Murder in Pigalle (29 page)

“What do you have that’s so important? State secrets, blackmail?”

“Something like that.” He jangled the key rings. “But he won’t get what he wants until I find Marie-Jo.”

“What does that mean?”

But he’d turned to go back through the crawl. “Coming?”

Instinct told her not to leave yet. Something spoke to her here, and she didn’t know what. Her father always said to listen to the crime scene. Let it speak to you. Didn’t old Second Empire buildings feature concealed alcoves, secret built-ins? Nooks to hide trysts from the inconvenient arrival of
les domestiques
or the spouse? She remembered that from some de Maupassant story.

The carpet’s dust was most displaced in front of a bookcase full of worn leather volumes. She ran her hands over the bookcase’s period molding and came back with sooty fingers. Nothing. Her fingers traced the ridges and burls in the bookcase’s wooden interior. She rose on her tiptoes to reach the high shelf, her bump pressing on the volumes below.

Something shifted. She felt a book give way against her stomach—the dark maroon leather Bible. The bookcase moved, sliding back to reveal a chamber. She gasped and took a step inside.

Perspiration-laced used air and darkness greeted her. “Hand me the flashlight!” she called.

No answer. No Zacharié. Impatient, he’d gone.

She pulled out her mini-flashlight from her bag. The beam wasn’t as strong as the other would have been, but it illuminated
a round, vault-like room with peeling wallpaper. She saw pink toenails peeking out from behind a box—a bare foot with a chain around its ankle. She leaned down. A girl, her mouth duct-taped, squinted into the glare. Matted black hair plastered with sweat to her forehead. She wore a tank top and jeans.

“Marie-Jo?”

She nodded. Her chained feet thumped the floor.

Aimée took out her Swiss Army knife. “I’ll get you out of here. Where’s Zazie?”

Her feet thumped again. Moaning came from next to Marie-Jo. Aimée followed the sound with the beam, catching on curly red hair and Zazie’s flushed face.

“Zazie!” Her pulse raced. Good God, she was alive. “Hold on, this will sting.” She ripped the tape off Marie-Jo’s mouth, then Zazie’s. “Thank God … please tell me you’re okay,” she said, working to free their bound wrists from the duct tape.

Marie-Jo spit. “Thirsty.”

“I knew you’d … you’d find me.” Zazie’s lips quivered. She reached up and hugged Aimée tight the moment her wrists were free. Her shoulders shook.

“Good job on the chalk mark, Zazie,” she said. She pulled a bottle of water out of her bag for them to share. Her shirt, soaked in perspiration, clung to her back. “Now to get you two out.”

“That man checks us every three hours,” said Zazie. “We timed him. He drinks, but—”

“What’s with the bad hair, a wig?” Marie-Jo interrupted.

“Her disguise,” said Zazie, admiration in her puffy eyes. “She’s got tons of them. Nice pants. Your tummy’s bigger, Aimée.”

So much for designer maternity clothes. She felt like a whale, swimming in her own sweat.

“We have to hurry.” Aimée went to work with her lock-pick set on the padlock chaining them. Two minutes later they were free and struggling to stand. “Can you walk?”

“Of course we can,” Zazie said, but she hobbled and gripped the wall.

“Lean on me,” Aimée said.

She tried not to wince as Zazie grabbed her wounded shoulder. Dense, engulfing heat made her knees wobble. The damn wig was sticking to her scalp.

“What is this place, besides a time capsule?” Aimée said.

“Some old lady escaped to Nice during the war, that man said.” Zazie pointed to an oil portrait covered with dust. “This was her great-aunt’s place. She was some kind of
lorette.
”

Courtesans who lived around Notre-Dame de Lorette Church at the turn of the century—nicknamed
lorettes
—were often installed in flats by wealthy lovers.

“The old lady never came back, so no one knows this place, that man kept saying on his phone,” said Zazie. “They’d never find us. The front door’s bolted.”

Her stitches smarted. They had to get out. Quick.

“He’s due anytime,” said Zazie. Her voice quivered. “He comes in through that crawlspace. Drunk.”

Great. If he was armed she couldn’t risk a confrontation with the girls.

“Then we’ll find another way out.”

