In a few minutes, she imagined, she might be handing Stella over to Nelie. Stella stirred and Aimée felt a pang of regret.
Get on with it! she told herself. Resolutely, she pressed the digicode at the entrance to the soot stained stone building. The door buzzed open. Now she’d find out why Nelie had entrusted Stella to her.
“NO BABIES ALLOWED, MADAME.” A honeyed voice belied the sharp expression of the stout woman at the window of the reception area.
In the crowded alcove behind the woman, faxes hummed and a phone console lit up with red lights.
“I’m meeting Nelie,” Aimée smiled, determined not to let this dragon of a sentry put her off. “Can you ring her room?”
“We’re a busy office. You’ll have to call her yourself.”
“Her room number, please?”
“We don’t give out that information,” the receptionist said warily. “You should know that.”
Had the flics sniffed her out and come for Nelie already? She doubted that.
“I’d appreciate your help, Madame.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, it’s our busiest time. If you’re meeting her, she’ll come down,” said the woman. A red light was blinking on the switchboard. Several young women entered the vestibule, crowding around the window asking for mail.
A brunette with a long braid down her back leaned down and cooed at the baby. “What’s her name?”
“Her name . . . Stella.” Aimée seized the opportunity. “You don’t know Nelie, do you? We’re supposed to meet and I forgot her cell phone number.”
“I’m sorry.” The brunette shook her head.
Aimée showed her the photo. “Maybe you’re on the same floor.”
The girl shook her head. “I’m in the exchange section, just here short term.” She smiled, a milk-fed provincial girl. “Sorbonne students occupy the second floor, that’s all I know.”
Aimée found a seat near a table bearing old magazines. Another group of girls in tracksuits carrying soccer balls in a net assembled by the desk. On the back wall Aimée saw room numbers next to linen assignments on a blackboard. She stood and scanned the numbers until she came to one for Nelie Landrou on Staircase C. Finally! That had to be her.
She edged through the glass doors to the courtyard while the receptionist was busy. Charcoal gray tiles formed the slanted rooftop overlooking the grass-covered rectangular courtyard. There were no blue zinc roofs on this island; that would have been too modern.
Stella nestled closer in her arms, radiating warmth. “Such a good girl,” Aimée whispered. If only she’d stay that way.
Staircase C lay at the back. Aimée mounted a flight of covered stone steps. She faced a line of planked doors. There was a name holder outside each room, next to the door.
Nelie’s resembled the others. At least no police crime-scene tape was visible. She took a breath before she knocked. “Nelie, it’s Aimée Leduc. I can help you.” There was no answer even after she knocked repeatedly.
She’d never picked a medieval lock before. Certainly never picked a lock of any sort with a baby in her arms. She didn’t think her credit card would work so she inserted her miniscrewdriver into the lock, swiveled it around, and then heard the tip snap. Great! Propping a gurgling Stella on her hip, she reached in her bag for her key ring, found the long old-fashioned keys to her cave, and used one as a lever to prise out the broken screwdriver shank. That done, she slid in the narrow lock-picking tool with a quick twist and upward shove.
She heard laughter from down the hall; she had to hurry. She jiggled the lock-picking tool, heard scraping metal and a click. She pushed the door open.
“Allô?”
No Nelie. Empty and like a monastic cell, spartan; narrow, white-washed stone walls, a small coved window filled with old blue bubbled glass with bars across it. She saw a poster of a munitions site with the legend: One nuclear bomb can ruin your whole day on the wall, a textbook on the floor, and an Indian cotton print bedspread on the single bed, which gave the room a student feeling. But it was an unlived-in feeling.
Her hopes dashed, she debated what to do. She picked up some notices left on a chair. The one on top was for a mandatory house meeting dated a month ago. A brief message in an opened envelope read: Madame needs to meet with you regarding the balance owing on end-of-term rent. It was dated three weeks before.
She’d been here, opened this envelope. Or someone had. Aimée wondered if she’d left when she couldn’t hide her pregnancy anymore.
Aimée didn’t have much time. Clutching Stella in the baby sling, she searched under the bed. Nothing. She examined the sheets, the pillow, and the gray sweater tossed down on an orange crate. This girl had left little more than a textbook and that sweater.
She hadn’t just moved out, she had fled. Aimée felt it in the pit of her stomach.
She opened the window. In the courtyard, several uniformed flics stood talking to the woman from reception. The woman pointed up at the window. Nelie’s window.
Her pulse raced. She had only minutes. Forget searching, she had to get out. Her foot slipped on a rag rug and she cushioned Stella with one arm, grabbing the metal bed frame with the other hand. It was a cheap tubular frame, typical of dormitories. Hollow tubed! And the screw where the tubes joined was loose. A good place to hide something, Aimée realized. After two turns, the screw came off and she wrenched the tubes apart. Inside, her index finger found a rolled-up plastic folder. Empty. The name Alstrom was embossed on the cover.
Their client, Regnault, ran Alstrom’s publicity campaign. The protesters she’d seen from Regnault’s window, the blue lights that had illuminated the demonstration last night just across Pont de Sully . . . somehow they were related to the victim Orla, Nelie, and the baby.
She rerolled the folder, stuck it back in the bed frame, scrabbled to her feet, and draped her jacket over her shoulder. By the time she’d closed the door behind her, the jacket covered Stella as well. She heard footsteps and the murmur of voices from across the courtyard.
A single file of flics tramped up Staircase C on her right. She ducked behind a pillar. But not before she’d seen the leader point to Nelie’s door. The other officers fell back, in position. A keening cry came from her arms. Aimée wiped her finger, stuck it in Stella’s mouth, praying it would pacify the baby until she could give her a bottle.
She padded down Staircase B, keeping close to the wall of the arcade. Stella’s mouth gummed her finger. She reached in the bag, found the bottle, and shook it. Thank God, the formula line reached the top.
Head down, she threaded her way through the soccer team crowd, made it to the covered entryway, and opened the vestibule door.
“Excuse me, Madame?” said a blue-uniformed flic.
She froze.
He smiled, and handed her a diaper. “This fell from your bag.”
“Merci,” she said. “Excuse me.” She edged past him, eager to get away.
Rain pattered on the warm stone buildings turning to steam in the unseasonable heat. She shielded Stella with the baby bag, quickened her step, and turned the corner onto Quai d’Anjou. Mist curled under the supports of Pont Marie. Then the spring-like drizzle turned into a downpour before she could take shelter in a vaulted doorway. Drops beaded her eyelashes. She took a few more steps, then caught her breath. An unmarked police car blocked her building entrance.