Murder in Marais © 1998 Cara Black
Thursday, November 1993 - Paris
Aimée Leduc felt his presence before she saw him. As if ghosts
floated in his wake in the once elegant hall. She paused, pulling her black
leather coat closer against the Parisian winter morning slicing through
her building. The glaring bulb revealed an old man hunched in the once
elegant hallway.
"Madamoiselle Leduc?"
Warped floorboards, a tarnished mirror and scuffed plaster filled the unheated landing mostly. She checked her surprise, slid her tongue across her teeth to check for anything stuck, and smiled. "Oui?" Thirty four years old, she approached tall at 5'8 and chewed a chocolate croissant. A baby's cry wafted from below.
"Forgive me I made no appointment." He rose and leaned crookedly on a bamboo cane, his large eyes shrewd and piercing.
"My name is Soli Hecht."
Leathery, freckled skin stretched over his skull and his ears pointed out at right angles. A walk-in client was rare. Most came corporate, word of mouth. Hecht wore a crumpled navy blue suit and straightened his posture slowly.
She knew broke hackers like herself should be more polite and less discriminating. "It's not that I don't want your business. But...we usually take referrals. How did you hear about my work?"
"Your father."
She dropped her keys. "My father was killed five years ago."
"I'm sorry. He will be in my prayers." Hecht bowed his head. "The Temple E'manuel is hiring you. As far as you are concerned, you don't know me. Agreed?"
His eyes bored into hers.
Tingling ran down her spine. She became acutely aware of feeling in over her head. Something she hadn't felt for a long time.
"I'll show you my standard contract form."
Soli Hecht shook his head.
"My word must be enough." He extended his hand.
She shook his gnarled fist. "Please come inside."
She picked up her keys, unlocked the frosted paned door that read Duluc Detective, flipped on the lights and draped her coat over her seat. Nineteenth century sepia prints of Egyptian excavations hung above digitally enhanced Parisian sewer maps.
"Specifically, Monsieur Hecht, what is the job?" Something about him struck her as familiar. She scooped ground coffee into the filter, poured water and switched on the espresso machine that grumbled to life.
Hecht moved his cadaverous frame across the wood parquet floor. "Decipher the code. How long will it take?"
His unannounced visit took her back five years...the surprise visit on another dark wet morning when the Sûreté drafted her for surveillance. Everything came back to her; the reek of cordite and TNT, the hiss and pop of cold rain falling on twisted hot metal, her palm burning on the door handle. She saw the van blown into the sky like a toy hurled by a toddler.
She drummed her chipped red nails on her desk and pushed the painful memories aside. Steamy muddy liquid dripped into the waiting demitasse cup. "Monsieur, un petit cafe?" Aimée unwrapped a sugar cube, plopped it in her cup.
"Non, merci," he shook his head. "Computer forensics is your field, I've heard." His eyes scanned the equipment lining the walls.
He didn't mince words, she thought as she sat down. As he lifted his arm onto her desk, his shirtsleeves rolled up and she saw faint blue numbers tattooed on his forearm. She shifted in her seat wondering if he wanted her to find Nazi gold in numbered Swiss bank accounts.
"What would I be transcribing?" She watched him, noticing how he pursed his full lips.
"We're looking for proof that a woman's relatives avoided deportation to Buchenwald. But I don't want to raise her hopes." He looked away, as if there was more he could say, but didn't. "This will take days?"
"Why do you think that? That's a crock. I type 120 conventional words a minute," she smiled.
"As in a croque monsieur sandwich?" Hecht said, puzzled as to her meaning.
'As in a crocque of shit,' she wanted to say but grinned. "An Americanism." She shrugged, unwrapped another sugar cube. She shoveled last night's faxes to the side of her desk and leaned towards him.
"You were in school in Amerique, when I knew your father."
She shuddered. Full of hope, she'd searched for her American roots and the mother who'd disappeared when she was eight. She hadn't found either. "Briefly, I was an exchange student in New York," she said.
"Your father articulated his casework philosophy to me and I've always remembered it."
'Things weren't usually what they seem or he'd be out of business'?
Hecht nodded. "You're independent, no ties or affiliations to anyone." His crooked fist drummed the table. "I like that about you."
He knew a lot about her. She also had the distinct impression he was leaving something out. "Our fees are 500 francs a day," she said.
