“You challenging me?”
Snickers of laughter came from the corner.
“Don’t pay attention, Aimée. Let’s go,” René said.
“What’s your hurry, petit?” said Franck. “The circus leaving?”
The laughter got louder.
“He doesn’t like the clientele,” she said. “Neither do I.”
“Ouch,” said Franck, his voice slurring more. It sounded like he was about to be sick.
Franck, leave it,” said the café owner. “It’s on the house. I “don’t take money from the handicapped.”
Her hand shot out in the direction of the owner’s voice and she felt an Adam’s apple. She hoped it was his and squeezed. Chairs scraped across the floor, voices quieted, and whoever’s throat she gripped choked.
“Like that?” she challenged.
“Let’s go, Aimée!” She felt René tugging at her bag.
She pulled the Beretta from her bag, clicked off the safety. The only sounds were the hiss of the dripping steam in the espresso machine and the rumble of trucks outside on the boulevard.
“Somebody did this to me. But harder. Now I can’t see,” she said, and let go. “But I pay my way. Got it?”
“Sure.”
“My partner’s a black belt,” she said. “If you want some action, get in line.”
No one said anything. No one laughed.
“So where’s Barzac?”
Silence.
“I start shooting in ten seconds. And my aim isn’t too good these days. But it’s effective. I can hit the espresso machine and cost you several thousand francs damage. That’s for starters. I’ll bet there’s a gray smoky mirror in front of us. I don’t like those; maybe I’ll start with that.”
Behind her she heard an ouff as something connected with breaking glass. “You okay, René?”
Then the sounds of someone being sick.
“I am. But Franck’s looking poorly. I showed him a new jujitsu move.”
“. . . seven seconds, eight seconds . . .” she said.
“Barzac lives above the serrurie,” said the café owner. “Second floor.”
Aimée threw down a fifty franc note.
“Keep the change.”
THEY WERE standing at the door of the apartment building.
“Some new pills making you feel better, Aimée?” asked René.
“I’ll feel better when I talk to Barzac,” she said.
Her instinct had made her reach for the Beretta. Thank God she hadn’t used it.
“I thought you left the gun behind,” he said.
“It makes me feel safe.”
She wondered if he understood. Maybe no one could unless they were blind.
She heard René ring the buzzers. None of the apartments answered. Wind gusted around her legs. Cold and damp.
“No lights in the upstairs windows.”
“Let’s try the serurrie,” she said.
“Looks like he’s about to close,” said René.
She heard knocking, the door creaked open, then René pulled her hand. Aimée heard a man coughing, the low drone of a television soap opera with a crescendo of music. A dog growled somewhere from the right. Deep and powerful.
“Be careful. Two steps,” René said. “Sorry, monsieur, are you about to close?”
She lifted her foot, felt her way.
“I’m open twenty-four seven,” said a man, interrupted by coughing. “Arrête, Brutus.”
The dog ceased growling.
“He’s a sweetheart, take no notice.”
Sounded like a Doberman to Aimée.
“We’re detectives, like to ask you a few questions,” she said. “I’m Aimée Leduc; my partner is René Friant.”
“Mind closing the door tight?” he said. “My heater’s on the fritz.”
“Bien sûr,” said René, shutting the door hard.
“We’d like to talk with Barzac, a tenant in the building,” she said. “Any idea where we could find him? No answer upstairs.”
“There wouldn’t be, would there,” said the man. “Skipped to Marseilles, the concierge told me. Owing two months rent.”
Great. A dead end.
“Were you here on Monday night, monsieur . . . ?
“Piot. Alex Piot. Been a locksmith here since 1974,” he said. “Let me check the daily work log. I have to write every transaction down, or I forget.”
Aimée heard the television sound lowered, footsteps shuffle over the floor.
“People love me here,” Piot said, his voice closer. “I get everyone out of a jam. Keep my stock current. Why, you lock yourself out of your car or your flat and I’ve got your key: Fichet, Picard, Bricard, Muel, Keso, Pollux, Vak, Réel, even the Medeco line. Not many keep that on hand. But I get truck drivers, businessmen, doctors, nuns, philosophers; you name it, since I’m near the Périphérique.”
He liked to talk. Maybe he’d seen something.
“What about Vaduz, the serial killer? We heard he picked Barzac up in front of the café.”
Only the rustle of pages.
“Monsieur Piot?”
“I rented Dr. Zhivago that night,” said Piot. “They don’t make movies like that anymore, eh. That Russian winter scene, Julie Christie’s cheekbones . . . a classic!”
Disappointment sat heavy on her.
“But monsieur,” said René, “your shop window overlooks the café.”
“I don’t watch those types. I avoid them and the trouble they bring.”
“So you didn’t see Barzac, the drug dealer?”
“Like I said, I watched the video. Only a one-night rental, you know.”
“Let’s go, Aimée,” said René.
But she didn’t want to let it go without one more try.
“Are you sure, Monsieur Piot, you didn’t see Vaduz?”
“Well, I’ve had an archbishop, but never a serial killer. I thought they only had those in Amérique.”
“He’s called the Beast of Bastille.”
“Aaaah,” he said. “The only transaction that night was for a black Peugeot,” said Piot. “Man with bad teeth. He sat in here a while.”
Stopping in her tracks, Aimée pulled René back. “Tell us about him, monsieur.”
“He used my bathroom. Acted funny after that.”
“Did he buy drugs from Barzac?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. He said he didn’t like the types in the café, so he wanted to wait here while I worked. I don’t mind company when I’m grinding the key. Makes the time go faster. And Brutus, well, no one tries anything funny with him here.”
“Did you write the man’s license plate number down?”
Certainly. It’s required,” the man said. A bout of coughing “overtook him. “74 89 56 04.”
She felt René nudge her.
“Can you repeat that Monsieur, please?”
He did.
“It matches the report of the stolen black Peugeot,” said René.
“So you made this man,” said Aimée, “a key for a stolen car?”
Why would Vaduz get a key made? If he was planning on a long trip it would be easier with keys!
“Did I know that?” Irritation sounded in Piot’s voice. “People lose keys all the time. Most of the time they run into the tabac for Gauloise and leave them on the counter or drop ’em down the sewer, five minutes from their house. They end up spending a couple hours trying to get back in.”
“Please tell me how long he was in here,” she said.
“Let’s see, the first fit didn’t work,” he said. “Then I had to refit the shank, since those older Peugeots have a different ignition system . . .”
Aimée tried to keep her booted feet from tapping . . . why couldn’t he hurry up?
“Looks like, aaah, now I remember,” he said. “After I tried that I watched the rest of Dr. Zhivago, you know the scene years later when Zhivago sees Lara. But he falls down with a heart attack . . . and he was right there and she didn’t see him?”