she’d find out why Nelie had entrusted Stella to her.
“NO BABIES ALLOWED, MADAME.” A honeyed voice belied the sharp expression of the stout woman at the window of the reception area.
In the crowded alcove behind the woman, faxes hummed and a phone console lit up with red lights.
“I’m meeting Nelie,” Aimée smiled, determined not to let this dragon of a sentry put her off. “Can you ring her room?”
“We’re a busy office. You’ll have to call her yourself.”
“Her room number, please?”
“We don’t give out that information,” the receptionist said warily. “You should know that.”
Had the flics sniffed her out and come for Nelie already? She doubted that.
“I’d appreciate your help, Madame.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, it’s our busiest time. If you’re meeting her, she’ll come down,” said the woman. A red light was blinking on the switchboard. Several young women entered the vestibule, crowding around the window asking for mail.
A brunette with a long braid down her back leaned down and cooed at the baby. “What’s her name?”
“Her name . . . Stella.” Aimée seized the opportunity. “You don’t know Nelie, do you? We’re supposed to meet and I forgot her cell phone number.”
“I’m sorry.” The brunette shook her head.
Aimée showed her the photo. “Maybe you’re on the same floor.”
The girl shook her head. “I’m in the exchange section, just here short term.” She smiled, a milk-fed provincial girl. “Sorbonne students occupy the second floor, that’s all I know.”
Aimée found a seat near a table bearing old magazines. Another group of girls in tracksuits carrying soccer balls in a net assembled by the desk. On the back wall Aimée saw room numbers next to linen assignments on a blackboard. She stood and scanned the numbers until she came to one for Nelie Landrou on Staircase C. Finally! That had to be her.
She edged through the glass doors to the courtyard while the receptionist was busy. Charcoal gray tiles formed the slanted rooftop overlooking the grass-covered rectangular courtyard. There were no blue zinc roofs on this island; that would have been too modern.
Stella nestled closer in her arms, radiating warmth. “Such a good girl,” Aimée whispered. If only she’d stay that way.
Staircase C lay at the back. Aimée mounted a flight of covered stone steps. She faced a line of planked doors. There was a name holder outside each room, next to the door.
Nelie’s resembled the others. At least no police crime-scene tape was visible. She took a breath before she knocked. “Nelie, it’s Aimée Leduc. I can help you.” There was no answer even after she knocked repeatedly.
She’d never picked a medieval lock before. Certainly never picked a lock of any sort with a baby in her arms. She didn’t think her credit card would work so she inserted her miniscrewdriver into the lock, swiveled it around, and then heard the tip snap. Great! Propping a gurgling Stella on her hip, she reached in her bag for her key ring, found the long old-fashioned keys to her cave , and used one as a lever to prise out the broken screwdriver shank. That done, she slid in the narrow lock-picking tool with a quick twist and upward shove.
She heard laughter from down the hall; she had to hurry. She jiggled the lock-picking tool, heard scraping metal and a click. She pushed the door open.
“Allô? ”
No Nelie. Empty and like a monastic cell, spartan; narrow, white-washed stone walls, a small coved window filled with old blue bubbled glass with bars across it. She saw a poster of a munitions site with the legend: One nuclear bomb can ruin your whole day on the wall, a textbook on the floor, and an Indian cotton print bedspread on the single bed, which gave the room a student feeling. But it was an unlived-in feeling.
Her hopes dashed, she debated what to do. She picked up some notices left on a chair. The one on top was for a mandatory house meeting dated a
“NO BABIES ALLOWED, MADAME.” A honeyed voice belied the sharp expression of the stout woman at the window of the reception area.
In the crowded alcove behind the woman, faxes hummed and a phone console lit up with red lights.
“I’m meeting Nelie,” Aimée smiled, determined not to let this dragon of a sentry put her off. “Can you ring her room?”
“We’re a busy office. You’ll have to call her yourself.”
“Her room number, please?”
“We don’t give out that information,” the receptionist said warily. “You should know that.”
Had the flics sniffed her out and come for Nelie already? She doubted that.
“I’d appreciate your help, Madame.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, it’s our busiest time. If you’re meeting her, she’ll come down,” said the woman. A red light was blinking on the switchboard. Several young women entered the vestibule, crowding around the window asking for mail.
A brunette with a long braid down her back leaned down and cooed at the baby. “What’s her name?”
“Her name . . . Stella.” Aimée seized the opportunity. “You don’t know Nelie, do you? We’re supposed to meet and I forgot her cell phone number.”
“I’m sorry.” The brunette shook her head.
Aimée showed her the photo. “Maybe you’re on the same floor.”
The girl shook her head. “I’m in the exchange section, just here short term.” She smiled, a milk-fed provincial girl. “Sorbonne students occupy the second floor, that’s all I know.”
Aimée found a seat near a table bearing old magazines. Another group of girls in tracksuits carrying soccer balls in a net assembled by the desk. On the back wall Aimée saw room numbers next to linen assignments on a blackboard. She stood and scanned the numbers until she came to one for Nelie Landrou on Staircase C. Finally! That had to be her.
She edged through the glass doors to the courtyard while the receptionist was busy. Charcoal gray tiles formed the slanted rooftop overlooking the grass-covered rectangular courtyard. There were no blue zinc roofs on this island; that would have been too modern.
Stella nestled closer in her arms, radiating warmth. “Such a good girl,” Aimée whispered. If only she’d stay that way.
Staircase C lay at the back. Aimée mounted a flight of covered stone steps. She faced a line of planked doors. There was a name holder outside each room, next to the door.
Nelie’s resembled the others. At least no police crime-scene tape was visible. She took a breath before she knocked. “Nelie, it’s Aimée Leduc. I can help you.” There was no answer even after she knocked repeatedly.
She’d never picked a medieval lock before. Certainly never picked a lock of any sort with a baby in her arms. She didn’t think her credit card would work so she inserted her miniscrewdriver into the lock, swiveled it around, and then heard the tip snap. Great! Propping a gurgling Stella on her hip, she reached in her bag for her key ring, found the long old-fashioned keys to her cave , and used one as a lever to prise out the broken screwdriver shank. That done, she slid in the narrow lock-picking tool with a quick twist and upward shove.
She heard laughter from down the hall; she had to hurry. She jiggled the lock-picking tool, heard scraping metal and a click. She pushed the door open.
“Allô? ”
No Nelie. Empty and like a monastic cell, spartan; narrow, white-washed stone walls, a small coved window filled with old blue bubbled glass with bars across it. She saw a poster of a munitions site with the legend: One nuclear bomb can ruin your whole day on the wall, a textbook on the floor, and an Indian cotton print bedspread on the single bed, which gave the room a student feeling. But it was an unlived-in feeling.
Her hopes dashed, she debated what to do. She picked up some notices left on a chair. The one on top was for a mandatory house meeting dated a
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