Murder in the Marais (26 page)

Friday Afternoon

H
ARTMUTH AND
T
HIERRY S AT
across from the Victor Hugo Museum by the playground in Place des Vosges. Children's laughter erupted from the swings under the barren-branched plane trees. The vaulted stone arcades surrounding the gated square, filled with fountains and grassy patches, reflected the late autumn sun's last rays. Over the worn stone cobbles wafted the smell of roasted chestnuts. Hartmuth's hands shook as he folded the newspaper he'd been pretending to read.

"I only agreed to meet because you said it's important," he said. "What do you have to say to me?"

"Millions of things. You are my father," Thierry's eyes shone, almost trance-like. "Let's start by getting to know one another. Tell me about my German family?"

Hartmuth stirred guiltily. "You had a sister once," he said after a long pause as he watched the children. "Her name was Katia. I wasn't a very good father."

Thierry shrugged.

"Who raised you?" Hartmuth asked.

"Some conservatives who lied to me." Thierry kicked at a pigeon anxious for crumbs. "But I've always been like you, believed in what you fought for. Now I know why I joined the
Kameradschaft
, it's natural that I would carry Aryan beliefs like you."

Hartmuth shook his head. He stood up and walked along the gravel path. He stopped at a slow gurgling fountain near the statue of Louis XIII on his horse.

Thierry stirred at the memories of Claude Rambuteau handing him crumbs for the pigeons at this very statue. Why hadn't the Rambuteaus told him his true identity?

"I said goodbye to her," Hartmuth said. "Here."

Startled, Thierry asked, "Who do you mean?"

"Your mother, before my troop shipped out to the slaughter at the front." He paused. "She's still beautiful," he murmured wistfully.

"How can you say that?" said Thierry, aghast. This wasn't how he imagined his Nazi father would act.

"I loved her and I still do," Hartmuth said. "She thinks it's all in my mind. Let me show you where we used to meet." Hartmuth strode across the square, pulling Thierry along.

None of the scurrying passersby paid much attention to them, a piercingly blue-eyed man and slender silver-haired gentleman, who, if one looked carefully, had a definite resemblance.

Halfway down the rue du Parc Royal, Hartmuth turned and pointed up at the arms of Francois the First, the marble salamander sculpted into the archway.

"I first saw her here, on these cobblestones," Hartmuth said. "But over there is where you were conceived, underground."

"Underground? What are you saying?" Thierry asked uneasily. Opposite, on rue Payenne adjoining Square Georges-Cain, Hartmuth agilely climbed over the locked gate. He started rooting in the plants among the ancient statuary. Thierry could hear clumps of dirt landing in the bushes. He was afraid Hartmuth was losing his mind.

"What are you doing?" Thierry asked, after he climbed in behind him.

"Come help me," Hartmuth said. He beckoned to Thierry, his eyes shining as if possessed. "Move this pillar." Hartmuth tried to push the broken marble column. "It's got to be around here."

"You're crazy. What are you going on about?" Thierry raised his voice.

The dusk was settling and the street lamps came on one by one.

"The entrance to the catacombs!" Hartmuth said. "We'll find it, they've been here since the Romans. They haven't gone away. This city is honeycombed with the old Christian tunnels." He took Thierry's hand and stared at him. "I used to hide in them with your mother every night."

Thierry felt embarrassed by the longing evident in Hartmuth's eyes. "Why do you call her my mother? I never knew her, she abandoned me, she was a filthy Jew!" His hysterical laugh climbed to a high pitch. "Filthy, that's perfect! Rutting in the dirt with an Aryan."

"Odd. She said the same thing." Hartmuth shook his head sadly. "You mustn't hurt her. You do understand, don't you?"

"That an Aryan could sleep with a Jew?" Thierry said accusingly. "Was it because you were far from home and lonely? Maybe she seemed exotic and seduced you?"

Tears welled in Hartmuth's eyes. "Where did you get all this old hate?"

"I know Auschwitz was a lie," Thierry said. "My responsibility has been to expose those death-camp coverups."

"I smelled the stench of too many of them," Hartmuth said wearily and leaned against the broken marble column. "Your grandparents, Sarah's parents, ended up there."

Stunned, Thierry shouted, "No, no! I don't believe you."

A few passersby on the sidewalk turned to stare, then moved on.

