Murder in the Palais Royal (18 page)

“Changing your mind again, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Her concierge, Madame Cachou, in the doorframe of the concierge loge, peered at her over reading glasses. “You staying or going?”

Aimée had hired Madame Cachou to mind Miles Davis during her trip. “My trip’s cancelled, Madame.”

“So the
flic
said. But one keeps asking for you.”

“Tall, black hair?”

“More like short, motorcycle outfit. Undercover, he said.”

The last thing an undercover
flic
would tell a concierge.

“With a scar here?” Aimée pointed to the corner of her eye.

Madame Cachou nodded.

Manu. He knew where she lived. Had he chased her to her home from Club Eros after all?

“He’s not a
flic,
Madame.”

“Your boyfriend? I can’t keep up with all of them.”

“If you see him again,” she interrupted, giving her Melac’s card, “call Inspector Melac.”

“At the Brigade Criminelle?”

“Careful, he’s armed and dangerous.” Aimée handed her Miles Davis’s leash.

Madame Cachou swallowed. Her gruff tone evaporated. “Ready for the park, Miles Davis?”

* * *

A
IMÉE CAUGHT THE Number 29 bus at Bastille and fifteen minutes later entered the open courtyard door on rue de Richelieu leading to Club Eros. Fronted by green garbage bins, the club looked gray and anonymous this morning. She mounted the apartment-building stairway, the wood banister smelled of lemon oil. On the next floor, she found the nameplate Dita Louvois. The door stood ajar.

A break-in? She reached for her Swiss Army knife.

But a woman stepped out, cell phone to her ear, shifting the canvas bag she carried to her other arm. Medium height, her brown hair piled back and held by a clip, pointed Louis heels, jeans, orange lipstick, and raincoat to match.

“Dita?”

The woman looked up. Aimée noted her red-rimmed eyes. “Let me call you back, Jojo.” She clicked her phone off.
“Oui?”

“I need to talk with you concerning Clémence.”

The
flics
questioned me.” Dita grabbed the doorknob,
“
ready to shut the door. “I told them all I knew.”

“It’s important. Clémence was supposed to meet me last night.”

“You’re the one Madame Fontenay called about.” Sarcasm layered her voice. “Who are you?”

“Aimée Leduc.” She showed her PI license. “May I come in?”

“So you’re investigating her murder? But the
flics
said it’s part of all the recent robberies in the quartier. A robbery gone bad.”

“Lazy
flics
would say that,” Aimée said.

Dita gave a little shrug. “I’ve got a meeting.”

“Give me five minutes, that’s all.”

“What’s the use?” Dita’s voice sounded hollow.

“I found Clémence with a weak pulse and gave her CPR until the paramedics arrived.” Aimée stared at Dita. “But it was too late.”

“Just a few minutes.” Dita gestured inside.

The apartment—high-ceilinged rooms with raised white plaster boiserie, chipped woodwork, and paneled doors— exuded a faded charm. With a coat of paint, in view of its proximity to the Louvre, Comédie Française, the Banque de France, and government offices in former palaces, it would go for a lot on the market. Yet, even with its cachet, this arrondissement had the lowest population density in Paris.

Green metal park chairs around a wine cask doubling as a table gave the impression of an urban campsite. A half-empty bowl of café au lait stood on a trestle. Morning light, yellow as gold leaf, slanted from the skylight.

Dita asked, “Why did you lie to Madame Fontenay?”

“Lie? Clémence asked for my help after her ex was murdered in prison yesterday.” She left out the part about Clémence’s blackmail scheme.

Dita took a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. “There’s little I can say. We shared an apartment, but we hardly saw each other.”

Aimée set her bag on the floor, determined to get more information. A large open leather box with several swing drawers filled with makeup sat near a rectangular gold-framed mirror propped on the floor. Pots of powder and rouge were strewn about.

“But wasn’t Clémence in tears yesterday? Her ex had just left La Santé in a coffin.”

“Tears? She was more angry at her cook boyfriend, the
salaud
, who was harassing her.” Dita stood near the window. “Look, she needed a place, and I needed a roommate. That was the extent of it.”

“How long did you know her?”

Dita lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke. Her hand shook.

Aimée tried to ignore the smoke blowing in her direction. Dita still hadn’t answered her question.

