecs
who had trailed her weren’t from Morbier’s division or the Brigade, who were they?

She watched his car drive off down the quai. Morbier knew how to play her. Dangle a carrot to get her to turn in Mireille. But, in his own way, he also tried to protect her.

She was sure Mireille hadn’t killed her professor, her protector, much less carved off Benoît’s ear or peeled his skin back with her weak hand.

Aimée grabbed Miles Davis’s leash from the coat rack, wrapped a scarf around her shoulders, and ran down the stairs.

“Mireille?” She called. No answer. She let Miles Davis water the trees, then searched the rubbish bins, behind the pear tree, even the carriage house and the walkway to the next street. No sign of life. A chill breeze nipped her arms. Coldness settled over her as she realized that Mireille was long gone.

Wednesday Noon

LOUD DRILLING SOUNDS and the screeching of metal on metal by the pipefitter drowned out the voice on the other end of Aimée’s office phone. There was no way she could work here, with Cloutier and his crew hammering and drilling.

“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,
” she said to the caller.

She grabbed her bag, the phone crooked between her neck and shoulder, waved good-bye to Cloutier and pointed to her cell phone. He nodded, mumbling something, his mouth full of nails. In case Mireille made contact, she’d told him how to reach her.

All morning, her mind had been occupied with Morbier’s allegations of the previous night. She realized that if she didn’t point the
flics
at Benoît’s killer, she’d end up at the Brigade Criminelle herself. A tall order, but now she had no choice.

She closed Leduc Detective’s door and set her bag down. In the relative silence of the dim landing, Aimée could finally hear her caller. “Sorry; please repeat that,” she said to the Hydrolis Human Resources secretary on the other end.

“Our director, Monsieur Jérôme Castaing, purchases con-cert tickets at the Cluny Museum for the organizations he supports,” she said. “To express appreciation.”

The woman had returned her call. Progress, she thought. If a ticket to Monday’s baroque music concert had been given to Azacca Benoît, he had been at Cluny just before his murder.

“I’d like to make an appointment to see Monsieur Castaing today.”

“Would this concern the foundation? Monsieur Castaing’s very involved with human rights in Haiti, but his time is fully booked.”

Haiti. Her ears perked up. “If he could give me ten minutes?”

“I’m sorry, his calendar’s full. Next week?”

“But I can be at your office . . .” She looked at the address in the Latin Quarter she’d jotted on her checkbook. “ . . . in fifteen minutes.”

“Mademoiselle, I’ve told you his schedule’s full.”

She had to persist.

“This is important. Since he attended the concert with Professeur Benoît, he’d want to know what I have to tell him. What time does he go to lunch?”

“Monsieur Castaing has already gone to lunch.”

“Can you leave him a message to call me?”

“
Bien sûr,
” she said.

Aimée gave her number. “And what time could I expect a call—that is, when will he return?”

“I can’t promise you that he’ll call right away.”

“I understand. But I’ll want to keep my phone on . . . so if you could give me a range?”

Phones rang in the background. “He returns close to two . . . but then he’s busy all afternoon.”

“
Merci.
” Aimée ran down the spiral staircase. It was 1:45. Taking no chance that she might be followed, she left through the back door.

THE TAXI DROPPED her in front of the bistro across from the Musée Cluny. On this warm September afternoon, waiters in black vests and long white aprons hovered over patrons at the outdoor tables. The murmur of conversation and clinking of cutlery could be heard over the distant hum of traffic on Boulevard Saint Germain. Hydrolis’s office building, a balconied five-story sandstone affair, stood at the corner of rue de Cluny above a publisher displaying thrillers in wraparound windows.

Aimée hurried along the butterscotch stone walls of the looming twelfth-century Cluny Museum. The crenellated stone wall, like filed teeth, reminded her of a fortress. Once a medieval abbey, the place reeked of age. The Dark Ages.

She followed a group of schoolchildren into Square Paul Painlevé, a small garden crossed by gravel paths lined with benches, enclosed by bushes and trees. The ironwork fence gave the square a sense of separation from bustling Boulevard Saint Michel a block away and the Sorbonne across the street. She sat on a bench in the shade of linden trees. A quiet oasis, and a perfect vantage point from which to view Hydrolis’s entrance at 1, place Paul Painlevé.

Most company directors took extended lunches. She figured Castaing would be no exception. Fifteen minutes later, two men left the bistro and walked up rue de Cluny, suit jackets over their arms, one a thin scarecrow of a man, the other broad-shouldered and stocky. They were deep in conversation and paused at the door to the Hydrolis building as the thin man put on his jacket.