"Our regiment troop train was bombed somewhere in Poland," Hartmuth said. "We had to rebuild the tracks in the snow while partisans shot at us from the woods. There was a terrible smell, out in that godforsaken forest, that never went away. We didn't know what it was because we saw no villages, only tunnels of black smoke. When the train ran again we passed a spur track. An arrow pointed to a sign saying Bergen-Belsen. Rotten corpses of those who'd jumped off the train littered the side of the tracks. I'll never forget that smell." Hartmuth spoke in a faraway voice.

Thierry glared at him. "You're lying, Jew lover!"

He climbed over the fence and ran off down the street. Hartmuth sank to his knees among the ruins but he had no more tears left. From deep inside came the old lullaby that his grandmother sang to him:
Liebling, du musst mir nicht böse sein, Liebling, spiele und lach ganzen Tag.

He sang the words as he dug earth and moved stones. Long after the streetlights shone he was still digging.

S
ATURDAY

Saturday Morning

S
OLANGE
G
OUTAL LOOKED UP
from her work, her eyes swollen with crying. "Soli's dead. . .the rumor is that he was killed."

"It's more than a rumor, it's the truth," Aimee said, setting her leather bag on the granite counter below the chiseled words
Never forget
.

Solange averted her eyes. "Go in, the director will see you now."

Annick Sausotte, director of the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine bustled over to greet her. Extending her hand, she pumped Aimee's, then pulled her into an office.

"Ms. Leduc, it's unfortunate we meet after Soli Hecht's tragic death." Her quick darting eyes flicked over Aimee's suit and took in her leather bag. "Please sit here. I'm all yours for five minutes. Then I must run to a memorial luncheon."

"Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Sausotte. I'll get right to the point." Aimee perched on the edge of an uncomfortable tubular metal chair. "The Temple E'manuel has retained my services in the murder of Lili Stein. I believe Soli Hecht, at Lili's request, was investigating someone whom she recognized as a collaborator from the war. There's a connection and I want to know what Soli worked on the day he supposedly got run over by the bus."

"Supposedly run over by a bus you say, Ms. Leduc?" Annick Sausotte said.

Aimee looked at her sharp dark eyes. "Someone pushed him in front of the bus," she said. "But I can't substantiate that, Ms. Sausotte. Don't you wonder why he would take a bus when his rheumatoid arthritis had been so severe he needed help down the stairs and with his coat? And after he told Solange he'd take a taxi?"

"What do you want from me, Mademoiselle Leduc?" Annick said.

"Access into computer files that Soli worked on that day," Aimee said. "I came across his name in Lili's belongings. I believe she'd recognized a former collaborator and asked Soli for help to obtain proof." Aimee paused. "That's what got her killed."

Annick Sausotte leaned forward, her chin cradled in her palms, elbows mirrored on her polished desk. "Soli was the only one who could have authorized access to his files, but now. . ." She stopped, a look of sorrow crossing her face. "Of course, that's impossible. Only the foundation can grant such permission."

"I know he was murdered in the hospital. But I can't prove that either." Aimee stood up and leaned close into Annick's face. "There's another woman in danger, a survivor whose family perished in the Holocaust."

"Are you Jewish, Mademoiselle Leduc?"

"Is that a job requirement? Because I get the feeling that might be more important to you than someone's life." Aimee paced over to Annick, who rose. "Someone's after me, too, but they don't seem to care about my religion!"

"You're taking this personally, Ms. Leduc. Please understand. . ."

Aimee interrupted. "I tend to take things personally when my life is in danger. Will you help me or not?"

Annick Sausotte escorted her to the door. "I don't even handle that end of the center's operations. Let me check with those responsible and Soli's foundation. Call me in a few days."

Aime shook her head. "You don't seem to understand."

"That's the best I can do," Annick said as she put her arms into a too large overcoat that engulfed her small frame. "Please call me tomorrow or the day after."

As Annick Sausotte rushed out, loud, buzzing erupted behind the reception desk. Aimee paused at the desk, studying the visitors' log intently.

"Solange, there's a delivery in the receiving bay," Annick said. "I'll hit the door opener here if you can go down and take it."

Solange grabbed her key ring, as Annick's footsteps echoed in the marble foyer.

"I'll use the restroom then let myself out with the director," Aimee said.

Solange hesitated. A shrill voice came over the intercom. "Frexpresse delivery, I need a signature!"

