An idea came to her.
“What a perfect place to stash something.”
“Stash what?”
“Whatever was in these glass beakers . . . wouldn’t it be safer there than on the péniche?”
“But how would Dragos get into the Chapel?”
She sat back against the cream-soft leather, let the breeze flutter over her.
“Brault, the architect, knows more than he was telling you, René,” she said.
“Shall we pay him a visit?”
“Good idea, partner.”
BY THE time she and René sat in Brault’s waiting room, the little light flashes behind her eyes had subsided. The grayish hue had deepened, lightened, fragmented, and then faded out like the snow on a TV screen.
Brault was in a meeting. They waited. Aimée tried Morbier. No answer on his personal line. She left a second message. Then called Bellan. Also, no answer. With her luck they would both be at a retirement party for the Préfet.
She heard René’s footsteps. “Merde, Brault’s crossing the courtyard, I see him from the window. He’s trying to avoid us.”
“Go ahead, René, I remember the way. I’ll catch up.”
She felt her hand grabbed, as René ran ahead.
“Trust me, keep up,” he said.
She stumbled, awkward and hesitant, to the elevator behind René. Why had she worn her T-strap heels? But the only other pair she had were boots. Just as high-heeled.
On the ground floor, René pulled her along, “Run. We have to stop him before he gets into his car.”
Aimée heard a car door slam, an engine start, then a gear whining into first.
“Brault’s pointing to his wristwatch,” said René, his tone anguished. “I can’t believe it, he’s driving right by us. He won’t stop.”
“Oh, yes, he will,” she said, waving and stepping off the curb in front of the approaching car. Brakes squealed at the last minute and she felt a bumper dust the hem of her leather skirt. A window rolled down.
“Look, I’m late for a meeting,” Brault said irately. The revving of his engine almost drowned out his words.
“Monsieur Brault, you’ll be late for a lot more if you don’t cooperate,” said Aimée. She edged her hands along the car’s warm hood. The wind picked up, gusting leaves, a garbage can and what sounded like a clay flower pot striking the stone pavement.
“Threatening me?”
“Where can we talk?”
“I’ve told him everything I know,” Brault said.
“You mean my partner?” she said. Aimée bent down, feeling her way toward Brault’s voice. “My partner suspects you withheld information. That’s trouble for you, since I feel inclined to name you and your firm in my legal action.”
“What legal action?”
“Meet us in the electrical shop in rue Sedaine,” she said. “The small one, around the corner from Café de l’industrie, in five minutes.”
“Why should I?”
“If I were you, I’d come,” she said. “The police want Josiane Dolet’s phone. Now that they know Vaduz, the serial killer, had already had a fatal car accident, and couldn’t have killed Josiane, they’re interested in . . .”
Cars honked behind them.
“That’s my boss,” said Brault, gunning the engine. “And the administrative staff. Get out of the way.”
“Running over a blind woman doesn’t look very good,” she said. “Any way you put it.”
I know the shop,” he admitted, and roared off. “
* * *
“SO I lied,” she said, holding René’s elbow and trying to keep in step with him over uneven cobblestones.
“Brault’s smart,” said René.
“Then my lie should get him there.”
A buttery lemon smell came from her right where she figured Café de l’industrie stood. She’d frequented the café, enjoyed the unpretentious crowd and simple décor. No branché Bastille types here. Turn-of-the-century plates studded the walls. Old wooden tables paired with mismatched chairs. Even a mounted rhinoceros head above the bar.
“Here?” asked René.
“Are we in front of a narrow electrical shop with fifties irons in the window?”
“Just several old Moulinex vacuums,” said René, “like Maman had at home.”
“Feels right.”
Aimée remembered the shop’s worn steps, the iron and rust smell inside, and Medou, Monsieur Fix-it, they called him. His shop was one of the few places left to get an appliance, no matter how old or from what era, repaired. Medou kept cases filled with widgets, wires, and rotary dials. Anything needed to keep one’s grandmother’s ancient fryer working. Or most anything else.
He’d also been in the Résistance. The rear of his shop connected to an old wallpaper factory, once the meeting site of La Fiche Rouge members, a cell of Eastern European Jews active in the Résistance. Two of them had slain a Wehrmacht soldier in the Barbès Métro station. Later they were betrayed, as rumor went, by the Communists in Bastille. The youngest, Maurice Rayman, had been twenty years old.
Now it was a studio de danse, replete with buffed ash wood floors, ballet bars, an upright piano, and huge gilt mirrors propped against the walls.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Medou,” she said. “Still playing in the boules league?”
“I’m too old for bowling, eh, but my trophy’s in the back,” he said.
Silence.
“Go ahead, René,” she said, gripping his elbow harder, “go where he shows you.”
She heard René clear his throat. She’d love to see the look on his face when they entered the dance studio.
“Merci, monsieur, our colleague will be joining us.”
Her vision field brightened. The skylight must be uncovered. Surprised, she realized how light and dark planes crisscrossed in front of her. Not uncommon, the retinologist had said . . . what was that song . . . a whiter shade of pale?
But worry tugged in back of her mind. Did this, perversely, signal damage? Was this all just a tease?
“How do you know about this place?” asked René.
“Now if I told you, I wouldn’t have any secrets, would I?” she said, feeling her way to the wall. “This should convince Brault to unburden himself in total secrecy.”
“Says here, hip hop, salsa, tango, and ballet classes offered,” said René.
“You might meet someone here at a class, René,” she said.
“That’s my line to you,” said René.
Footsteps, then a muttered curse. Brault had arrived.
“Blackmail won’t work,” said Brault. “I’m going to speak with the Commissaire myself . . .”
“Go right ahead,” she said, tracking his footsteps and turning that way. “He’ll weigh whatever you say against what I tell him. And he’s my godfather.”
“Who are you?”
“I already told you, the name’s Aimée Leduc,” she said. “Take a seat, let me explain. There’s a chair here somewhere, isn’t there?”
She gestured vaguely, heard a chair scrape over the wood.
Then took a deep breath, explained about Josiane, the attack, and her blindness.
Brault stayed silent.
“Tell me,” said Aimée, “what’s the matter with Dragos?”
“Who knows?”
She detected surprise in his voice.
“Asbestos exposure? Tainted water?” she asked. “Is that it?”
No reply.
“Mirador exposes the workers to unsafe conditions, eh?”
Silence. Then a bird twittered from Medou’s shop. And all she could think was of was how a caged bird must feel. Caged in darkness.
Back to business. “Look, we need to know,” she said, hoping she faced in his direction. She knit her fingers on the ballet barre, to keep her balance. “If Dragos suffers serious health problems, others must be in danger. As a professional, you’re obligated to inform those in the area.”