Places like this always had servants’ back stairs. “Let’s try the back.” With one of Aimée’s arms around each of the girls, they made halting progress to the kitchen. The back-stair door held a rusted padlock. Her lock picks worked no magic on rust.

“Where’s my papa?” Marie-Jo said suddenly.

“Explanations later.” Right now, she had to prioritize getting them to safety. In a kitchen drawer she found a cobwebbed meat mallet. “Here, take a swing and bust the lock.”

But Marie-Jo didn’t move. “My papa told you where we were. Where is he?”

Of all times. The girl was as stubborn and impatient as
her father. “He wants you safe, Marie-Jo. We need to get out before …”

“What aren’t you telling me?” The hollow-cheeked girl was a bundle of nerves. “That man will hurt Papa when he finds us gone.”

“She’s right, Aimée,” said Zazie, but she took the mallet and swung.

If only the impatient
salaud
had waited instead of searching in the theatre. “He’s got a plan,” she said, improvising. “We meet him after I get you to safety.”

The bolt broke under Zazie’s repeated whacks. “Now shove it open,” Aimée said. “Go!”

But the door didn’t budge. It must be bolted or barred from the other side.

“We’re running out of time,” said Zazie. “He’s late already.”

Aimée pulled out her cell phone and hit Zacharié’s number. If only he were there to help them force the door. No answer.

Aimée thought quickly. “I’m going back through that secret passage to find your father,” she told the girls. “You need to push the kitchen table and those cupboards to block the door. Meanwhile keep shoving that back door. Let no one in, do you hear me?”

“Why can’t we go with you?”

“And risk you running into Raoul? And whoever else might come with him? Stay here.”

“But my papa—” said Marie-Jo.

“He’ll be all right if you do exactly what I say.”

“Like I believe you?” Tears ran down Marie-Jo’s face, and she tried to push past Aimée. “The man’s going to kill him.”

Aimée caught her arm and held her back. Damn teenager. She was right.

“But you believe me, right, Zazie?” Aimée said, her glare making it clear Zazie should back her up.

Wide-eyed, Zazie nodded.

Taking no chances, Aimée pulled the Beretta from her bag, loaded a cartridge. She tried René’s number. Busy. Next she tried Saj.

“About time, Aimée,” said Saj, his voice raised. “René’s been—”

“I’ve found Zazie,” she interrupted. “Right now we need to escape. I need backup. Jump in a taxi.”

Saj choked. “Location?”

She stared through the grime covering the kitchen window to try to see what was outside. A small concrete courtyard with trash bins five floors down. No balcony, not even a railing with flowerpot geraniums. No way out from here.

“Look for a courtyard exit, on the east side of rue Pigalle, maybe two doors down from the rue Pierre Fontaine corner,” she said. “This apartment wall’s flush with Le Bus Palladium’s lighting booth.”

She heard keys clicking over his keyboard. “On it.”

“Have you figured it out?” Her breath came in short gasps. “It’s the fourth-floor service stairs, and the door’s barred.”

“Got it. Fifty-nine rue Pigalle.”

“Bring your bag of tricks. Call my phone when you get here—I’m giving it to Zazie. She will be the one to answer.”

“I’m bringing an ax.” Saj clicked off.

She handed Zazie her cell phone. “Keep trying the door. Stay in contact with Saj. Can you do that?”

Zazie nodded.

Marie-Jo averted her eyes.

“Help Zazie if want to see your papa,
compris
, Marie-Jo?”

Marie-Jo gave a sullen nod.

“Now barricade yourselves in.”

A
FTER SHUTTING THE
kitchen door, she waited until she heard furniture shoved behind it. She stuck the Beretta in her leather maternity pants’ back pocket. Removed her wig,
scratched, then took a bottle of water and splashed it over her head. Alert now, she took a breath.

Noises came from tunnel to the lighting booth. Shouts. Her neck prickled.

In the time it took until Saj arrived she had to hold Raoul off and find Zacharié. She crawled back through the hole to the lighting booth. The voices were louder. Zacharié was bent from the waist over the catwalk railing, a man pinning his arms behind him as he struggled. Not Raoul from the photo, but a blond, curly-haired man with broad shoulders, wearing a blazer and jeans. Aimée saw that he’d secured Zacharié’s hands behind his back using yellow plastic flex-cuffs.

She ducked behind the partition in the lighting booth.

