Murder in Belleville (20 page)

Y
OUSSEFA BOUGHT HAIR DYE
at the Casino market around the corner from the apartment. Behind her chador it was as if she were invisible. But she had to be careful; few women in chadors frequented this kind of shop.

In the twenty-franc bargain bin on boulevard Belleville she found a black denim coat. Back at the apartment, she mended the broken crutches she’d found discarded in the trash.

At the bathroom sink, she read the instructions. But when her scalp started burning, she realized the chemicals had been on too long: Her hair had turned orange. Bleach was bleach, she’d thought. She did it again. In the end, when she looked in the mirror, she’d done a good job by accident. She’d fit in with the trendy crowd at Cafe Charbon, who sported the same white-hair, black-roots look.

Youssefa felt a measure of relief. No one paid attention to a woman in a chador or a fashionable type with a broken leg. Then the sobering thought hit her that if Eugenie’d had another identity, it hadn’t helped her.

In the church Zdanine had agreed to help her. But first, he’d said, he wanted to see the photos. He’d seemed eager when she told him why she had to speak with Hamid. After Zdanine saw them, he’d acted uninterested but promised to try and get her five minutes with Hamid.

Youssefa finished her prayers, rolled up her prayer mat, and felt ready. She headed toward the church, hoping Zdanine had paved the way.

A
IMEE STARED AT THE
mirror to the left of the bar, cracked in four or five places, in crowded Cafe la Vielleuse. Painted on the mirror was a faded image of a woman holding a
vielleuse,
an old-fashioned hurdy-gurdy. The woman’s blue puff-sleeved blouse and white tie bespoke turn-of-the-century fashion. The timeworn burnished wood, mosaic floor, and stumpy bar competed with seventies modernizations in the front. Cafe la Vielleuse straddled the broad boulevard de Belleville and the uphill, two-lane rue de Belleville, choked with buses, cars, and hurrying pedestrians.

“There must be a story behind that,” she said in a conversational tone, smiling to the busy waiter behind the counter.

He nodded and stuck his pencil behind his ear, then flicked the milk steamer into high gear, filling the cafe with a muffled whining. Then a slow hiss as the milk frothed.

“The manager, Dede, would know,” he said.

“Have I missed Dede?”

“He’s in back.
Dede!”
the waiter yelled over the noise.

A stocky man sat behind a large adding machine at the rear, picking his nose. The machine droned continuously, spitting out a roll of adding tape.
“Merde!”
he barked, giving the machine a shove and switching it off.

“The mademoiselle has questions about La
Vielleuse,”
the waiter said, jerking his thumb at Aimee.

Dede, a squat fireplug of a man who was a head shorter than Aimee, fluffed his thinning hair as he walked toward her. His cropped suit jacket didn’t meet his checked trousers. He wore pointed-toed heeled boots.

“Tiens,
there’s quite a story to that,” he said, then extended his hand to shake hers.

Aimee dropped her purse on the floor, “Je
m’excuse,”
she said, quickly stooping to pick it up. The linoleum was littered with sugar-cube wrappers, cigarette butts, and lottery stubs. But anything was better than shaking Dude’s hand!

When she stood up, Dede lit a cigarette, set down his gold lighter, and leaned on the zinc counter. She smelled wine on his breath. “In 1914
les Aliemands
encamped at Fontainebleu. Their cannon flattened the shop next door and shattered
la viell kuse, comme ga”
Decle said. “We left her like that so people would remember.”

Outside on rue de Belleville, Chinese children, a heavy-set Arab woman, and Jews in yarmulkes thronged the sidewalk. Gawking at something. Aimee wondered what drew their attention. Then she saw a figure on stilts juggling what looked like bowling pins.

“Rumor has it that the Germans’ big gun got pulled back for duty on the front,” Dede said, fingering a soccer ball on the end of a keychain, “and that saved Paris from bombing.”

“Lots of history here.” Aimee kept a smile on her face, her tone neutral. She figured she’d better buy him a drink.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind a
biere Iambic,
Belgian style.”

“Make that two,” she said.

Dede smiled and snapped his fingers. Every so often he jangled the keychain, as though he needed to know it was still there. Aimee wondered if he’d tell her about Edith Piaf.

She didn’t have long to wait. As the froth-topped glasses of beer appeared, Dede recounted the “Sparrow’s” birth on the steps of 72 rue de Belleville. He said a plaque now proclaimed:
EDITH PIAF SANG FIRST ON THE STREETS OF BELLEVILLE. MUCH LATER HER SONGS TRAVERSED THE BOULEVARDS OF THE WORLD
.

