Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,67
an onion, her father said of cases involving more than one jurisdictional branch, keep peeling and try not to cry.
She took the Polaroid back and stuck it in her pocket. “So in return I want the fixer.”
“Who?”
“When you find out, Raphael, let me know.”
She put down her card and threw twenty francs on the table. Stood, waved at Louis, and slipped onto the quai.
Wednesday
MORGANE RAN ACROSS the cobbles into the rainy courtyard. Shivering and wet, she glanced up at their curtained window. Untouched since she’d left.
Just as she feared, Flèche had gone out to locate the painting his way. Intimidation, his usual métier. Now she’d insist they do it her way or she’d let him loose.
“The new phone books arrived,” said the agoraphobe, peeking out from her ground-floor window. “Every tenant takes their own. Not my responsibility, as I told your husband on his way out.”
Always observant, this one. Morgane leaned down and picked up the heavy plastic-wrapped directory. “I’ll take it, merci.”
Water ran from the roof tiles, splashed in silver eruptions, missing the rusted drain. On the damp landing she shifted the directory under her arm to unlock the door, and a blow hit her in the middle of her back. The air was knocked out of her. She stumbled forward, the directory falling on her foot. But not before her wrists were grabbed behind her and a bag pulled over her head.
Stupid. Phone books wouldn’t be out for a few months. Such an old trick and she’d fallen for it. No doubt the attacker had bribed the agoraphobe.
Hands pressed her shoulders down and plunked her on the floor.
“You salaud,” she said, “this won’t get you anywhere, you.…”
No answer. Only the systematic sounds of drawers opening, the few pieces of furniture being turned upside down, taut mattress fabric ripping. Professional. Her neck stiffened.
“What the hell do you think you’ll find?”
“The unexpected,” a voice said. “Looks like you’re in the dark in more ways than one. No clue to the painting, n’est-ce pas?”
“Who are you?”
Objects rained on her lap. Something damp leaked on her leg. The familiar smell of Miss Dior flooded her nostrils. Whoever this was had emptied her bag. She heard papers rustling, the jingle of coins, keys … her wallet?
Clicking. “I thought so. Two calls to Luebet, your boss.”
“Who are you?”
“He can’t answer anymore,” the voice said. “They scooped what’s left of him from the Métro tracks.”
Panic filled her. “You mean you …? Listen, he gave me orders by phone.”
“Liar.”
“Told me if we didn’t find the painting, he wouldn’t pay.”
Sigh. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.”
Morgane’s chest heaved. “Shoot me now and you get what? The painting’s disappeared.”
“So you’re just a hired hand?”
“Luebet didn’t hire me for my looks.” Her thoughts raced. “You’re some rogue flic?”
A short laugh. “Worse. I think you need to convince me, Morgane.”
Nothing for it but to tell the whole story. “Alors, five years ago, I worked in his gallery, lifted a series of Chagall lithographs from him. Long story. After I got out of prison, my son was diagnosed with leukemia. Then Luebet called me a week ago, told me we’re good now but he needs help. A job. He couldn’t do it, but I could. Like I’d refuse?” The cold floor against her legs chilled her.
“This photo in your wallet,” the voice said, “your son?”
A sob rose in her throat. “Please don’t touch him … he’s sick, please.”
More rustling paper. “There’s a Swiss Clinic bill …?”
“My son needs a bone marrow transplant.” Her throat caught. “I need money. I’ll do anything.”
“How did you plan to transport the painting?”
“But our man got there too late, there was no painting.”
“Answer the question.”
“My cargo freight contact at Orly.”
A cough. “So, mother of the year, why threaten the private detective?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play innocent.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The key turned in the door.
“That’s Flèche,” Morgane whispered. “An amateur. He went off half-cocked last night. Wouldn’t listen, uncontrollable … I don’t know what he’s done.”
“Hope you’re telling the truth,” the voice hissed in her ear, “for your son’s sake.”
“Who the hell are you?” Flèche’s words hung in the air. “Look, put the gun down, we’ll talk about the painting. We don’t have it, but I’ve got a lead … just calm down.”
“What lead?”
“Plenty in the pot for everyone,” he said. “The bitch will lead us to the fixer.”
A short laugh. The door closed. Morgane heard footsteps. The rustle of fabric. Flèche kept a knife strapped to his calf under his jeans. If only she