“Monsieur Castaing?”

The thin man turned around. “
Oui?
”

His cheeks were flushed, presumably from wine he had con-sumed at lunch. Confident, now that she’d found him, she edged closer, smiled, and said, “If I could just speak with you regarding the Musée Cluny baroque music concert on Monday?”

His mouth pursed and he looked irritated. “My secretary informed me.” He jabbed his finger in the Musée Cluny’s direction. “Don’t tell me you people have more problems with next year’s reservations.”

“Monsieur, it’s concerning Professeur Benoît.”

He turned. “Go ahead, André. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.” He nodded at her. “Let’s talk over there.” They crossed together, between a parked van and a Renault, to the gates of Square Paul Painlevé. They passed through and halted near the fence. Behind them, on rue des Ecoles, stood the bronze statue of the philosopher Michel de Montaigne. Touching the toe of Montaigne’s bronze foot was thought to bring good luck; it had been rubbed shiny.

“Merci,
Monsieur Castaing. You’re busy, so I’ll just take a moment of your time.” She handed him her card with the inscription
detective privé.

“A private detective?”

Laughter rippled through the garden. Small children tossed breadcrumbs at a waiting pigeon.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” she said. “My instructions, well, I’ve been hired to document Professeur Benoît’s movements on Monday.”

“You seem to think this involves me,” he said. “What’s this about?”

Didn’t he know of Benoît’s death? Was he asking questions to gain time? She was afraid he’d bolt any minute.

“Can you confirm that you both attended the baroque music concert on Monday night at Musée Cluny?”

“There’s some mistake,” he said. “Mademoiselle, those seats go to our clients and the associations I support.”

“But did Professeur Benoît attend the concert?”

“How would I know?” Castaing replied. He made motions like he was about to leave. “I have meetings all afternoon, and I don’t appreciate this interruption.”

“According to the ticket reservation list, he attended the concert,” she said, taking a guess. She had to start somewhere and hoped Castaing would point her in the right direction. “A few hours later, he was found murdered.”

“Murdered? But this morning we were informed that there had been an accident.”

She saw fear in the small eyes behind his heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

“This is hard to believe,” Castaing continued. “I’m shocked. A distinguished professor, a world authority, this makes no sense.”

“Monsieur, the concert might have been the last place he was seen before his murder.”

“
Alors,
Mademoiselle. Every year, I purchase a bloc of seats to donate. That’s all I know.”

She’d gotten nowhere. His fingers played with his jacket buttons.

“Were you acquainted with Professeur Benoît?”

He removed his glasses, blew at the dust on the lenses, then fitted them back on his face. “We’d met a few times at social functions.”

“Your help’s vital. Please, did he seem nervous or on edge the last time you saw him?”

Castaing’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Not that I can re-member. I’d like to help you, but it’s been weeks since the reception at which we spoke.”

A dead end. And she’d had high hopes this would lead somewhere. But she did sense that Castaing was nervous.

She was at a loss as to how to proceed. She hadn’t had time to prepare. But she couldn’t give up. “In what capacity did your firm deal with Professeur Benoît?”

“We have so many consultants, I’d have to check,” he said. “Call me this afternoon.”

“Just to clarify, Monsieur.” She pulled out a bank receipt, found a pencil. “So I don’t bother you with needless questions. Was the professor consulting with respect to your projects in Haiti?” That sounded vague. She remembered Morbier’s words. “Regarding the World Bank?”

“Mademoiselle,” he said, his voice firm now, “I want to help, but I’m twenty minutes late.”

“And these projects with the World Bank . . . ?”

“We employ more than fifty consultants to assist with our World Bank RFP’s.”

RFP’s: Requests for Proposals. She and René knew them well. RPF’s were required for outsource contracts. She filed that away in her head for later.

Castaing turned and unlatched the park’s metal gate. The peeling metal fence looked in need of another coat of dark green paint.

“Monsieur Castaing, forgive me, but I’m investigating a murder. Anything you can tell me would help.”

He paused in thought. “Have you checked with Father Privert’s foundation?”

She shook her head. She didn’t recall the name from the Musée Cluny concert list.

“Talk to the priest. We provide him with tickets to sup-port his foundation. His latest project is a wonderful free food program for Haitian children that we contribute to. Father Privert runs a shelter on rue Amyot for Caribbean immigrants. ”

Her ears perked up. Mireille might have gone there.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Mademoiselle?” Castaing closed the gate.

An immigrants’ shelter, run by a priest, would be a safe place to hide. She headed out of the park. Her phone trilled in her pocket.