“So, you didn’t know her long?”

Dita’s eyes were far away.

“Clémence came from Toulouse,” Aimée said, trying to draw her out. “But you sound Parisian.”

“Born and bred. Like you,” Dita said without missing a beat.

Aimée noticed a takeout menu on the table and took a guess.

“Did you meet her at the bistro in Palais Royal?”

Dita nodded. Took another drag. She sat down as if she’d made a decision. “Here’s what I know. We had the perfect arrangement. She worked at the bistro. Didn’t need Métro or bus fare.” Dita crushed the cigarette out in a saucer. “She was very young, a wild child. You know, Clémence had moved around. She got the bistro job from the owner, a fellow Tou-lousain. Clémence couldn’t serve worth a franc, but customers liked her.”

“Clémence was four months pregnant.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Dita shook her head. “From that creep Carco?”

“Not according to Clémence. Didn’t she talk about Nicolas, her ex in prison?”

“Maybe once.
Alors
, we had different schedules and I needed to pay the rent. Having a roommate gives me extra so I can finish the advanced makeup course and work my way up to do the principals.”

“Principals?”

“The lead actors in the Comédie Française,” she said. “If that’s all?”

“Nothing else?”

“According to her, she’d made her butter,” Dita said. “But I’d say she was going to chase the rainbow south. Back to
Maman
and a sty full of pigs.”

“Making her butter” meant she had scored big-time. Aimée sat up.

“Who was financing her butter in Paris?”

“She claimed she hadn’t cashed in yet, but any minute . . . .” Dita expelled air from her mouth, shrugged. “Like always.”

“Dita, she planned to show me her ex’s notebook last night.”

“Talk to the
flics,
” she said.

“Someone murdered her for Nicolas’s notebook. If it’s here, I need to see it.”

Dita’s cell phone rang.

“Take your call.” Aimée stood. “May I see Clémence’s room?”

“I’m not sure you should poke around.”

“I’ll look around, that’s all.”

Dita’s hands paused on her phone. “Over there. Then I need to leave.”

In Clémence’s high-ceilinged bedroom, she found a mattress on the floor, a poster of Johnny Hallyday at the Olympia circa 1995, a canvas carryall, and a Bon Marché shopping bag. Several
Voici
magazines were strewn on the floor.

She knelt on the floor and emptied Clémence’s carryall: a pair of jeans, cotton skirts, a makeup kit with Bourjous eyeliner. Nothing else.

Disappointed, she searched the Bon Marché bag. To her surprise, she found a man’s black T-shirt, Levi’s, loafers and a corduroy jacket, all in fashion four years ago. A thick linked ID bracelet, engraved “Nicolas” and a form stamped “La Santé” at the top that read December 13, 1993, incarcerated; October 5, 1997, deceased. Under family members, a sister, Maud Evry with an address in Lille was listed as well as Clémence, as “spouse.”

Nicolas’s possessions were all contained in a shopping bag. He was a wannabee, eager to join
Les Blancs Nationaux
and elevate his status by torching a synagogue. He’d boasted of it and landed in prison.

She searched the jacket pockets and found only a used caked-hard Kleenex. He’d been someone’s brother. Had his sister lost track of him or disowned him? But that was not her concern. Still, she felt she was overlooking something important. Something that was staring her in the face.

Wouldn’t Clémence have had a bank account or at least wage stubs, and rent receipts? In the carryall’s outside pocket, she found a much-read copy of
On the Road
by Jack Kerouac, and a pamphlet entitled
Eat Right in Your Second Trimester
from the local maternity clinic.

She put everything back with care. Her hands trembled as she replaced Clémence’s meager possessions. For Clémence there would be no country air for her baby; no baby. She closed the suitcase buckle.

No notebook. She sat up, her worst fears realized, with a heavy heart. Nicolas’s notebook had gone with Clémence’s killer. And she had gotten no further.

She pictured the deserted Palais Royal passage, the shadowed columns. The killer could have hidden behind any of them, followed Clémence, and, taking advantage of the deserted place, argued with her, demanded the notebook, and, when she refused, strangled her.

Or had it been the chef after all, using the tunnels, who’d taken her things to make it look like robbery? Unlikely.

All conjecture. What had the notebook contained to make it so important, so incriminating?