Solange nodded at her, then disappeared behind the rear door. Aimee heard the click of the front doors closing and quickly scanned the security system. Security monitors showed Annick Sausotte striding to the narrow street and Solange signing a clipboard, handing it back to a uniformed driver, and then turning towards the camera. Then Aimee couldn't see her anymore.

She pulled open drawers until she found the one with plastic identification cards. Underneath were several passkeys and Aimee grabbed all of them, sticking them into her pocket. Aimee stepped inside the partially open door of Annick Sausotte's office. She figured she could stay in the office until closing time, which would be in about ten minutes. Aimee had just kicked off her achingly high heels and crumpled into the tubular chair when she heard Solange's voice.

"Annick, did you forget something?" she said.

Aimee looked over and saw a bulging briefcase on Annick's desk. She realized there was no closet and the desk offered no hiding place. The only other piece of furniture, an antique black-lacquered armoire, stood delicate and three-legged. She opened it to find it full of fragile porcelain.

Nowhere to hide.

She heard Annick's voice as a phone rang. "It's on my desk. I'll get this call."

Aimee grabbed her heels and flattened herself behind the door. As Solange walked to the desk, Aimee pulled slowly on the door, almost covering herself behind it.

Solange had picked up the case and turned to leave when Annick said, "Solange, look for that press packet on the deportation monument, will you? Second or third drawer of my desk."

She couldn't see Solange but prayed that she'd find it. Quickly. Her nose itched. Unfortunately, her hands gripped her heels and she couldn't pinch her nose shut without banging the door.

She heard Solange rooting through the desk, rustling papers. "I can't find it. Which drawer?"

She tried pushing her nose against the wooden door to stop her sneeze but that only pushed it open more. She was just about to explode when Annick called out, "I found it."

Solange strode out of the room, banging the door shut behind her. Aimee dropped her heels on the carpet at the same time, muffling her sneeze with two hands as best she could. From behind the closed door came low conversation then silence.

While she slipped her heels back on, she dialed Leah's number at the button factory

"Leah, how is Sarah?"

Leah's voice answered in a low, conspiratorial tone. "At last check, all's well."

"How long ago did you check, Leah?" Aimee asked. "Our guest rates among the nervous variety. Probably could use company."

"Looked in a few hours ago," Leah said. "I'm closing up so I'll check. There's a Gruyère souffle with a caper tapenade relish in the oven. . .."

Aimee realized she hadn't eaten yet today. "Sounds wonderful. I'll be tied up a while, so please reassure her. I'll call you back."

Soli Hecht's foundation on the fifth floor resided in what had been poetically called a garret in the last century. The plaque outside his office stated in bronze that Chopin had died in here, consumptive, penniless, and behind in the rent. Now it consisted of whitewashed rooms with slanted eaves and rectangular windows. White particle board ringed the office with continuous counter and shelving space. Several computers sat near a state-of-the-art copy machine and white metal file cabinets took up the remaining space.

The general antiseptic impression was marred by the photo covering a whole wall. A small child's foot hung out of a crematorium oven next to piles of ashes with smiling uniformed Gestapo members poking it with their riding crops. Bold letters below said
NEVER FORGET
. . .

Aimee's stomach lurched, but she forced herself to stay. She sat down at the nearest flashing computer terminal. She leaned her head against the screen, but still the photo wouldn't go away. What about that little foot? The mother who'd washed it, the father who'd tickled it, the grandmother who'd knitted socks for it, the grandfather who'd hoisted it on his shoulders? Probably all gone. Generations gone. Only ghosts remained.

So Soli Hecht reminded himself of why he worked here, Aimee realized. As if he needed the motivation, being a survivor of Treblinka himself. She started punching keys, playing with possible passwords to access Soli's hard drive. She considered the possibility of the attic effect, that all data storage survives on the hard drive. A user, like Hecht, would think he'd erased information by deleting it. But nothing ever went away. All written code was routed through the computer hardware and lodged in there somewhere, something she was paid well to find in her computer forensic investigations.

She discovered the password
Shoah
and found the terminals in Soli's foundation linked with the center's system downstairs and rubbed her hands excitedly. Methodically, she began accessing the hard drive, checking both data banks for Lili's name.

Soli's last computer activity was dated Friday, the day of his accident, two days after Lili's murder. No files had been opened or new files added. As she read his E-mail she grew disappointed. There was only a brief message from the Simon Wiesenthal Center. Where would Soli's floppy backup disks be?