“Can’t you keep to our deal, Zacharié?” the man was saying.

“You call having the Corsican murder my friends part of the deal?” Zacharié gasped. Keys and change rained down from his pockets to the stage below. “You planned it all along. Fool that I am, I believed you. Jules, just let Marie-Jo go and you get the file.” He coughed. “Even bonus material.”

Jules hesitated, shadowed under the stage lights.

Perspiration beaded her upper lip. Hot, it was so damn hot. And with the shadows she wouldn’t have a clear shot.

“Bonus material? Nice touch,” Jules said. “Like what?”

“Just let my baby go.”

“Look, you think I want to do this? I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Zacharié,” Jules said. “Cooperate. Easier all round.” He let Zacharié up. “Let’s go backstage. Marie-Jo’s safe and sound, and you’ll see her as promised. Now hand over what you owe me.”

Liar. She scanned the control panel, looking for the house-lights’ control switch.

“Marie-Jo’s backstage?”

“First the file.”

“You think I’ve got it on me?” Zacharié laughed. “I’m not that stupid.”

“
Bon
,” Jules said, checking his phone. “I’m late. This has caused my connection no end of worry. Life will be difficult all round if I don’t deliver.”

“Someone’s blackmailing you and your cronies, that’s why you’re so desperate?”

Jules blinked. Zacharié had hit a nerve. “Ten years I’ve worked for this. They owe me in the Ministry. No one’s taking it away from me now.” Jules gave a long-suffering sigh. “Haven’t I always come through for you, Zacharié? When you were young, when Marie-Jo got sick? Made sure you were in the best prison wing, received the early parole. Now I gave you this simple job, with a reward of a new identity, a new life.”

Aimée saw the catwalk shift, straining under their combined weight.

Idiots.

“I want that to happen, Zacharié,” said Jules. “Cooperate for Marie-Jo’s sake. Trust me.”

Aimée saw him slide something from his jacket pocket. Then a glint as he raised a knife to Zacharié’s neck.

Now. She had to act now. She pulled as many levers as she could reach, praying one would work.

The stage floodlights blazed orange, throwing a fire-like halo on the two men.

Thinking fast, she reached for a thin, stapled packet, a lighting manual, stuffed under the control panel and brandished it for him to see. “You don’t mean this, do you? Zacharié left it with me.”

Jules turned. His small eyes darted from Aimée to Zacharié and back. “You neglected to tell me about your new accomplice.” His mouth tightened. “A dripping Madonna in leather pants, interesting. So Zacharié gave you the file and bonus material?” Jules kept his grip on Zacharié. But confusion flashed in his eyes.

“As soon as you put that knife away, Jules. May I call you Jules?”

Zacharié shook his head. “Don’t listen to her.”

“Long way down, boys,” she said. “And it’s never wise to upset a pregnant woman.”

Jules snorted. “Is she for real?”

“Want to find out?” Aimée waved the smudged packet.

“She’s making that up. I’ve got the file …”

“Jules, he claims I’m making it up,” she said. “But how can you be sure? More to the point, how can he trust you after I found Marie-Jo and Zazie tied up and hidden behind the bookcase?”

Zacharié’s jaw dropped.

“They’re escaping down those old servants stairs. So convenient. Safe. Nothing left to hold over him now, Jules, but if you don’t want this file …?” She flipped it open. “Someone else will.”

Jules dropped the knife, tightened his grip on Zacharié, and shoved him forward. Smiled. “Aah, a businesswoman. How much?”

She could almost hear Jules sniffing like a dog. Testing her.

“Fifty thousand, don’t you think, Zacharié?” she said.

The reflected orange light revealed Zacharié’s blackened eye, his shaking body. His foot caught in the plank’s rim, shaking it loose. The bar sailed through the air, crashing below.

Aimée shuddered. A long way down.

“Now I understand, you sly dog,” said Jules. His eyes narrowed as if assessing their relationship, his options, who to attack first. At least in his position that’s what she would be assessing.

“Playing happy families again? She’s a looker. And more stable than Béatrice, I hope. Now, Zacharié, keep moving to the cubicle.”

Jules’s blond curls had darkened with sweat, and they clung tight to his head. He gripped the catwalk rail.

“You know I’m undercover, a
flic
,” said Jules.