Murder at the Lanterne Rouge by Cara Black Page B

down three steps to the rails. Candles flickered ahead on the ghost station platform, silhouetting blanketed mounds. The enclave of the homeless. Not far.
    With the forecasted drop in temperature today and the shelters full, it was too much trouble for the Métro
flics
to rouse the drunken and unwashed. Clodo clutched his stash inside hisfur coat, knotted his pink scarf, and steadied himself, careful to avoid the live third rail. 750 volts of electricity. He’d seen a man fried last year. Lying on the rail, his hair standing up like a porcupine’s.
    Raised drunken voices and red wine smells told him he’d arrived. Graffitied posters and water-stained advertisements from the forties still clung to the walls. Forgotten relics, like those who clustered here for warmth, but intimately familiar to Clodo. He remembered his mother swearing by Persil soap, like the old pockmarked green bottle half visible on the tattered poster. It was one of the few things he remembered her saying.
    He gathered crumpled newspapers and torn cardboard, nodded to Fichu, who huddled in several khaki sleeping bags.
    “Want to rent me a bag, Fichu?”
    “If the price feels right,” Fichu mumbled. “What you got, Clodo?”
    Clodo sat down. A wave of dizziness, then a fit of coughing overtook him. Damn lungs burned.
    He fumbled in his coat, keeping the bag from Fichu’s view. Pulled it out.
    “What the …?”
    In his hand was a sealed Plasticine bag of white powder.
    “I don’t do sugar, Clodo.”
    “Some bastard took my bottle,” Clodo said. “My wine’s gone.”
    “Left you with something you don’t want to keep.” Fichu shook his head. Bleary-eyed, he rubbed his nose. “Dope dealers here these days. Strangers.”
    Clodo struggled to his feet. “We’ll see about that. He owes me, the
salaud
,” he said. Then he remembered. “Interested in a cell phone, Fichu? It’s fresh.”
    “Like I’d get reception down here?”
    Clodo shuffled to the end of the platform. Another fit of coughing overtook him. The tunnel reverberated with the roar of an approaching train.
    “Looking for this?” a voice said behind him.
    Before Clodo could turn, he felt a hand on his back. Then a push. Felt himself flying in front of the blinding light.

Saturday, 2 P.M.
    “B UT I TELL
flic
this morning,” said Madame Liu, “I no see
le petit
, or you. I go to funeral service last night.”
    Aimée stared at Madame Liu, the manager of Chez Chun, a tiny woman with an upswept hairdo of lacquered curls. Her hair didn’t move when she shook her head, but her jade bracelet jingled as she speared a receipt on a nail.
    “Can I speak to the waitress who worked last night?”
    “She live far away, work Monday.”
    Convenient.
    “But
flics
tell her my food make
le petit
sick. True?”
    No one forgot René. Aimée shook her head. Looked outside on the narrow, slush-filled street.
    Aimée pointed to the shuttered luggage store. “But you must know the Wus and Meizi. Any idea where I can find them?”
    “Quartier change. New shops. People come and go.”
    “What about this man with bad teeth. Tso?”
    Madame Liu averted her eyes. “I semiretired.”
    Aimée wouldn’t know it from the way Madame Liu whipped around cleaning tables. She noticed the woman’s knuckles had whitened around the dishtowel she clutched. Was she hiding something?
    But it made her think. This narrow street was the shortest route from the Conservatoire to Pascal’s great-aunt’s.
    “Have you ever seen this man?” She showed Madame Liu Pascal’s photo.
    Madame Liu lifted her reading glasses from the chain around her neck. Stared. “Him? No eat.”
    As she suspected, Madame knew him. A local in the quartier. Aimée suppressed her excitement. “Last night? What time?”
    “Not eat here.” Madame Liu took her reading glasses off. “Busy, now prepare for dinner.”
    “Where did you last see him, Madame Liu?”
    “Not sure.”
    “Here in the quartier? On the street?”
    “Dead