Florence turned to her employer. "Madame, I'm so sorry. We must check your suit to be sure but. . ."
"Am I being implicated in a murder?" Indignant, Albertine strode up to Aimee, towering over her in the leopard platform heels.
"Of course not, that just explains one piece of evidence that can be ruled out. The button, unnoticed by Florence in the darkness, fell off," Aimee said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. "Of course, now I understand. It's perfectly plausible."
"But the police haven't questioned me," Albertine said. "Why you?"
"I can't speak for the police," Aimee said, tucking her almost empty pad back into her bag.
"This is absurd." Albertine turned coldly to her. "If you have any more questions, go through my lawyer."
As Aimee turned to leave, she saw Albertine Clouzot glare at her housekeeper. "I'll speak with you later," Albertine said.
Florence walked behind Aimee, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls. "I've just recently joined Madame Clouzot's employ," she said hesitantly. "Two weeks ago."
Pain or fear, Aimee wasn't sure which, was etched across the older woman's face. Aimee felt sorry for her.
"Florence, my intention is not to get you in trouble," she said. "I'm investigating a murder. I had to be sure who picked up the suit from the dry cleaner's and if indeed a button was missing. Tell me what you remember hearing and seeing after you walked out of the shop."
"Nothing." She shook her head. "I hurried back. Madame was waiting."
But Aimee saw fear in Florence's eyes.
"You might have crossed the killer's path." Aimee's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure about the time?"
Florence nodded, looking away.
"As you walked from the dry cleaner's did you see an old woman on crutches?"
"No."
Was she lying?
"Did you notice any skinheads hanging around?"
"I just walked quickly."
"Or a radio blaring?"
Florence stiffened. "I mind my own business, that's all," she said. She smoothed her floured hands on her apron, sending white powdery mist onto the floor. "I told you I don't mind anything but my own business."
"The Temple E'manuel hired me. Here's my card," Aimee said.
Hesitating, Florence slowly took the card. Her hand shook as she thanked Aimee.
"The Marais is small. Phone me if you recall anything. This reaches me directly, day or night, no answering machine," Aimee said. She felt eyes on her back as she walked down the short passage.
Aimee didn't think Albertine Clouzot or Florence had killed Lili Stein. Neither had a motive that she could discern. But why was Florence afraid?
Saturday Afternoon
"GO EAT SOMETHING," LEAH said.
As Aimee nibbled on cul de lapin au basilic, she read the headline NEO-NAZI MOBS OVERRUN DEMONSTRATION AT JEWISH DEPORTATION MONUMENT in Le Figaro. The terse report mentioned several right-wing groups, Les Blancs Nationaux among them.
Leah's kitchen, toasty and warm from the hot button presses, helped her forget the cold. So did the vin rouge she poured from the bottle into a smudged wineglass. The dense, oak-flavored taste trickled down her throat.
She rooted around for Thierry Rambuteau's card in her bag. Since Morbier wouldn't help her, she knew it was up to her to identify who Thierry spoke with on the telephone. Otherwise, when she went to the LBN meeting, she could be walking into a trap.
She hooked up a code enabler to Leah's phone Minitel, then spliced the cable and ran it to the small television off the eating area.
She phoned the main branch of Post and Telecommunications. "Operations, please," she said.
"Yes," a man's voice said.
Aimee clicked on the TV screen and fiddled with adjustments. "My ex-husband is threatening me. He's calling day and night, threatening the children but I can't prove it." Aimee's pitch went higher and higher. "The judge won't do anything unless I can document it. Can you check my number at work? At least your records would verify that he calls there."
"I can verify that incoming calls occur," the man said, not unkindly. "I'm only allowed to check your office number to see calls received."
Perfect, she thought. This would reveal who called Thierry while she was in the LBN office. And it would be even more perfect if this enabler worked.
"Merci, Monsieur." She switched it on. "That's a huge help!" she said. "My office number is 43.43.25.45."
She watched Leah's TV screen display the LBN office number she'd given him as he typed from his keyboard. This generated several phone numbers on the screen that were phone numbers calling into the office that day. She copied them all.
"What is the number your husband would call from?" he said.
She made up a number and saw those numbers punched in, which resulted in "no correspondence" flashing on the screen.
"Pardon, Madam. I'm afraid it wasn't your husband this time," he said. She thanked him and hung up.
Next Aimee identified herself as a secretary with the LBN, calling to verify charges on their office bill. There were five phone numbers. The first number was a small office-supply store holding an account with Les Blancs Nationaux, the second was a local cafe that delivered pastries to them. Aimee seriously doubted if the skinny woman ate any.
The third and fourth were from Bank d'Agricole regarding account information. Aimee called the fifth number, which proved to be Jetpresse, a twenty-four-hour printing company in Vincennes. She had all but given up, but, to be thorough, she mentioned Thierry's name.
She was startled to hear the clerk begin apologizing. "They're ready, Mademoiselle," she said. "Seems there was a mix-up, we apologize. We don't deliver, that's in our contract. Somehow that wasn't clear to you."
"I'll pick them up," Aimee said quickly. "Er, what was the final count?"
"Let's see. Twenty-five editions, bound deluxe, of Mein Kampf," the clerk said.
Aimee almost choked. "I'll be there within the hour."
Saturday Evening
AIMÉE APPROACHED THE NEO-NAZIS congregating by the shuttered ClicClac video shop. She had slicked back her hair and donned her skinhead outfit. Her fingers, more for protection than decoration, were filled to the knuckle with silver rings. She wished her heart wasn't pounding so hard, keeping rhythm with the flashing purple-and-green neon sign over the storefront.
A balding Arab shopkeeper in a flowing gray robe swept the sidewalk near her in front of his produce shop. Strains of whining Arab music blared from inside.
"Your type, cherie?" several skinheads jeered. "You like sharing the street, why not share the Arab's tent?"
She growled. The box with twenty-five editions of Mein Kampf was heavy. She'd liked to have thrown it in their leering faces. Instead, their taunts forced her to establish some Aryan credentials. Hating to do it, she jostled the storekeeper, then bumped into him.
"Abdul, keep to your side," she said.
He kept his shiny head down and pushed his broom further away, mumbling something in broken French that she pretended not to understand. She kept advancing towards him, angling him into a corner. His head glistened with perspiration as he tried to sweep around her biker boots.
"Can't you speak French, Abdul?" Aimee said. "Go back where you came from!" She kicked the broom from his hands.
He cowered against the shop door, while scattered cheers erupted among the skin-heads. He scurried back to his shop and closed his doors.