Frustrated, Aimée wished the woman would give her facts, not hints. Gassot might have the clue to the jade she needed. “What do you mean?”
“They were arrested for possession of explosives,” she said. “Last I heard, they were in jail due to their crazy scheme.”
“Gassot, too?”
“Seems he can move fast despite his peg-leg.”
“So he escaped. Where could I find him?”
Madame Daudet pulled back.
“I think he knows why your husband was killed,” Aimée said. “Please, tell me how to find him.”
Madame Daudet blessed herself and kissed the gold cross around her neck. She pointed across the narrow yard to a five-story hotel with peeling shutters, that displayed the sign HÔTEL, and a phone number with the old-fashioned prefix BAT 4275. There was a shuttered café below it.
“Are they ever open?”
Madame Daudet rolled her eyes. “A money-laundering front for some gang. At least that’s what Albert said. No wonder Gassot lives there cheap.”
And then Aimée remembered the address she’d gotten from the police. The building Thadée owned in the back of the gallery courtyard: What had the faded old blue sign said? A warehouse or manufacturer?
“Either your husband, Picq, or Gassot left a contact phone number at the anciens combattants. Was it the telephone number of the tire warehouse?”
Madame Daudet nodded.
“Were there other men from the Sixth Battalion in their group?”
“Nemours. He’s a gourmand who loves food more than life itself. We all thought he’d go first, with his cholesterol!”
“But your husband was the first. And someone’s after his remaining comrades, aren’t they?”
Madame Dinard looked down. “I don’t know.”
Aimée tapped her heels on the wooden floor wanting to steer the conversation back on track.
“What about Nemours?”
“He follows Picq. They’d meet with Albert at the tire warehouse. When Albert retired, he became a part-time custodian. After work, they’d go to play belote upstairs in the café on rue des Moines.”
Now it made sense. She’d met them already. The day she confronted Pleyet in the upstairs room of the café, the day after Thadée was killed. She shivered with fear.
Could she have it wrong? Had they killed Thadée, then their comrade Albert, out of greed?
“Did Albert ever mention Thadée Baret? He was related by marriage to the de Lussignys.”
“Mais bien sûr, all the time!” she said. “Albert loved talking to Thadée about Indochina. Thadée ran the gallery. He received it in the divorce settlement. Once the de Lussignys owned the tire factory. They were rubber barons who intermarried with the natives,” said Madame Daudet, her mouth crinkled in a moue of disgust.
“May I keep the autopsy report?” she asked.
Aimée nodded, wondering if it would wind up on the shelf next to Bernadette of Lourdes. She thanked Madame Daudet and left. But now she’d learned of the old men’s connection to Thadée and where Gassot lived.
Outside on the street, she ducked into a doorway and checked her cell phone. Two messages.
The first was from Pleyet, finally returning her call.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Call me back.”
She’d call him after she found Gassot. If she worked it right, she’d have information to barter with Pleyet.
The next was from Martine.
“Allô, Martine. How’s Sophie?”
She heard Martine inhale on her cigarette.
“Safe in her room. The valium helped,” Martine said. Her husky voice rose. “Interesting news, Aimée,” she said. “The Brits dropped out of the oil rights bidding. And seems the Chinese have transported impressive drilling rigs to the bay off Dingfang, on Hainan Island. They’re raising territorial issues. But right now it looks like Olf and the Chinese are neck in neck.”
“Great, keep going, Martine.”
“There’s a rumor of fat ‘commissions’ for the inside track to the oil rights. I’m still on it.”
AIMÉE ENTERED the narrow corridor of Gassot’s hotel, her shoulders brushing against the peeling, fawn-colored walls. A single bulb lit the hall. But she imagined that the pensioners who lived here appreciated it. Better than a cardboard box over their heads in an abandoned lot.
The smell of grease from a nearby kitchen hovered. Chirping came from the reception booth, a particle board structure, under a Art Deco sign advising NO EVENING VISI-TORS ALLOWED AFTER DARK. FULL AND DEMI-PENSION WITH CAFÉ MEALS AVAILABLE.
Judging by the grease smell, she doubted the inhabitants chose full pension if they could afford to dine elsewhere. A tall man wearing a raincoat and holding a watering can stood in the doorway leading to a concrete rear yard.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, in a hoarse voice, the guttural roll of consonants betraying his Russian origin. His eyes took in her legs and he grinned. “I’m available.”
A stab at Slavic humor?
She gave him a big smile.
“Which room is Monsieur Gassot’s?”
“Eh? What’s that?” he said, blocking the doorframe in a swift movement.
“You heard me,” she said, keeping the smile on her face.
“Which room does he stay in, Monsieur?”
“Spell that name for me, eh. My hearing’s gone. Everything else works fine.”
She reached for the cell phone in her pocket. As he set down the watering can, she punched in the hotel’s number. Seconds later the phone rang in the small reception area.
He glanced at the phone, his eyes unsure.
“Go ahead, I’ll wait,” she said, still keeping the smile on her face with effort.
“Please sit. Wait over there,” he said, entering the reception cubicle to answer the telephone.
Fat chance. She ran past him and into the back yard, skidding on the wet concrete in time to see a white-haired man slipping into a dilapidated lean-to shed. Rabbit hutches covered with wire-mesh lined the old wall, celery stalks peeking through the holes. She slammed the hotel door shut with her booted heel, found her Swiss Army knife, and wedged it between the door jamb and door handle. The Russian gorilla would have to kick the door down to open it. She had no intention of losing Gassot now.
“Monsieur Gassot, I’m not a flic,” she called. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. You were an engineer at Dien Bien Phu. I read your article about the looting of the Emperor’s tomb.”
The shed door scraped open. A knife blade glinted.
All she had in her bag was a can of pepper spray and Chanel No. 5.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She had to get him to listen to her. “Aimée Leduc. Your friend Albert was murdered. You could be next.”
What if he’d been responsible? But whatever he’d done she needed to gain his confidence. Convince him to talk to her.
He edged out of the shed. Even under the 1960s-era gray twill raincoat she saw his well-built frame and muscular arms. And his limp.
“What’s that to you?”
“I was hired by a Cao Dai nun to find a set of jade astrological figures. Let me do my job. Talk to me.”
The Russian kicked at the door.
“Call this mec off,” she said. “Or I’ll treat him to pepper spray.”
“Where’s your gun?” Gassot asked.
She shook her head. The gutter dripped. Big splats of water landed on her boots. “I’m a private detective. No gun.”
Too bad it sat in the hall drawer of her apartment.
Gassot stood, rain glistening in his white hair, holding the knife with an unreadable expression.
“Why was Daudet killed? Why are they after you?” she asked.