Had someone killed Clémence for it? And had Nicolas been murdered in prison? Anyone could be silenced for a price.

She thought hard, trying to put the facts she had together: Nicolas’s ravings she’d attributed to paranoia; that “they” were all in on it, he had “proof ” and “they think you know who paid me off.” Saddened, she remembered Clémence saying “It was big.” And, what might make it more important, that Nicolas always seemed to have money. And Clémence’s last words haunted her: “Nicolas said you were the one to make this right.”

Back in the main room, the sunlight warmed the floor beneath Aimée’s feet. From the open skylight came the chirp of birds.

“Didn’t Clémence ever mention Nicolas’s notebook? Did you see it?”

“Beats me.” Dita chewed her lip.

“What about her papers, any bank statements? Did she pay you rent by check?”

“Cash.”

“Anything else?”

Dita shook her head.

Aimée didn’t want to leave but didn’t know what else to ask Dita. She didn’t have enough to take to the
flics.

If only she’d found the notebook.

Dita lit another cigarette. She inhaled, sending a stream of smoke in the sunlight. “She missed Toulouse. Still a provincial.” Dita dabbed an eye and shrugged.

Disappointed, Aimée picked up her bag.

Again she felt she was overlooking something. Something staring her in the face. She’d make one more try.

“Clémence was pregnant, with a new life to look forward to,” Aimée said. “Her murder’s not a robbery gone wrong. It’s over the contents of Nicolas’s notebook. But I can’t prove that, since it’s gone. Clémence wanted me to see it. Her ex was murdered and I can’t prove that either, Dita.”

Dita stared back at her, saying nothing.

She’d hoped to find something here. Anything. “Any chance Clémence kept things in storage, you know, in a locker in your cellar?”

“In storage?” Dita hesitated. “There’s a bunch of old things down there. I haven’t checked for ages.”

Aimée stopped in mid-step, noticing a ring of long, antiquated keys sitting on a shelf of books. “They look just like the ones to my cellar.” She picked up the key ring. “You won’t mind if I take a look?”

“I doubt you’ll find anything but dust and my old ski parkas,” Dita said. “But why not? If you do find something, I’ll have to send it to her mother.”

Dita shoved aside one of the
Voici
magazines on the floor with her foot. “I never read these.” She tossed it in the trash, then gave Aimée a questioning look. “You don’t suspect Carco, do you?”

Aimée shook her head.

“You want to find this notebook.”

“If I’m lucky.”

“You think it would lead to her murderer?” Dita’s voice held interest now.

“It’s a start,” Aimée said.

“The door’s off the foyer. Go left. Down the stairs to #34.”

* * *

A
IMÉE PULLED THE string of the hanging lightbulb. A dim light illuminated the beaten dirt floor of the cellar. The humid air smelled of stone and earth. The skitter of something in the corner sent chills up her arms.

Rats.

The faded number 34 showed above a padlock. She forced herself to step over rat turds and turn the key.

The water-stained wooden door creaked open, revealing a narrow storage space, like a medieval cell. Mildew! She pulled her penlight from her bag. Several cardboard boxes, a few stacked clear plastic bins.

No footprints, due to the packed earth floor. She couldn’t tell if anyone had been here recently. Still, there might be something to be found within.

She stuck the penlight in her mouth and got to work. The plastic bins held sweaters, a ski jacket, last season’s winter coats, and rollerblades. More Dita’s style than Clémence’s.

One of the cardboard boxes, its flaps folded closed, contained photograph albums. She held the penlight closer. An adolescent Dita with a mohawk, circa late eighties. The next album was of a portfolio of head shots from Dita’s theatrical makeup academy.

She tried the box underneath, hoping this one was Clémence’s. An old Cuisinart mixer, never used by the look of it, and old recipe books from the fifties, like the ones Aimée’s grandmother used: standard French cuisine with tips on preparing the perfect Bechamel sauce.

Another dead-end—and in a foul, dim, smelly cave. Disappointed, she faced the fact Clémence’s killer must have Nicolas’s notebook. The “proof ” was gone. With shaking hands, she closed up the boxes. Who wanted the notebook enough to kill for it? Whoever had followed her to the Métro last night knew Clémence had had an appointment with someone. And if they’d seen Aimée, how long until they found her?