The locked file cabinets yielded to a wiggling paperclip and Aimee searched, keeping her gaze averted from the photo. Hundreds of pages of testimony from survivors about Klaus Barbie, the "Butcher of Lyon" which Soli had successfully documented. Aimee kicked the nearest cabinet; nothing newer than 1987. Baffled, Aimee began a systematic search of the whitewashed rooms. She emptied the files and took the file cabinets apart, checked under the computer for anything taped to its underside, and checked the carpet seams. Three hours later she remained thwarted. Nothing. Not even one floppy disk.

Something to do with Lili had to be here, she felt it. Would Soli have taken it with him? Even if he had, he'd have a copy or backup disk. At times like this, Aimee knew it was best to walk away and come back with a fresh eye to catch something she might have overlooked. She decided to go downstairs and check the center's microfiche file for cheat sheets from the Occupation.

The third-floor library system was clear, concise, and immaculately cross-referenced. Microfiche files of Jewish newspapers and bulletins rolled before her eyes.

An hour later, she found the old grainy photo with a brief article,
"Non Plus Froid"
:

Students at the lycee on rue du Plâtre demonstrate patriotism for our French workers in Germany. This wool drive contributes to keeping our men warm this winter.

She saw Sarah and Lili, yellow stars embroidered on their dresses, standing by piles of coats in a school yard. There, too, was the face Odile Redonnet had identified as Laurent de Saux. On his neck, peeking from his shirt collar, was a butterfly-shaped birthmark.

She copied the article, complete with photo, on a laser copier standing flush with the wood-paneled library entrance. It eliminated distortions and blurs due to yellowed unarchival newsprint so that even minor facial distinctions were clear. The quality was excellent and irrefutable. She wondered how Laurent de Saux had hidden that birthmark.

Here was proof that Laurent knew Lili and Sarah. His identity remained the question. She had to check the bloody fingerprint against the French national file. Of course, she thought. Find a Laurent de Saux and check him against the bloody print!

That was when she heard the echo of footsteps. She froze. A raspy, hacking cough came from the hallway. Security? She dove under a nearby trestle table, clutching the copy in her hand. Then she realized the copy machine's cover stood suspiciously open and the red light blinked irritatingly.

Her leather bag lay on the marble floor by the machine. She peered from under the table and saw an elderly man, probably a retired
flic
, in a security uniform. She'd have to overpower him to log back on to Soli's computer and finish her search.

He hawked and spit into the metal garbage can near her head. Finally he switched off the machine, closed the cover with a thump, and flicked off the lights. He left a scent of last night's onion meal in the library.

And then she realized where Soli could have hidden things. Somewhere disturbing and offensive. That had to be it. The only place she hadn't looked! Silently, she rolled the copies into her bag, slipped off her heels again, and padded back up to the fifth floor.

Inside Hecht's foundation she approached the wall. Up close to the Gestapos' leering faces in the photograph she felt around. Smooth all the way to the tips of the riding crops, then she felt an indentation and slight groove. Pressing it, she heard a click, then felt a part of the wall open to her right with a swinging whoosh. A drawer slid out on tracks holding several disks in envelopes. She found a floppy titled "L. Stein." Steadying her hands, she took a deep breath and attempted to open the disk. But it didn't work.

The floppy was a WordPerfect file that had been protected with a password. She tried Soli's birthdate, his birthplace, events and names from the Holocaust. No success. Then she tried the names of all the concentration camps. Nothing. She tried Hebrew prayers and simple configurations of biblical references. Nothing. She needed Rene's code-breaking software to pick the lock of the file on Soli's disk.

She prayed that Rene had made it to her cousin Sebastian's by now. She punched in Sebastian's number on Hecht's white phone.

Sebastian answered. "He's here."

Rene got on the line.

"Are you all right?" she said.

"Just a graze, I'll live," he said. "I've hooked up the laptop."

Thank God, Rene was a computer fiend like she was. "Download this and let's try to crack it," she said. "Let's talk it through step by step."

Rene's fingers clicked over the keys nonstop.

Aimee checked her screen.

"OK, download complete," Rene said. "What are we looking for?"

"We're searching for Soli Hecht's password. I can't open the disk."

After a few minutes, Rene mumbled something that sounded like "Azores."