It was Josiane who had been the target . . . everything pointed that way. And the police had let him go.
What if he had witnessed something he was unaware of?
“Tell me what you remember, Mathieu,” she said.
“The old lady you passed, the one whose hair you saw,” he said, his tone wistful. “I caused her to be hurt, too.”
Why did he sound so guilty?
She sensed he’d gone down another track. Again, in her mind she saw his blue work coat, the way his mouth moved, and his hands caressing the wood chair.
That’s what she’d forgotten. The more she thought, the more briefly glimpsed images came back to her. The way he’d touched the wood, the atmosphere in the atelier, his obvious love of his craft.
How did it come together? The attack on her in the passage, Josiane’s murder, the Romanian thugs, Vincent, and Mathieu’s atelier? How could it? Yet somehow, in her gut, she knew it did.
Her brief moment of vision illumined her sense of Mathieu, and she was thankful. Intuitively, she knew he was a good man. But good men make mistakes, like bad men, like everyone.
“Look Mathieu, try to remember where you were when you heard. . . . Had you seen Josiane?”
“Josiane loved the Bastille,” he said. “She spearheaded our association to save this historic quartier.”
That piece fit in the puzzle.
“So could you say Mirador was alarmed by her investigative reporting?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would Mirador encourage her to reconsider her article on the evictions? Or hire thugs to threaten her?”
Only the finches chirped in response.
“We can keep it between us, Mathieu,” she said. “Mathieu?”
“Since when do you have such pretty visitors, Mathieu?” said a man’s voice behind her.
Aimée stiffened. She knew that voice.
“Monsieur Malraux,” said Mathieu.
“No wonder the piece isn’t ready, eh. A nice distraction to occupy you.”
Was there an edge in the man’s tone?
But she heard a warm, slow laugh.
“I like to tease him, mademoiselle,” he said. “He hardly ever gets out, shuts himself up with his work.”
“Let me check for you,” said Mathieu. His voice receded along with the clop of wooden clogs—sabots her grandmother had called them—over the floor.
“What brings you here, Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked Malraux.
Now she remembered. She thought fast. “Trying to solicit a donation for the Résidence, Monsieur Malraux, just as we are from you trustees.”
Again that nice laugh.
“Bon, but you could have asked me to intercede with Mathieu. I’d be more than happy to help you. Don’t tell Chantal, let’s keep it between ourselves for now, eh, but I’ve got her a van.”
“That’s wonderful!” Aimée turned to his voice. But he was moving. She tried tracking him and then gave up. Too much work. She pulled her dark glasses on. “Chantal will be thrilled.”
“I really feel I should be doing more,” he said. “Especially after Chantal explained how vital these programs are. She’s a wonder, that woman: working, volunteering. Never stops.”
Aimée felt a pang of guilt. What a caring man. . . . So what if he was an Opéra patron, well-connected and wealthy? Unlike most of those social climbers, he shared, helping those less fortunate. A rarity.
“Chantal’s wonderful,” said Aimée. “She teaches me a lot.”
“Matter of fact, just between us, I’m getting two vans donated,” he said. “My cousin’s father-in-law’s a Renault dealer in Porte de Champerret.”
That’s how it worked. Through connections. Her friend Martine would no more consult the Yellow Pages in the phone book than eat food off the floor. It wasn’t done. One went through a friend or a work colleague or a great-aunt’s cousin, in the time-honored tradition. Probably unchanged since feudal times.
Malraux rose higher in her estimation. Favors begat favors. Now he’d owe the donor.
Where was Mathieu?
A gust of damp, subterranean air encompassed her. Accompanied by a strong scent of paint.
“Have you commissioned a work from Mathieu?” she asked, turning her head and hoping she faced him. Sun from an overhead skylight warmed her. Was it her imagination or did pale haze creep from the corners of her vision?
“Indirectly. My client needs a special vernissage on a piece.”
She liked the smooth cadence of Malraux’s voice. Imagined what he might look like. Tall, well-built. She figured he paid attention to detail.
And then her mind went back to Vincent. He obsessed over detail. But Vincent was short and bursting with nervous energy. While Malraux projected an aura of effortless charm in dealing with people and projects . . . like an aristo, someone to the manor born. Or maybe that mode of operating was de rigueur in the art world.
Vincent . . . could he have . . . ?
“So, of course, I come here,” Malraux was saying. “Mathieu’s one of the few left who know this vernissage technique.”
Malraux seemed very sure of his status, something she sensed Vincent craved. A hunger coloring all his efforts.
She heard the clop of wooden sabots up the stairs.
I’m sorry, but the last layer of lacquer won’t be dry until “tomorrow,” said Mathieu. “Not today.”
“But they must pack . . . well, the backstage prop manager told me he’s loading the container this evening.”
So Malraux was having a piece fixed for the Opéra? But he’d said for a client. If the client was the Opéra, she wondered, did Malraux know Vincent?
Mathieu’s voice cut in on her thoughts.
“Linseed oil takes time,” said Mathieu. “You know it’s not always possible to predict the drying rates in changeable weather. Especially these past few days.”
“But this needs . . .”
“The work will be ruined,” Mathieu asserted. “It’s still wet.”
Something in Mathieu’s voice was strained. Was it because he had to refuse Malraux’s demand? But it wasn’t only that. She heard an underlying tension. Was Mathieu stressed about Josiane?
“Excuse me,” said Malraux. “I’m late for the Opéra board meeting. Mademoiselle Leduc, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Hope to see you again.”
She heard footsteps, then the door shut. Aimée was wondering at Mathieu’s silence when the phone in her pocket rang. Josiane’s phone. The one she’d been attacked for.
“Allô?”
“Where are you?” said René, his voice raised. In the background she heard klaxons blaring.
“In Mathieu’s shop in the passage.”
“I found Dragos’s bag,” he said, his voice vibrating with excitement.
“Dragos’s bag?”
“No, I stole it,” said René. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”
Aimée realized Mathieu was beside her, silent.
“Go on, René.”
“You have to see this,” he said. “I can’t describe it over the phone.”
“Slight problem, René,” she said. “I can’t see.”
“Get your white cane, come out to rue Charenton in three minutes.”
Her heart thumped. She didn’t want to walk there. Again.
“I don’t have a cane.”
“Why not?”
“A dog’s better.”
She didn’t want to admit she’d refused the white cane. Pride had prevented her from learning how to use one. Stupid. Face it. She needed one now.
“The Citroën’s too wide to get by the construction. My God, Aimée, it’s a medieval passage. Come out in two minutes, you’ve got less than fifty meters to walk.”