in the pattern of a whale.” Sabine’s finger stabbed Orla’s face in the photo. “That I noticed before I left.”
At last!
“She left streak marks all over.” Sabine pointed to the window. “Like those.” Outside, a group of students stood in line at Bertillon’s to choose from more than forty flavors of ice cream, blocking the café door. This was a sore point for Sabine. “Gave me the job of cleaning the whole window this morning, inside and out.”
She’d washed away any fingerprint evidence then.
“Sabine, do you think she was looking for someone?”
Sabine shrugged. “Hard to say. Tell her to leave the window alone next time, eh?”
Aimée stroked the fuzz on Stella’s head.
“Did she meet anyone?”
Janou leaned down and hefted a crate. “I served the mecs, and when I had finished, she’d gone. When I stacked the café chairs outside, she was just leaving the ATM across the way.”
“Alone?”
“Some girls were running. She could have been one.” Janou pointed to the dark-haired girl in the photo, then opened the cabinet door, which concealed a dumbwaiter to the cellar, and slid a carton of Orangina onto it. “But I’m not sure.”
“Running?”
Janou scratched his cheek. “One of them kept looking back over her shoulder.”
“In what way?”
“Like everyone does after they take cash from the machine, alors!”
Or had she been scared and running for her life?
“She limped. Stopped every so often.”
“The blonde?”
“The dark-haired one.”
Nelie.
“Does she live around here?”
“You’re curious this morning.” Janou paused, his head cocked, watching her.
She had to think fast. “Count on me to lose her number and I have a meeting. I wish I hadn’t told my friend I’d watch her baby.”
Janou shook his head. “Try the women’s hostel! You’d think they might order a sandwich to eat, just once, eh, since they make this place their living room.”
“The woman’s hostel on rue Poulletier?”
He nodded.
Aimée knew the place around the corner from her apartment that sheltered students and troubled young women.
Aimée set some francs on the counter. “Merci.”
SHE LEFT THE café and walked down the narrow street thinking. Unease filled her.
Had she looked at this all wrong? She stared at the photo, concentrating on the dark-haired girl, Nelie. Momo had let her use the phone in the garage. Bernard, Sabine, and Janou had recognized her.
Had Nelie, though limping and injured, met Orla after the demonstration at the café? But then why hadn’t she used the telephone downstairs in the café rather than the one at the garage? On top of that, why hadn’t Nelie explained the situation calmly and clearly to her over the phone? Instead, she’d spoken frantically, almost incoherently. She had seemed desperate, sure that someone was after her. And now Orla was dead.
There was still no clue as to why Nelie had chosen to telephone Aimée. Nor any explanation of the writing on Stella’s skin. Questions swirled in Aimée’s mind as she tried to fathom a frightened woman’s thought processes. But now at least she knew whom she was looking for. She had to find Nelie, get answers, and resolve the baby issue without involving the authorities. She turned into rue Poulletier, feeling a frisson in her bones as she passed the words carved in worn limestone—SAINT-VINCENT DE PAUL ÉTABLIT LES FILLES DE LA CHARITÉ 1652. A reminder of the time when priests found babies abandoned on church steps and the parish provided social services that the king didn’t. A newer sign, hanging near the ancient metal S-shaped hinge, which compressed the inner beams and held the floors together, read WATCH OUT.
In a few minutes, she imagined, she might be handing Stella over to Nelie. Stella stirred and Aimée felt a pang of regret.
Get on with it! she told herself. Resolutely, she pressed the digicode at the entrance to the soot stained stone building. The door buzzed open. Now
At last!
“She left streak marks all over.” Sabine pointed to the window. “Like those.” Outside, a group of students stood in line at Bertillon’s to choose from more than forty flavors of ice cream, blocking the café door. This was a sore point for Sabine. “Gave me the job of cleaning the whole window this morning, inside and out.”
She’d washed away any fingerprint evidence then.
“Sabine, do you think she was looking for someone?”
Sabine shrugged. “Hard to say. Tell her to leave the window alone next time, eh?”
Aimée stroked the fuzz on Stella’s head.
“Did she meet anyone?”
Janou leaned down and hefted a crate. “I served the mecs, and when I had finished, she’d gone. When I stacked the café chairs outside, she was just leaving the ATM across the way.”
“Alone?”
“Some girls were running. She could have been one.” Janou pointed to the dark-haired girl in the photo, then opened the cabinet door, which concealed a dumbwaiter to the cellar, and slid a carton of Orangina onto it. “But I’m not sure.”
“Running?”
Janou scratched his cheek. “One of them kept looking back over her shoulder.”
“In what way?”
“Like everyone does after they take cash from the machine, alors!”
Or had she been scared and running for her life?
“She limped. Stopped every so often.”
“The blonde?”
“The dark-haired one.”
Nelie.
“Does she live around here?”
“You’re curious this morning.” Janou paused, his head cocked, watching her.
She had to think fast. “Count on me to lose her number and I have a meeting. I wish I hadn’t told my friend I’d watch her baby.”
Janou shook his head. “Try the women’s hostel! You’d think they might order a sandwich to eat, just once, eh, since they make this place their living room.”
“The woman’s hostel on rue Poulletier?”
He nodded.
Aimée knew the place around the corner from her apartment that sheltered students and troubled young women.
Aimée set some francs on the counter. “Merci.”
SHE LEFT THE café and walked down the narrow street thinking. Unease filled her.
Had she looked at this all wrong? She stared at the photo, concentrating on the dark-haired girl, Nelie. Momo had let her use the phone in the garage. Bernard, Sabine, and Janou had recognized her.
Had Nelie, though limping and injured, met Orla after the demonstration at the café? But then why hadn’t she used the telephone downstairs in the café rather than the one at the garage? On top of that, why hadn’t Nelie explained the situation calmly and clearly to her over the phone? Instead, she’d spoken frantically, almost incoherently. She had seemed desperate, sure that someone was after her. And now Orla was dead.
There was still no clue as to why Nelie had chosen to telephone Aimée. Nor any explanation of the writing on Stella’s skin. Questions swirled in Aimée’s mind as she tried to fathom a frightened woman’s thought processes. But now at least she knew whom she was looking for. She had to find Nelie, get answers, and resolve the baby issue without involving the authorities. She turned into rue Poulletier, feeling a frisson in her bones as she passed the words carved in worn limestone—SAINT-VINCENT DE PAUL ÉTABLIT LES FILLES DE LA CHARITÉ 1652. A reminder of the time when priests found babies abandoned on church steps and the parish provided social services that the king didn’t. A newer sign, hanging near the ancient metal S-shaped hinge, which compressed the inner beams and held the floors together, read WATCH OUT.
In a few minutes, she imagined, she might be handing Stella over to Nelie. Stella stirred and Aimée felt a pang of regret.
Get on with it! she told herself. Resolutely, she pressed the digicode at the entrance to the soot stained stone building. The door buzzed open. Now
Similar Books