A nice way to put it, she thought.

“To tell the truth, Piaf s mother made it to Hospital Tenon, behind Gambetta,” Dede said. “But the other makes a better story.”

Dede had a point. Aimee sipped the
biere Iambic
letting the toasty hops mingle with the sweetness of raspberry.

Not bad.

She noticed, as they stood at the counter and Dede recounted the story, how he’d nod to patrons, send a wink across the cafe, or raise a hand in greeting. He never broke his conversational thread or lost her attention. Or missed noticing a spilled glass or conveying a sharp glance to a waiter who hadn’t noticed a patron ready to pay the bill. Elymani’s description, the slick
giclie
type, came to her mind.

“My old boss told me that Piaf sang out front, but then so many did in those days,” Dede shrugged. “Truth to tell, she wasn’t anything special until her cabaret-owner boyfriend was killed and the
police judiciare
hauled her in for questioning. Brought her major publicity.”

He grinned.

“Things haven’t changed, eh?” Aimee said. “People get famous any way they can.”

“Belleville was different then, all
populaire,
working class. The
populaire
worked hard, played hard,” he winked, draining his glass. “My papa inspected rail lines, and my mama shoved a vegetable barrow in the market. So I say I grew up in between the market and the tracks.” He let out a bark of laughter and palmed his empty glass. “Raised on this like mother’s milk.”

Several of the staff behind the counter joined his laughter. To Aimee the guffaws sounded brittle and forced.

“Encore, s’il vous plait,”
she said, realizing she’d need to keep buying to hold Dede’s mouth open. Dede seemed to relish portraying himself as a
populaire
descendant. And he probably drank all day, nourishing his memories. But he stayed razor sharp and seemed to make it his business to nurse acquaintances, know people. She wondered how he knew Eugenie.

“They say Piaf never stopped, had the energy of a hummingbird,” Dede continued as he raised his
Here. “Salut.”

Aimee saw her opening.

“My friend Eugenie, who lives right near here, is just like that,” Aimee said, nodding. “Sometimes it’s tiring to be around her.”

Dede sipped his
biere.
His eyes had narrowed. He didn’t respond.

Maybe he was used to doing all the talking, or maybe he didn’t like how she’d turned the conversation. A chirping noise sounded in his pocket, and he plucked out his cell phone. Red and compact, a new Nokia. He answered, mumbled something Aimee couldn’t hear, clicked it off, and slipped it back in his pocket.

“Eugenie’s got a place on rue Jean Moinon,” Aimee said, smiling. “
Bien sur
you probably know her, Eugenie Grandet.”

“We’re the busiest cafe” on the boulevard. There are so many people,”
Dede
said. His small dark eyes crinkled as he threw up his arms, revealing a gold watch and a thick rose-gold chain circling his wrist.

“
Tiens
, Dede, be honest! You know everyone who comes in here,” the young waiter piped, while he rinsed glasses and dried them.

If he’d meant to curry points with Dede, Aimee figured the effect had been the opposite.

“Unfortunately I can’t put a face to every name,” Dede said, his tone now self-deprecating. “But I make sure things run smoothly and all our clients feel at home, eh—that’s my job! Thank you for the drinks, next time it’s my round.” He winked, giving her an oily smile. “Now if you’ll—”

She had to stop him before he bolted.

“You’re too humble,” Aimee said. She laid her hand firmly on his wrist, covered with wiry black hairs, to hold him. “Eugenie’s got short hair, like mine, only bright red.”

“The one in the tight overalls,” the waiter said. “She comes here—”

Dede’ shot him a look that shut him up.

“
Mes enfants
,” Dede” gave a loud chuckle, squeezed Aimee’s hand with his, then removed it. “I can’t keep up with you kids. Meanwhile I’ve got to check on the unloading. Pascal, I need your help.” He gestured to the young waiter, and with the ease of a lizard removed himself.

She wanted to disinfect her hands.

But as she glanced down her eye caught a slim lighter, a luminescent pearl set on it. No ordinary pearl.

A Biwa pearl.

And Dede’ had forgotten it, but then she figured it hadn’t been his to forget.

She palmed the lighter, small and expensive, certain it belonged to Eugenie/Sylvie.

She must have rattled Dede’s cage for him to forget this. But he’d remember soon. She threw fifty francs on the counter and was gone.

I
N THE
office, Rene passed her the latest fax from the EDF. “We’re in the hurry-up-and-wait mode,” he said.