Hecht nodded dismissively. Now she remembered. She'd seen his photo years ago when his evidence brought Klaus Barbie to trial.
"Look inside."
Aimée opened his file, uneasily noticing the digits and slash marks, a distinctive trademark of Israeli military encryption. Her expertise was tunneling into systems, huge corporate ones. But this code spoke of the Cold War and slippery mainframe--a tricky tunneling job. She hesitated.
"One thousand francs are in the folder. Deliver your results to 64 rue des Rosiers to Lili Stein. She's home after her shop closes. I've told her to expect a visitor."
Aimée felt she had to be honest, breaking an encrypted code had ever taken her that long. "You've given me too much."
He shook his head. "Take it. She has a hard time getting around. Remember give this only to Lili Stein."
She shrugged. "No problem."
"Swear to me on your father's grave." His eyes locked hers. She stared at him, unable to turn from his penetrating gaze.
"You must put this in Lili Stein's hands." Hecht's tone had changed,from rabid fervor to almost a plea.
She shivered. What kind of Holocaust secret was this? Slowly she nodded in agreement.
"There will be no more contact, Madamoiselle."
Soli Hecht's joints cracked as he rose ponderously. His face wrinkled in pain.
"You could have faxed me this query Monsieur Hecht, it would have saved you this trip."
"But we've neither talked nor met, Madamoiselle Duluc," he said.
Aimée bit back her reply. She opened the door for him and buzzed for the elevator that grated noisily up the shaft. Slowly and painfully he made his way to the hall.
Back in her office, she stuffed the francs into her pocket. The overdue France Telecom bill and horse meat for MeelsDaveez-Miles Davis, her bichon frise puppy, would wait until she'd done the promised work. She hoped there'd be enough to spring her suits from the dry cleaners. Not the career goal she'd had in mind when she took over after her father's death.
Her standard software keys enabled her to crack coded encryptions. These keys opened stored information in a database, in this case, she figured a military one.
After punching in her standard key,'Access denied' flashed on her screen. She tried another software key,'Reseau de Militaire' an obscure military network. Still the screen flashed 'Access denied'. Intrigued, she tried various software keys but got nowhere.
After several hours she realized she would earn her francs on this one. So far, nothing worked.
Morning turned into afternoon, shadows lengthened and dusk settled while she grabbed a tartine sandwich from the cafe next door below her office. Later that evening on one of her last decoding attempts she used an old post-war retrieval key. She was surprised when the system responded; 'For access enter via auditory/visual format.' A rare but not unheard of access path. Nothing came up with audio. She entered the photo image memory using a cold war Allied Documents software key. Suddenly her screen filled with spreading black and white. After several seconds, she could clearly make out a photograph. No text appeared, only a photo. She enhanced the pixel quality, enlarging it as much as she dared without distorting the image.
The torn black and white snapshot with smudged white margins showed a cafe scene next to a park with children. People sat at the sidewalk cafe and stood in small groups. The ones standing were SS. Their backs were turned, but she recognized the lightning bolts on the sides of their collars.
No one looked at the camera. Most of the civilians wore dark shapeless clothes. A candid shot of occupied Paris. Almost half of the snapshot corner was torn away.
Shaken, she stared at the photo. She'd eaten at that cafe plenty of times, knew many habitués who frequented it. But now she would always think of the Nazis who'd been there before her.
This marked the first time she'd cracked a code revealing a photo without text. How would this documentation be proof for the old woman? But that, she reminded herself, wasn't her job.
After downloading the image, Aimée printed a copy. She couldn't help wondering what this woman's reaction would be.
With the photo tucked in her Louis Vuitton bag, a flea market find, she wound a leopard-print scarf around her neck, belted her leather coat and locked the office door.
Below her office, she hailed a taxi that skidded to a stop on wet rue
du Louvre. Late evening crowds thronged the awninged sidewalk cafes. The
Seine glittered on her right as the floodlit gray stone of the Pont Neuf
bridge flashed by.
The buildings changed as they entered the Marais. Figures scuttled over the glistening cobblestones. In foggy, narrow rue de Bearn the taxi bumped over the curb and let her off. Fetid air hovered from the bouches d'egouts, gutters leading to the sewers.
