Cara Black: Murder in Belleville

“Gallantry lives. Merci,” Aimée said.

She revved the motor and shot past the construction. Hot air dusty with concrete grit met her. The moped shimmied as she drove through a puddle, the back wheel almost dovetailing. They sped along the tiled tunnel past Canal 2 posters to a fork.

She paused. Two choices lay ahead—direction Chatelet or Mairie des Lilas. Which train would come first?

The late-night Métro ran infrequently. No matter which train they took, Aimée thought, the men would split up and each take a platform. Even if she and Anaïs managed to get on a train, they’d be followed easily. If only Anaïs could walk or navigate!

Either way they wouldn’t get far.

To the right sat a man cross-legged on a sleeping bag. His shaved scalp shined in the overhead light. He watched them with an amused expression, pointing to his begging bowl.

The tiles gleamed in the warm Métro. Blue-and-white signs proclaimed accis aux quais and sortie to avenue Parmentier. Her only solution would be to go up the exit steps on the left. Would the moped have enough juice to mount the stairs? Aimée doubted it.

“Go for it,” Anaïs said, surprising Aimée.

But how could she get Anaïs up the stairs on the moped? Her arms hurt, and with both their weights would the wheels go up?

Shouts came from the ticket area.

“Help us out, and I’ll make it worth your while,” she said to the homeless man.

“How much worth my while?” he asked in a bargaining tone. But he’d stood up and dusted off his worn trousers.

“This moped’s yours,” Aimée said, running her sleeve over her perspiring forehead and thinking fast. “If you help me get her to the top of the stairs. Deal?”

“Why not?” He grinned, quickly gathering his bedroll.

“Come with us to the stairs,” she said. “Quickly.”

He ran toward the exit. Behind them she heard heavy footsteps.

Aimée revved the motor and shot forward. The tunnel curved and she followed his trail. “If we just get halfway up, Anaïs, jump off, we can drag you the rest. Now lean into me and pray,” Aimée yelled. She’d worry about the Twingo if they ever made it to the top.

At the first flight of stairs, she jerked up on the handlebars as much as possible and felt the bike respond. The tires churned, climbing several steps, the engine strained. But the moped climbed. Higher and higher. Aimée saw the dark tent of sky through the exit.

The bike had almost reached the last set of steps when she felt the tires buck.

Aimée had the sickening feeling of the bike rearing like a horse. She decelerated.

The homeless man reached over and steadied Anaïs. “Get off; it’s too heavy!” he shouted. “We’ll guide her up.”

Anaïs loosened her grip on Aimée.

“Hold the handlebars, Anaïs,” Aimée said, getting off and putting her arms around Anaïs’s shoulders.

Time slowed as she and the homeless man guided Anaïs on the moped up the Métro steps.

The engine whined, snarled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man steady Anaïs so she didn’t topple into him.

But the moped tipped over. Like a felled animal, it whined uselessly on its side.

“Allons-y!” she yelled.

Only a few more steps to the top.

She grabbed Anaïs under the arms and together with the homeless man helped her hobble up the last stairs.

“Merci,” Aimée said. “Tell them we took the Métro toward Chatelet.”

“And they just missed you,” the man said, righting the moped. He took off down the sidewalk. Aimée hoped he’d keep their pursuers busy for a while.

“Attends, Anaïs,” Aimée said lying on her stomach, peering around the cement divider near the Crédit Lyonnais.

She saw the Twingo, parked illegally on the opposite curb, and a dark-suited man watching in all directions. If she and Anaïs could join passersby and cross to the taxi stop on rue du Faubourg du Temple, they’d escape. Traffic idled at the intersection. Tree-bordered Canal Saint Martin lay in the distance.

Aimée’s hopes fell as Anaïs moaned again. No way could she get her up and across to the taxi stop. A couple emerged from an apartment building, laughing and kissing each other, as they walked to the Métro.

Aimée crawled around the divider, then helped navigate Anaïs behind some bushes. Cardboard was piled next to the kiosk, hiding them from view.

“Keep low. I’ll get a taxi,” she said taking off her sweater and covering Anaïs. Aimée shivered in her damp silk shirt and spread a piece of cardboard across a major puddle. She crawled across to the curb, then crouched behind a plane tree. When another couple walked by she stood up, kept her head turned and crossed the street abreast of them.

By the time the taxi driver, to whom she’d promised a good tip, pulled up on the sidewalk to pick up Anaïs, the driver of the Twingo had noticed them. He jumped in the car and started his engine.

“Lose that car,” Aimée said to the taxi driver.

Anaïs reached in her purse and pulled out a wad of franc notes. “Here, use this.” She shoved them in Aimée’s hand.

“Here’s a hundred francs,” Aimée said. “There’s more if we make it out of the has quartier without our friend.”

“Quinze Villa Georgina,” Anaïs managed, then collapsed on the seat. Aimée loosened the tourniquet, glad to see the bleeding had stopped, and elevated Anaïs’s leg.

As they sped up the Belleville streets toward Pare des Buttes Chaumont, Aimée slouched down. The streetlights flickered through the taxi windows. Cafés and bistros held lively crowds despite the cold, wet April night. Aimée paused, remembering the mailbox with “E. Grandet” on it.

“Why did you meet Sylvie?” Aimée asked.

“I’d like to forget about it,” Anaïs said, holding back her sobs.

“Anaïs, of course it’s painful, but if you don’t talk to me,” Aimée said, “how can I help?”

Poor Anaïs. Maybe she felt guilty. Didn’t wives harbor thoughts of killing their husband’s mistress no matter how civilized the arrangement?

“Sylvie arranged to meet me,” Anaïs said, rubbing her eyes. “Said she didn’t trust telephones.”

“What happened?”

“The entry door was open,” she said. Anaïs licked her knuckles, rubbed red raw in the dirt. “I went upstairs. The landing was spattered with pigeon droppings.”

“The building looked ready to demolish,” Aimée said. “Did Sylvie live there?” Why would a woman who drove a Mercedes live in a dump like that?

“Sylvie told me to meet her there. That’s all I know,” Anaïs said, her eyes downcast. “We argued right away.”

“You argued?” Aimée said.

The lights of Belleville blinked as they wound up the hilly streets. Aimée poked her head up, but saw no Twingo behind them;

“My fault. I got angry,” Anaïs said, shaking her head. “All those years of lying … I couldn’t calm down. Sylvie kept going to the window. She made me nervous. I got mad and ran out the door.”

Aimée wondered what Sylvie had been trying to tell Anaïs. Sylvie could have gone to the window to see if she’d been followed or was afraid Anaïs had.

“Was Philippe aware you were meeting her?” she asked.

“Why should he be? Philippe told me he finished with her months ago,” Anaïs said. “Things between us were getting better.”

Aimée stared at Anaïs. Had she gone to make sure he’d kept his word?

“Why did you want my help?”

“Call me a coward,” Anaïs said, biting her lip. “I’m ashamed I thought she wanted money. But she asked me to forgive her.”

“You mean forgive her for the past?”

“Told me how sorry she felt over things escalating,” Anaïs said, breathing quickly.