“Mademoiselle Leduc?” said a high voice. “Madame Ornano with the Musée Cluny. You had questions about the baroque music concert?”

Finally! But the sooner she reached Father Privert’s shelter, the better. “
Oui.
Madame, may I call you back this afternoon? Say—”

“Impossible! I’m leaving in twenty minutes. For a month.”

Should she race to the Privert shelter or follow this new lead?

“I’ll be there in two minutes, Madame.” She hung up, glanced around, saw no one looking, and rubbed Montaigne’s foot. At this point, she needed all the luck she could get.

“WE USE VOLUNTEER ticket-takers and ushers for our baroque music concert series,” said the smiling Madame Ornano in the Musée Cluny office. “The program runs itself. I’m very proud of it.”

“Runs itself, Madame?”

Madame Ornano stuffed her TGV train tickets into her briefcase, closing it with a snap.

“I delegate, Mademoiselle.” She leaned forward, took the silk scarf from her desk, wrapping it around her neck with a flourish. “That’s the secret. Delegate. I sign the checks, that’s all.”

In other words, she’d be no help to Aimée. She’d wasted her time when every minute counted.

“Villiers, the cellist, stepped in to seat patrons on Monday,” she said. “He even helped us put the chairs away after our event. Not above his station. He talks to everyone. So popular, and the patrons love him. The baroque quartet . . . ahh, the music they make, soaring to the vaulted rooftops in the old Roman baths, the ancient baroque music . . . it’s as if we’d been taken back in time.”

With the plague, rats pawing raw sewage in the narrow lanes, high infant mortality, bathing unheard of, and autocratic monarchs? No, thank you, Aimée thought.

Madame Ornano clasped her hands to her chest, hummed, and then in a well-trained voice burst into song.

Startled, Aimée realized she’d have to get her back on track. A man had been murdered, and this romantic interlude of Madame Ornano’s was no help. Maybe the cellist would prove more useful.

“Such a wonderful voice, Madame,” Aimée said. “But we’re both pressed for time. I’m planning a birthday party and I want to hire him.”

“Do you have a . . . a sizable budget, Mademoiselle?” she asked. Madame Ornano’s frugal calculating side showed. “He’s a soloist, a member of the Conservatoire. Of course, the Ministry of Culture underwrites our concerts.”

Aimée wouldn’t hold her breath for the day she could afford to hire this cellist.

“But my friend, the baron . . .” Aimée paused for effect. “ . . .
adores
baroque music.”

AIMÉE QUICKENED HER step past the gray stone of the Sorbonne, weaving through the students choking the pavement, hurrying up the hill to the Pantheon. Hope soared that she’d find Mireille. En route to Father Privert’s shelter, she punched in the phone number of the cellist, Villiers, from the card Madame Ornano had given her. In view of Madame Ornano’s further rambling discourse about volunteers, Villiers was the person to start with. He or another quartet member might remember Benoît and whether anyone had accompa-nied him. Villiers might prove observant. She hated this tedious pursuit of details, but following up as to details had netted Jérôme Castaing and through him the name of the shelter where Mireille might be hiding.

A strain of Bach played on Villiers’s answering machine, fol-lowed by the breathy words “I’m on tour in Lyon this week. Leave a message, s’il vous plaît.” She hoped he checked his messages.

She summed up what she knew: Azacca Benoît, a world authority on pigs, visiting lecturer at one of the
Grands Ecoles
and consultant for the World Bank as well as for Castaing’s firm, with a fondness for the ladies, had entrusted Mireille with some important papers. He might have attended a baroque music concert, if that was the “appointment” Mireille had mentioned. According to her, he had never returned from that appointment. He had then been murdered, not three hours later.

Aimée hiked along the curving street, which followed the old Roman road. She feared she’d arrive too late to find Mireille or any trace of her.

This slice of the Latin Quarter felt run down. It was mainly inhabited by students, distinct from the gentrified tourist haunts a few blocks over. A genteel class of landlord, made up of widows or women of a certain age, rented students rooms in their overlarge apartments, or let out sixth-floor
chambres à bonne—
maid’s rooms under the eaves—to them.

Next to an old wooden storefront nestled amid tilting sixteenth-century buildings she found the sign for Shelter Caribe, almost covered in strands of ivy. She pressed the worn bell, heard a click, and pushed open the little door inset in a massive arched green double door. An arrow and small hand-lettered sign pointed to a damp cobbled courtyard in the rear of a shabby
hôtel particulier,
a mansion that had seen better days. On the right, vaulted stone arches bearded with lichen reminded her of the cloister which, no doubt, it had been in the Middle Ages.