Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,44
pulled in front of them moments before the Serb fell on René’s windshield—was it connected? She was guessing the Serb had been interrupted in an attempted robbery by whoever had succeeded in stealing the painting, then killed him; but that person would have had no reason to come back and torture Yuri. That meant there were at least two ruthless parties involved in this mess, and still no painting. A web growing more complicated and dangerous—and somehow Luebet was involved.
René, always cautious, would have told her to pull out before getting too involved. Forget this while she could.
By now Luebet might have discovered he’d left this envelope behind. She imagined him irate on the phone with the helpful curator at Musée Bourdelle. Guilt invaded her for a moment.
But she had Yuri’s cash in her bag. And no other way to find her mother. She needed to reach Luebet. Talk to him.
The train jerked. Brakes squealed. A moment later it shuddered to a halt in the tunnel, throwing Aimée and her fellow passengers against the seats. Lights flickered. Her arm cracked against a bar before she grabbed it. Bags skittered across the floor; an old woman cried out.
The train car plunged into darkness—like night. The air filled suddenly with the smell of burning rubber. A loudspeaker crackled and buzzed. “Mesdames, Messieurs, due to an accident grave de voyageur, there’s an interruption on the line. Service is at a standstill. We ask for your patience.”
A murmur rumbled through the passengers in the darkness. Aimée imagined the knowing looks they would share if they could see each other. “Accident grave de voyageur” was the standard euphemism for a track jumper. A suicide.
Notorious on the Number 6 line, which served three hospitals, one of them Saint Anne’s, the psychiatric facility.
This could take God-knows-how-long, she thought, rubbing her bruised arm and imagining the grim scene ahead. With her feet she felt for her bag, which had lodged under the next seat, then recovered her penlight. She shone it toward the old woman huddled on the floor, whimpering and gasping for breath. With another passenger, she helped the old woman to a seat and tried to calm her.
After what felt like a long time, the lights flickered. The doors cranked open to another wave of burning rubber odor. Passengers were instructed to step down in the pitch-black tunnel to the narrow service walkway hugging the wall above the track. Taking the old woman’s arm, she eased her down onto the dark ledge and guided her along the blackened tunnel walls. Ahead Aimée could see lights reflecting on the gleaming white tiles on the wall of the platform at station Edgar Quinet.
“Not far, Madame,” she said.
It looked like a messy accident, requiring a scooper train especially elevated to clean the electric rail lines. With sad incidents like this, it took forever to reestablish service and reroute the disrupted network. Usually they herded passengers back along the track walkway to the previous station to give room to the emergency crew. But Montparnasse, webbed by four lines, was a vast maze.
Enveloped in the close, stifling air shared by too many people, she wanted to get out. She had almost pushed ahead in line behind a mother helping her toddler when she froze at a shriek. To the side of the iron steps leading to the platform on the tracks lay a severed arm still in its pinstriped suit jacket.
Aimée gasped. The arm ended in a bloody clump where the shoulder had been. She averted her eyes too late. Bile rose in her stomach at the metallic scent of blood. Her gaze crept back to the hand, fixated on the pinkie ring. That large stone-like class ring in an engraved mount.
The driver and scurrying staff attempted to block the track view, to shield passengers from the scene and move them along. Mutters of “heart attack … slipped … quel dommage.” A frisson of fear prickled her neck.
By the time she mounted the Métro steps to the boulevard, she knew where she’d seen it before. She grasped the pole of an awninged market stall and gulped lungfuls of late afternoon air, hoping she was wrong. Feeling cold and alone in the middle of the bustle of merchants setting up for the evening market, she reopened the envelope. In the photo, Luebet’s hand was clearly visible on the canvas, complete with that distinctive, large-stoned class ring on his pinkie. He wouldn’t be dining at La Tour d’Argent tonight. Nor would Yuri.