Aimee read the fax stating that the EDF had brought Leduc Detective’s security system proposal under review.

“But they haven’t said no.”

“I’m buying lottery tickets,” Rene said. “Could be quicker.”

She told Rene about the conversation at Cafe la Vielleuse.

“So Dede knows more than he’s telling,” Rene said.

“A lot more,” she said. “Look at this, Dede forgot it on the counter.”

She put the lighter into Rene’s stubby hand. He turned it over in his palm, feeling the bumpy pearl. “This doesn’t look like a man’s lighter.”

“I’d be surprised if it was,” she said.

“Dede’s got a nice little Nokia phone,” Aimee said. “They’re not the encrypted cell phones, are they?”

“Not yet. Those work wonderfully for monitoring transmissions!” Rene’s eyes widened. “And they have such clear reception. Nice bandwidth too!”

His face gleamed with excitement.

“If you’re going to follow him,” Rene said, sliding a laptop in his case, “count me in.”

“Glad for the company,” she said.

A
IMEE STOOD IN THE
Vietnamese jewelry shop window fingering twenty-two-karat rose-gold chains and watching Dede. He’d paused outside Cafe la Vielleuse, watching the traffic as he buttoned a long mohair overcoat, then turned up his collar.

At a nearby
tabac,
its torn awning hiding her view, he chatted with the shopkeeper. After a minute, Dede went inside but the shopkeeper, his sleeves rolled up, remained outside, watching the pedestrians. She left the jewelry store and stepped onto the crowded sidewalk.

A few minutes later Dede exited, patted the man’s shoulder, then walked at a fast clip up steep rue de Belleville. He passed Cour Lesage, then turned right into rue Julian Lacroix.

Aimee’s dark glasses and Gucci scarf covered the headset she wore. In her gray raincoat pocket was the power pack for the walkie-talkie she spoke to Rene with. Following
Dede
proved a challenge. He’d stop frequently, shaking hands or nodding to men on the street. She’d pause and look down into her bag or peer at the nameplates on grimy apartment doors.

Most of the men were
beurs.
By the look of it young and unemployed. From open windows came aromatic smells—spices and oil, laced by orange blossom and the refuse in the street. She kept in touch with Rene’as he monitored the bandwidths in the area.

“Dede’s on the phone, I can see,” she said.

“I’ve got his bandwidth,” Rend said.

She heard clicks, a buzzing, then Dede’s voice in short spurts saying, “Nervous, no amateur … emptied the flat… asking questions … Eugenie … move everything. General… get Muk-tar.”

“Rene, he’s turned off rue du Senegal,” she said.

Dede’s boots clicked in the distance.

“I see him,” Rene said. “I’m below the synagogue on rue Pali Kao. He’s moving fast now.”

By the time Aimee made it to the corner, Rene appeared.

“Did you lose him?” she asked.

Dede reminded her of a rat. A fat one.

“He evaporated,” Rene said. “But the block isn’t long. Let’s go.”

New angular buildings were nestled between old decrepit ones on the hilly cobbled street. Timber supports braced their buckled walls. She saw evidence of habitation in the lines of wash and rusted pots of geraniums, despite the walls appearing in a state of semicollapse.

“Don’t be offended,” Rene’s eyes twinkled. “It’s better if he thinks you’re an amateur. Shall we try this one?” He gestured toward the oldest building, rotten beams propping up damp walls. Parts of the courtyard had been torn up, bald stones, plaster, and wood laths strewn.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“He went in there,” Rene said.

She heard footsteps. Apprehensive, she motioned him back. Quickly they ducked into an arched doorway.

Dede whipped past them. Aimee held her breath, counting the beads of dew on a rusty door knocker. His heels echoed off the peeling walls. They waited a few minutes before emerging into the courtyard.

“Guess I should see what he doesn’t want me to,” she said.

Rene stood watch as Aimee padded to the rear. She passed an upturned metal chair, its legs pointing skyward. Turning right, she followed a wet tunnel-like passage to a slant of gray light. A paint-chipped stairwell led to the next floor. The only sound was the drip of rain from a rotted metal gutter onto the cracked concrete.

On the right was a faded green door partially visible under the stairs. Then she saw the sign.

A dark blue handprint was stamped above the doorframe. Like in Samia’s building.

Excited, she looked around and listened. Only the plop of raindrops and in the distance, a muffled radio talk show.

She pulled the Beretta from her black jeans and slipped it into her coat pocket. Thinking fast, she came up with a pretext to get inside.