Her destination, sixty-four rue des Rosiers, was above a dusty window lettered Delices du Stein in faded gold advertising Kosher goods in Hebrew and French. Opposite stood a falafel stand with trays of chopped red cabbage, onions, and pickled carrots peeking from under a striped canopy.
Dark green paint flaked off the massive arched entry doors in front
of her. Resolutely, she made her way past a bicycle leaning on the stone
wall below a peeling circus poster. The cobbled courtyard smelled of yesterday's
garbage. To her left, a vacant concierge's loge guarded the entrance.
On the second landing, a dark wood door stood ajar. From inside, a radio program blared in some language she thought must be Yiddish or Hebrew. She knocked loudly several times. No answer.
She pushed the creaking front door, "Allo?" Slowly she entered the dim hallway of a musty apartment.
Inside, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. From the hall, she peered into the living room; sparsely furnished with an old cracked leather sofa, wood table and a blonde wood radio set from the thirties.
Lili Stein must be deaf to play the radio so loud, she thought. Maybe that's what Soli Hecht had meant; deliver it in her hands because the old woman had a serious hearing loss.
She approached the radio, an old crystal set with knobby dials and yellowed channel band. She turned the volume lower. Used tissues littered the floor. "Allo, Madame Stein?"
No response. Water trickled from somewhere out in the hallway. She didn't like this. Wasn't the old lady expecting her?
She paused under the living room doorframe. Across from her in the dingy bathroom, a leaky faucet dripped a brown stain on the basin.
"Allo, Madame?"
Her bad feeling mounted. She passed the bathroom and edged down the narrow hallway. At the end, what looked to be a bedroom door hung ajar. She felt for her keys in her leather bag, crunching the pointed edges between her fingers as a weapon, her first lesson from the dojo.
"Madame Stein?"
Carefully, she wedged the door wider. An old woman's ashen face stared vacantly at the cobwebbed ceiling. Someone had carved a swastika into her forehead, exposing bone and red pulpy tissue. Aimée shrank back and gasped, gripping the door handle as her legs buckled. Lili Stein, if this was her, wouldn't answer any time soon.
Deep and bloodless, the swastika stretched from her eyebrows to the wispy gray hairs at her hairline. A gold chain with unfamiliar letters hung twisted in the bloody ligature mark around her neck-Hebrew symbols? Her wool skirt crumpled at her knees and her swollen ankles puffed out over scuffed shoes. Crutches lay uselessly on the floor. Her frozen fists clutched the air, as if she died struggling to get up.
Aimée's heart pounded. From the wall photo showing a younger version of this woman arm-in-arm with a tall bearded man inscribed -For Lili On our 25th anniversary- she concluded Lili Stein sprawled on the floor.
She reached for the Phillips screwdriver, part of the mini-tool set she carried in her bag, scanning the room for the attacker. But the only other inhabitant was a bloated angelfish, silvery bubbles rising in the tank on the old rolltop desk. Wooden slats nailed over the window, blocked all but a ribbon of light from the light well.
She gingerly stepped around the body, whose large eyes seemed to follow her. After checking the armoire and peering into dust balls under the sagging mattress, she felt convinced no attacker lurked.
'In Lili Stein's hand' was what she'd promised Soli Hecht on her father's grave. That didn't make sense since the woman was obviously dead. And she wasn't superstitious but...she bent down, peering at the woman' hand. Bits of wood splinters were embedded in her palm. Claw like marks were scratched in the wood slats nailed over the window above her. As if cornered like an animal, Aimée thought, she'd tried to claw her way out.
Aimée carefully put her fingers on the blue veined wrist. No pulse fluttered but something about death required a ritual. She pulled out the envelope with the photo image and touched it to Lili's cold, stiff hand.
In that moment she felt the murderer hovered in this dank room. Foreboding washed over her. She became aware of the nasal voiced radio announcer; 'In a prerecorded message to the labor unions at Lille, Prime Ministerial candidate Cazaux promised strict foreign immigration quotas. "French Industry, French workers, French products!" Cazaux's familiar voice ranted as crowds roared.
Just what France needed, she thought, more fascism.
"Maman?" A man's deep voice came from the hallway.
