just before eleven o’clock. Did you hear a loud noise or notice anything happening outside the window?”
He shrugged. “I worked in Félix’s study. There are no windows. Then, Félix, your guest arrived, the musician? I lost track of time—”
“I take it the police questioned him,” Aimée said. “His name?”
Félix Conari’s hand clutched the slanted table’s edge. “He’s shy, that one, Lucien. A unique musician.”
Aimée scanned the names. “There’s no Lucien listed here. His last name?”
“Sarti. A Corsican DJ and musician. He mixes traditional polyphony and hip-hop.”
No Lucien Sarti. Aimée thought of the timing and the man watching at the gate. “Does he have black hair and was he wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a backpack?”
Félix grinned. “That describes many of my guests. But, yes, he is tall, rail thin, and has black curly hair.”
“How can I reach him?”
“Look, Mademoiselle, I don’t want to get him involved in this.”
“Of course not, but I need help, all the help I can get. I must speak with everyone. Can you give me his phone number?”
“Lucien’s a musician, a free spirit,” Conari said. “No phone. I contact him through a resto, Strago, and leave messages for him.”
She wrote that down. “You mentioned your guests were clients,” she said. “I’m curious as to how you know this musician, Lucien Sarti.”
“Call it a middle-aged man’s dream, but I’m planning to promote him,” he said, with a small smile. “I have some connections in the recording industry. Music’s close to my heart. But he disappeared before we actually signed the contract. Artists, you know!”
She wondered why this Lucien Sarti had disappeared before speaking to the police.
“Should Félix be concerned, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Yann asked. His ponytail poked out above his jacket collar. “I mean, has the quartier changed so much? Can I ask what happened?”
Marant asked a lot of questions. But then she would, too.
Félix nodded. “I’ve never seen such a police presence. This is Paris, not New York, where shootings are commonplace.”
Read the papers, she wanted to say. But they might prove more helpful if she told them something. Word traveled in the quartier so even these busy urban professionals would hear, sooner or later.
“We’re investigating a policeman’s murder on the roof of the building adjoining yours. The storm hasn’t helped,” she said. Two pairs of eyes watched her. “So anything that might come to your mind, a small detail—”
“You’re a private detective, you said. Aren’t the police in charge?”
Sharp. Didn’t miss a thing. “I’m investigating on behalf of a client,” she said. “Beyond that I can’t say.”
“Look, I want to be more helpful,” Yann said. “How can I reach you if I remember anything?”
Aimée hid her disappointment at their lack of information. “I appreciate your time, merci, ” she said, handing them each her card.
STRAGO, ON the less fashionable and more working-class slope of Montmartre, was a storefront restaurant with a hammer and sickle on the old curling menu posted behind smudged glass. A handwritten sign in violet ink read FERMÉ . This side of the quartier hadn’t changed much since Doisneau’s black-and-white fifties photographs, she thought. Narrow cobbled streets wound up to the butte . The corner cafés and low buildings fronting rue Labat reminded Aimée of Edith Piaf’s sad song of the rue Labat streetwalker who had lost her man. But, then, weren’t they all sad?
Thoughts of Guy intruded. His scent, the way he ran his fingers through his hair. She pushed the sadness down; she had to find this musician.
At the vegetable shop under a green awning next door, Aimée asked the owner about Strago’s hours.
“They open when they feel like it,” he told her. “If you smell garlic, Anna’s cooking.”
She put a franc down and reached into the counter’s glass canister
He shrugged. “I worked in Félix’s study. There are no windows. Then, Félix, your guest arrived, the musician? I lost track of time—”
“I take it the police questioned him,” Aimée said. “His name?”
Félix Conari’s hand clutched the slanted table’s edge. “He’s shy, that one, Lucien. A unique musician.”
Aimée scanned the names. “There’s no Lucien listed here. His last name?”
“Sarti. A Corsican DJ and musician. He mixes traditional polyphony and hip-hop.”
No Lucien Sarti. Aimée thought of the timing and the man watching at the gate. “Does he have black hair and was he wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a backpack?”
Félix grinned. “That describes many of my guests. But, yes, he is tall, rail thin, and has black curly hair.”
“How can I reach him?”
“Look, Mademoiselle, I don’t want to get him involved in this.”
“Of course not, but I need help, all the help I can get. I must speak with everyone. Can you give me his phone number?”
“Lucien’s a musician, a free spirit,” Conari said. “No phone. I contact him through a resto, Strago, and leave messages for him.”
She wrote that down. “You mentioned your guests were clients,” she said. “I’m curious as to how you know this musician, Lucien Sarti.”
“Call it a middle-aged man’s dream, but I’m planning to promote him,” he said, with a small smile. “I have some connections in the recording industry. Music’s close to my heart. But he disappeared before we actually signed the contract. Artists, you know!”
She wondered why this Lucien Sarti had disappeared before speaking to the police.
“Should Félix be concerned, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Yann asked. His ponytail poked out above his jacket collar. “I mean, has the quartier changed so much? Can I ask what happened?”
Marant asked a lot of questions. But then she would, too.
Félix nodded. “I’ve never seen such a police presence. This is Paris, not New York, where shootings are commonplace.”
Read the papers, she wanted to say. But they might prove more helpful if she told them something. Word traveled in the quartier so even these busy urban professionals would hear, sooner or later.
“We’re investigating a policeman’s murder on the roof of the building adjoining yours. The storm hasn’t helped,” she said. Two pairs of eyes watched her. “So anything that might come to your mind, a small detail—”
“You’re a private detective, you said. Aren’t the police in charge?”
Sharp. Didn’t miss a thing. “I’m investigating on behalf of a client,” she said. “Beyond that I can’t say.”
“Look, I want to be more helpful,” Yann said. “How can I reach you if I remember anything?”
Aimée hid her disappointment at their lack of information. “I appreciate your time, merci, ” she said, handing them each her card.
STRAGO, ON the less fashionable and more working-class slope of Montmartre, was a storefront restaurant with a hammer and sickle on the old curling menu posted behind smudged glass. A handwritten sign in violet ink read FERMÉ . This side of the quartier hadn’t changed much since Doisneau’s black-and-white fifties photographs, she thought. Narrow cobbled streets wound up to the butte . The corner cafés and low buildings fronting rue Labat reminded Aimée of Edith Piaf’s sad song of the rue Labat streetwalker who had lost her man. But, then, weren’t they all sad?
Thoughts of Guy intruded. His scent, the way he ran his fingers through his hair. She pushed the sadness down; she had to find this musician.
At the vegetable shop under a green awning next door, Aimée asked the owner about Strago’s hours.
“They open when they feel like it,” he told her. “If you smell garlic, Anna’s cooking.”
She put a franc down and reached into the counter’s glass canister
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