“Dede,” she said, even though she knew he’d gone. “Sorry I’m late.”

No answer. She leaned forward on her toes, put her ear to the door. Nothing. She touched the wood, and it creaked open. Hadn’t Elymani said the
Maghrebins
used places like this?

A musty smell greeted her. The small, low-ceilinged apartment looked as if homeless people camped in it. Soggy sleeping bags emitted a reek of mildew; rags and papers littered the floor. Torn dark green plastic bags, covering the open window, fluttered.

She paused, wondering about Dede’s purpose in coming here. He hadn’t stayed long. The floor was tracked by many dirty footsteps. Had it been a
Maghrebin
haven of operation? Had Dede left because they’d moved on?

She tiptoed over a phone book and tripped, catching herself on an armoire that groaned dangerously. The slender wooden handle came off in her hand. Sooty and full of splinters, it stung her scarred palm.

She almost didn’t notice the fat
Bottin Administratif
government directory on the warped linoleum floor. What a strange thing, she thought. Someone would need a handcart to carry that heavy volume.

She found her penlight and shined it along the floor. Nothing but dried-up yogurt cartons. But there wasn’t the film of dust or layer of dirt she’d expect if the place had been deserted. By the old tiled fireplace sat an ancient coal bin. She shoved it aside with her boot; underneath lay a wooden trap door to the coal cellar. She pulled the worm-holed top up, shone her penlight around.

Cold, dead, empty space.

She checked the mattress in the back room, finding dried rat turds. Flakes of stucco powdered the scuffed floor. On the wall an old calendar with saints’ pictures had been turned upside down.

Her walkie-talkie vibrated on her hip. Startled, she switched it on.

“You’ve got company,” Rene said.

She looked around nervously.

“Whereabouts?”

“Approaching the rear courtyard,” Rene said.

No time to go out the way she came in.

“Dede?”

“Some
Maghrebins,”
Rene said in a throaty whisper. “Get out of there!”

She pulled a chair to the window, leaned on the sill, kicked the chair. Digging her toes into the wall, she hoisted herself up. She prayed the building held up and she would have somewhere to land.

Outside the window she faced a wall.

A wet dripping wall to nowhere.

Sewer smells clung in the dank crack between buildings. Probably from a leaking toilet somewhere above, sweating rivulets furred by moss. Below that lay packed earth and cracked glass.

No exit.

Blindly she reached out and felt for a ledge.

Nothing.

She let herself back down into the room, her hands trembling.

Where to go?

Voices and footsteps came from the passageway. She spied the trap door, ran and opened it.

She folded herself inside and pulled the door closed. Soot filled her lungs, her legs cramped in that sliver of a space. She could hardly breathe in the frigid cellar. Footsteps pounded heavily over the floor.

She wished she understood Arabic because, from above her, the conversation was clear. They stood right over the wooden door, which creaked and groaned with their weight. To her the clunk and scraping from above sounded as if they were pulling tiles or bricks from the fireplace. Then she realized they might look down in the coal cellar. She scooted as far back in the blackness as she could. As far back as her knotted legs would push her. She wished her hands wouldn’t tremble so much; she was afraid to drop her penlight. More footsteps entered the room.

She recognized the words
“Dede”
“rue Piat,” and realized they spoke
verlan,
too. The only word she recognized was
erutiov,
the inverse for
voiture,
car. At least she thought it was.

Every breath she took filled her lungs with a chalky powder. Her throat ached with holding back her cough. She inched her foot out, then leaned her back against the wall. Laboriously she stretched her other leg out into the cramped space. She managed to push her body in the opposite direction along the cold, uneven stones.

The space opened up to a larger cellar. She saw dim outlines of a chute. Above that a rotted metal grille came into view. She hoped it fronted the backstreet.

The conversational pitch carried, but she couldn’t make out any meanings. The tone seemed angry, almost confrontational. One voice kept saying
“lnsh’allah-hent al haram, insh’allah!”

And then she remembered that voice. The voice hissing “bent al haram” in her ear before her head got whacked into orbit at the
cirque.

“Rene,” she whispered into her headset. “Take the stairs toward Maison de l’Air in Pare de Belleville. These
mecs
plan to meet Dede on rue Piat.”

“See you there,” he said.

A welcome channel of fresh air came from the grille.

If she could just keep going! Sweat beaded her forehead and her knees weakened. She heard the footsteps again.

Above her pinpricks of light fanned from the street. She clutched for something along the slippery wall. The smooth metal chute led up. She climbed, searching for footholds with one foot while bracing the other against the wall.

