Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,30

in history class about the Russian Revolution. 1917. She calculated mentally that Piotr, if one hundred years old, would have.…

“I’m tired,” Natasha said. She clicked the remote and the télé went dark.

Instead of leaving, she could go along with the old biddy and search for more letters.

“Let me take you to your room,” Aimée said.

NATASHA’S ROOM GAVE off that same cloying rose scent she’d noticed before, coupled with disinfectant. A hospital bed with a stained duvet, old Russian newspapers piled on a secrétaire desk with an old-fashioned inkwell—all bathed in light streaming in from the tall window. A small armoire and chest of drawers were topped by china figurines, giving off a sense of genteel disorder. Framed sepia-tinted ballet posters covered the walls, which were fringed by a ceiling of carved wood boiserie. So many places to hide letters.

“They’re listening,” Natasha whispered, gesturing to the ceiling. “They put special devices in the wallboards.”

Aimée gave a knowing nod, determined to get some sense out of her. Appeal to her somehow. “Between you and me, Natasha, I’m shocked Yuri and his father didn’t get along,” she said, trying again. “Any idea why?”

“Piotr always said he wanted Yuri to understand.” She leaned toward Aimée conspiratorially.

“To understand what?”

Natasha shrugged her thin shoulders. “So sad. He trusted me with everything.”

“The letters, that’s what you mean?”

“It’s all in the code.” Natasha’s blue eyes sparkled. “We celebrated Piotr’s one hundredth birthday last month. Big celebration. Even the priest from the Alexander Nevsky church came.”

Aimée knew the Russian Orthodox church on rue Daru—a gold cupolaed confection near the Parc Monceau. Nestled in an enclave called Little Russia in the chic 8th arrondissement, the church was well known for its Orthodox ceremonies. René had found a terrific freelancer, a dissident émigré hacker who went by the name Rasputin, on the job board at the side vestry. It was a Russian community hub.

Was Natasha dropping a clue here?

“Any bad blood between Yuri and Piotr?”

Natasha fiddled with the control on her oxygen tank. “Piotr abandoned his son and his mother.” A sigh. “I think Piotr wanted to make it up to Yuri. But never had the chance.”

Or maybe he did. In butter, the neighbor had said. And Aimée had Yuri’s cash in her bag.

“Didn’t Piotr leave Yuri something special, Natasha?”

Natasha yawned. “Where’s Piotr’s key?”

“Key?”

“In his drawer. There was a key.” A bell sounded from downstairs. “His son took it. But he didn’t take everything.”

“A key to what?”

“How do I know?”

“What did it look like?”

Natasha yawned again. Her lids drooped.

“Small, like for a bank safety deposit box? Or a bigger key, like to an apartment or storage? Try to remember, Natasha.”

“Old-fashioned.” Natasha rang a bell for the nurse. “I need my pills.”

Aimée scanned the room. Handed Natasha the pink pills in the oval plastic cup. “These?”

Natasha shook her head. “I want the purple ones.”

Now or never. She’d appeal to the paranoia. “I’ve got to find the cameras, Natasha.”

“The cameras? Mais, oui. I want to dance,” she said, her breathing labored. “Get my tights.”

Aimée opened the drawers: mothball-tinged lace camisoles, graying leotards crumbling to her touch. In the armoire she found folded linens, hanging vintage wool coats, a pleated Fortuny pale lemon chemise. Timeless.

The secrétaire drawers yielded worn leather boxes of costume and paste jewelry. A gray, gummed tarnish came off on Aimée’s fingers.

Perspiration dampened the back of Aimée’s neck, the thin skin at the crook of her elbow. The old woman had become quiet during her search. Aimée shot her a glance.

Natasha’s lids drooped. Short, shallow breaths issued from her. The oxygen tank meter level had dropped to the red range. What should she do?

Aimée twisted the oxygen meter knob, but the needle stayed steady on red. Her stomach clenched. The poor old woman wasn’t getting oxygen. Thank God the red call light lit up on the wall. A bell rang from the corridor. She figured she had a minute at most.

She shook the Russian newspapers. No hidden letters. Desperate, she reached under the hospital mattress, looked under the bed and found dust balls. Footsteps pounded in the hallway. She ran her hands under the crisp cotton pillow. Inside the pillowcase she felt something hard and cylindrical, recognized an old-fashioned pneumatic tube. She stuffed the tube in her waistband.

Of course it made sense now.

“Madame Natasha?”

A nurse stared at Aimée. She stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Quick. Her oxygen’s.…”

“Low because she fiddled with the knobs again.” A sigh came from the nurse who turned on the reserve. “It happens every day. Why are you