Startled she stood up, knocking into the bedroom's roll top desk. The angelfish tank swayed and in panic she reached to steady it. That's when she saw the torn off photo, barely visible through the black gravel under the tank. She wedged it out quickly aligning the encrypted photo next to this torn piece. They matched. Shaken, she realized she held the other half of the photo that this woman could have been murdered for.
"Maman, ça va?"
She slid the photos into the envelope and stuffed it down the ankle of her boot.
"Monsieur, don't come in here." She said loudly, summoning authority in her voice. "Call the Gendarmes."
"Eh? Who..." A middle-aged man, rail thin and tall, walked in. He leaned as if apologizing for taking up space. His forelocks were worn long in the Hasidic style, under a black felt hat with an upturned brim.
"What's happened?" He froze.
She blocked his view. "Is Lili Stein your mother?"
"Maman is ill?" He peered over Aimée's shoulder before she could stop him. He backed away, "No, no," shaking his head.
She edged toward this man, trying to protect him.
"Who are you?" Fear registered in his eyes.
"I'm working with.." she caught herself before she mentioned Hecht. "Temple E'manuel." She guided him towards an alcove with rolled scriptures. "Sit down."
He shook her off. "How did you get in here?" His eyes grew wide in terror. "You're a liar!"
"Monsieur Stein?" She kneeled at his eye level, willing him to look at her.
He nodded.
"I'm sorry. I found her a few minutes ago."
He crumpled sobbing.
She pulled out her cell phone, punched in 15 for SAMU, the emergency service and gave the address. Then she called 17, the Gendarme centrale.
"Yisgaddal v'yiskaddash shmey rabboh," he began to recite what she imagined was some Hebrew prayer for the dead. Then he broke off. She put her arm around him, made the sign of the cross ending by 'May she rest in peace.'
By the time the SAMU van screeched to a halt in the courtyard, the first wave of Gendarmes had already tramped through. The Sûreté came next. A rotund figure puffed up the stairs. He cultivated a droopy mustache above a half smile. Aimée blinked in surprise. "Inspector Morbier!"
An old friend of her father's, she hadn't seen him for several years. Not since...he interrupted her thoughts.
"Aimée...!" Morbier quickly corrected himself in the presence of Sûreté members. "Mademoiselle Duluc."
He'd changed little. His blue suspenders strained over his wide belly, a pained expression on his face. He flicked a kitchen match, lit up a Gauloise and inhaled deeply. She could almost taste the tobacco in the stuffy hallway.
"Smoking at a murder scene, Morbier?"
"I'm supposed to ask the questions." He flicked ash into his cupped palm.
Crime scene technicians, their lab coats drooping under short yellow rain jackets, glided efficiently amid muffled conversations up and down the stairs.
"Don't tell me you're involved in this chien et cheval," he said referring to a dog and pony show. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
"I'm not involved." She wasn't really lying. When she was little he always caught her out faster than her father.
The threadbare Turkish carpet in the hall already lay tracked with mud. Abraham Stein rocked back and forth on a chair, dazedly shaking his head.
She and Morbier sidestepped the crime photographer loaded with camera equipment, aiming for the kitchen down the hall.
Abraham Stein sputtered to life. "She was here when I found Maman."
Morbier's eyes narrowed. "You didn't kill her, did you?"
She shook her head. "Does it look like my style?"
"Tell me what you're doing here."
Merde! "Standing next to you in the hallway." She nodded towards Abraham Stein then shook her head, indicating she wouldn't speak in front of him.
"Inspector Morbier!" a hoarse voiced detective beckoned to him. "Forensics need you. Now."
Morbier growled. She turned away to hide her relief.
He stopped a few steps away. He jerked his thumb at the nearby sergeant with a long pockmarked face. "Investigating officer finds cause. Check the contents of her bag."
Her shoulders sagged. "Why?'
He blustered, "Suspicion of officer safety,of course."
She attempted to check her anger, keep her tone even. "I have nothing to hide."
She dumped her cell phone, expired metro pass, extra modem cable, two tubes of ultra black mascara, files of alias business cards, pack of Nicorette stop smoking gum, mini-tool set and well-thumbed manual on micro-processors smudged with red nail polish.
At Lili Steins' bedroom door Morbier turned to her, his expression masked. "Don't leave the 4th arrondisement. I want you at Homicide. First thing in the morning."
Muder in Marais © 1999 Cara Black © 1999 Soho Press