And then her toe slipped, and she fell onto something hard and wooden, banging her knee. Above her the footsteps stopped. Had they heard?

She had to get out of there.

Trying again, perspiring and pulling herself up, she reached the grille. She straddled the chute’s entrance, but the grille was rusted shut. At least more air came through.

Frustrated, she didn’t know what to do; shuffling noises came from the apartment.

She kicked the metal latch with her heel. Nothing budged. She heard a scraping, as if the wooden door was being opened.

She kicked harder until the latch moved.

After two more kicks, she tried the grille. It grated noisily, then fell forward. Welcome fresh air filled her lungs. She grabbed the edge and shimmied through.

Outside she blinked in the light and got to her knees. She realized she’d emerged through an oval window into a crumbling courtyard.

A dark, rotund woman in a multicolored African robe, one shoulder bare, was hanging wash on a line. She stared at Aimee.

“Je m’excuse,”
Aimee smiled, dusting herself off.

The woman returned the smile and resumed hanging clothes.

“You haven’t seen me,” Aimee said, placing a hundred francs in her hand.
“D’accord?”

The woman winked, then waved, as Aimee slipped into rue Julian Lacroix. She headed to open-spaced Pare de Belleville.

Aimee paused inside the entrance by the Resistance
Mimorial aux morts.
Blue, white, and red flowers lay on the engraved slab. Memories didn’t die with the victims, she thought, heartened by the fresh bouquet. She scanned the park. A few gardeners tended the beds of tulips on her left.

No
mecs.
No Dede.

“Where are you, Rene?” she spoke into her headset, turning up the volume.

Rene’s panting came from the other end.

“Near Terrasse Belvedere,” Rene’said. “My binoculars find them heading toward the vineyard, midway between us.”

“How many?”

“Two
mecs,
heavy-set,” Rend said.

She inhaled the rain-freshened air scented by damp grassy smells. Except for the gardeners and two women with strollers headed down the hill, no one else came into view. Before the highest point, Terrasse Belvedere, were benches under catalpa trees, near spreading beds of pink and yellow tulips. Vestiges of old Belleville, once dotted by vineyards and waterfalls sourced from subterranean tunnels, were evidenced by fountains and struggling rows of vines.

“Did you get dipped in charcoal?”

“Close enough,” she said, brushing her shoulders and rubbing her face. Her fingers came back black. “Still up on your martial arts?”

“At the top of my dojo,” he said, pride in his voice. “Got a plan?”

“Something quick and dirty should work.”

“You can do the dirty,” Rend said. “I’ll do the quick.”

“What are they carrying?”

“Gym bags, dark blue,” Rene said.

Of course, she thought. Simple and inconspicuous. Everyone carried them. It gave her pause, thinking of all the foot traffic carrying gym bags along rue de Belleville.

“What are they wearing?”

“Gray tracksuits, not very color coordinated. Let’s meet halfway,” Rene said. “I’ve got an idea, remember those
mecs
in Canal de 1’Ourcq?”

“Alors,
Rene be careful!” She remembered how creative he’d gotten with his feet.

“Follow my lead,” he said.

By the time she reached the second segment of trellised stairs, arched with trailing jasmine, the
mecs
had stopped just ahead of her.

Rene stood at the top of the stairs blocking the way, his short legs apart. Budding pink-and-white jasmine released a sweet fragrance.

“Fashion police,” Rene said. “I’ve had a trend alert. Hand over those bags.”

The two Algerian
mecs
paused and laughed.

“Mon
petit,”
the bigger
mec
said, looking up at Rene at the top of the stairs. “Are you lost? Dwarf land is that way.”

“Your colors clash,” Rene said, his tone serious.

The
mec
stepped up to swat Rene. His diamond ring sparkled in the weak sunlight.

Aimee went cold. She recognized that ring, in the shape of a star and half moon, and the hairy paw that went with it, from Cirque d’Hiver.

“Hey, Muktar!” she shouted.

He spun around as Rene shot a fancy kick to his chin. She heard a loud crack. Then another, as Rene’s boot landed on his shoulder. Muktar twirled, struck the railing, and landed, bumping down the steps. His face etched in permanent surprise.

Aimee settled for some hard rib chops to his partner from behind. Startled, the partner crumpled, then began flailing wildly at Aimee and the jasmine trellis. Aimee ducked. Rene crosscut a series of punches to his kidneys, causing the
mec
to wail in pain. Rene’ stepped forward, then pushed him over.