Cara Black - AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“Morbier, I know Pleyet’s not in the traffic division.”

“Leduc, people like him, you don’t want to know,” he said.

True. His hawklike eyes and Special Ops aura were chilling.

“I’m not looking for a date,” she said. “Just the truth.”

Morbier stood, shuffled in his pocket, then threw some francs on the round table just as Aimée’s espresso arrived.

“Article 4 of Code de la Police ,” he said. “ ‘ By the procedural code, police missions are placed under the authority of the Ministry of Interior .’ ”

Morbier quoting police procedure?

“So you’re saying Pleyet’s with the Ministry of Interior? Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You don’t know anything.” Morbier bent over and clutched the table. Was that a grimace of pain as he pulled his rainhat down?

“ Ça va , Morbier?” she asked, alarmed. She stood, took his arm, and rubbed his back.

But when he straightened up, she saw a lopsided grin on his face. “Didn’t want to make eye contact with la Proc’ . She’s a ball-breaker that one. Always on my case.”

True? Or a way for a wily fox to get out of answering? She turned around and saw the back of La Proc’ Edith Mesnard’s tailored Rodier suit. And then doubt nagged her. Was this a glimpse of real pain after all?

“Give me something to go on, Morbier,” she said. “Don’t make me beg. That’s if you want flowers at the hospital.”

Morbier frowned. “Drink your espresso. I’m not going to warn you off any more, Leduc. Wise up, get married, make babies, change diapers.”

Babies . . . diapers, where did that come from? And with whom was she supposed to do this? Guy was no longer a possibility.

“Miles Davis was potty trained in a week, and he’s more than enough for me to handle,” she replied.

He looked away. She noticed the liver spots on his hands, the lined skin around his eyes. He’d aged.

“Leduc?”

She looked up.

“For once, listen to me. Promise to leave it alone and I’ll sniff around,” he said. “But I mean it. You promise?”

She nodded. “I found out Regnier’s on suspension. As far as I can tell, he’s gone rogue.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said,” she said. “And he kidnapped René. I’ve got the proof in this little notebook.”

Morbier didn’t look surprised often. But now was one of those times.

“He knows about the jade and thinks he can claim it but . . .”

“And René?”

“He sent some scum to the hospital and caused a three-alarm fire,” she said. “All by himself. But thanks for asking.”

Morbier’s eyes widened and he shook his head with a little smile. “I’m getting too old, vraiment ?”

She nodded. “Soon, I’m going to have to put his name on the door.”

“Leduc, I meant to help,” he told her.

His chin sagged and he looked lost. Morbier? Now she was worried.

“Morbier, what happened with your grandson Marc?”

His eyes followed the sparrows pecking for food on the crackling brown leaves. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Had Marc’s other grandparents received custody?

“If there’s some way I can help?”

“Not now, Leduc.”

Morbier stood, took his newspaper, and walked away. His shoes crunched the gravel as he crossed in the square. Could she still count on him?

As her father had said, If only the flics’ left hand knew what their right hand was doing, they wouldn’t try wiping their arses with both hands at the same time.

Gray mist hovered over the rooftops. She took a deep breath. She would have to flush out the scum herself.

LATER THAT afternoon, Aimée sipped wine at a pre-war bar à vin on rue de Clichy . The decor featured white-globe sconces, a stamped-tin ceiling, and enough tobacco in the air to stain her teeth just by inhaling. She wished she could open the window. The smell of wet wool, the sputtering heater, and the stale smoke was suffocating. Even the raw damp wind outside would be preferable. And she wished she could see better through the fogged-up windows.

She watched men enter Académie de Billard, Blondel’s haunt across the rue de Clichy. Most were of a certain type. She figured a lot would be named Jacky, would be on the dole, and would have the hots for Arielle Dombasle whose film career had peaked in the 80s. And all were wearing leather bomber jackets.

She was an outsider. She doubted they’d be forthcoming about Blondel, the man mentioned in Sophie’s postcard, even if they knew him. Maybe this could work to her advantage. Stir things up. Count on merde to float to the top, as the saying went. Instead of going in undercover, she’d play it straight. Try to draw him out.

She punched in the Académie de Billard number. It rang four times. Someone picked up; cleared his throat.

“ Oui? ”

“Blondel, he there yet?”

“ Et alors , who’d like to know?”

She heard the click of billiard balls in the background.

“Tell him Sophie’s gone,” she said, not pausing for breath. “But I’ll help him. We’ll work out the details. Fifteen minutes?”

“What do you mean?”

Was he stalling, unsure of who she meant or— “Give me your number,” he said. “In case he checks in.”

Which meant he’d pass her message on. Like in the old days, before cell phones, when few apartments had private phone lines and the café was a central message clearing house. Blondel would call her if he wanted to talk.

Nice, old fashioned, and secure for Blondel.

She gave her number and hung up.

There had to be a back door to the billiard hall, maybe more than one. If she met Blondel there, she wanted to be sure of a way out. She crossed the street to rue de Bruxelles, passing the house where Zola died of asphyxiation and walked the short block to Square Berlioz. Elegant and calm, it held a vert-de-grisé -covered statue of the composer Berlioz, and a playground. Seven narrow streets intersected at the square, a few sloped toward Gare Saint Lazare, others up to Montmartre. Hard to imagine that the sex shops of Pigalle flashed their neon only a few streets away.

Haussmann-era apartment buildings lined the street, with their grilled balconies, deep courtyards, and back apartments with service exits. Then she found a cobbled driveway leading to a mansion on the square.

Perfect.

Back on rue de Clichy, she ducked into an entrance beside the greengrocers which bordered the Académie de Billard. It led to a courtyard with shuttered windows, past trashbins, and to the rear door of the Académie’s bar. Crates of empty bottles marked the rear entrance.

Inside, she put her phone on vibrate, slid past the side of the bar, and headed toward the restrooms. A few men were shooting pool on dark wooden tables that filled the period brown mosaic-tiled floor. The high ceilings, beveled gilt-edged mirrors, giant Roman numeral clock over the coat room, and stained-glass skylights reminded her of an early train station.

The phone vibrated in her pocket.

“ Allô ?”

“You want to see me?” said a deep voice.

That was quick. He sounded interested.

“I can help you,” she said.

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“Sophie cut out on me, but we can be useful to each other.”

“Who knows?”

Nice and oblique, in case anyone was tapping the phone.

“Meet me in Académie de Billard.”

“I’m already there,” he said.

In the mirror, she saw a man wearing a leather bomber jacket hunched over the bar, talking on the phone.

She hung up and kept walking, glad she’d entered from the side and had identified him first.