Murder in Belleville Read Online Free PDF Page A

forehead and thinking fast. “If you help me get her to the top of the stairs. Deal?”
    “Why not?” He grinned, quickly gathering his bedroll.
    “Come with us to the stairs,” she said. “Quickly.”
    He ran toward the exit. Behind them she heard heavy footsteps.
    Aimee revved the motor and shot forward. The tunnel curved and she followed his trail. “If we just get halfway up, Anais, jump off, we can drag you the rest. Now lean into me and pray,” Aimee yelled. She’d worry about the Twingo if they ever made it to the top.
    At the first flight of stairs, she jerked up on the handlebars as much as possible and felt the bike respond. The tires churned, climbing several steps, the engine strained. But the moped climbed. Higher and higher. Aimee saw the dark tent of sky through the exit.
    The bike had almost reached the last set of steps when she felt the tires buck.
    Aimee had the sickening feeling of the bike rearing like a horse. She decelerated.
    The homeless man reached over and steadied Anais. “Get off; it’s too heavy!” he shouted. “We’ll guide her up.”
    Anais loosened her grip on Aimee.
    “Hold the handlebars, Anais,” Aimee said, getting off and putting her arms around Anais’s shoulders.
    Time slowed as she and the homeless man guided Anais on the moped up the Metro steps.
    The engine whined, snarled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man steady Anais so she didn’t topple into him.
    But the moped tipped over. Like a felled animal, it whined uselessly on its side.
    “Allons-y!” she yelled.
    Only a few more steps to the top.
    She grabbed Anais under the arms and together with the homeless man helped her hobble up the last stairs.
    “Merci,” Aimee said. “Tell them we took the Metro toward Chatelet.”
    “And they just missed you,” the man said, righting the moped. He took off down the sidewalk. Aimee hoped he’d keep their pursuers busy for a while.
    “Attends, Anais,” Aimee said lying on her stomach, peering around the cement divider near the Credit Lyonnais.
    She saw the Twingo, parked illegally on the opposite curb, and a dark-suited man watching in all directions. If she and Anais could join passersby and cross to the taxi stop on rue du Faubourg du Temple, they’d escape. Traffic idled at the intersection. Tree-bordered Canal Saint Martin lay in the distance.
    Aimee’s hopes fell as Anais moaned again. No way could she get her up and across to the taxi stop. A couple emerged from an apartment building, laughing and kissing each other, as they walked to the Metro.
    Aimee crawled around the divider, then helped navigate Anais behind some bushes. Cardboard was piled next to the kiosk, hiding them from view.
    “Keep low. I’ll get a taxi,” she said taking off her sweater and covering Anais. Aimee shivered in her damp silk shirt and spread a piece of cardboard across a major puddle. She crawled across to the curb, then crouched behind a plane tree. When another couple walked by she stood up, kept her head turned and crossed the street abreast of them.
    By the time the taxi driver, to whom she’d promised a good tip, pulled up on the sidewalk to pick up Anais, the driver of the Twingo had noticed them. He jumped in the car and started his engine.
    “Lose that car,” Aimee said to the taxi driver.
    Anais reached in her purse and pulled out a wad of franc notes. “Here, use this.” She shoved them in Aimee’s hand.
    “Here’s a hundred francs,” Aimee said. “There’s more if we make it out of the has quartier without our friend.”
    “Quinze Villa Georgina,” Anais managed, then collapsed on the seat. Aimee loosened the tourniquet, glad to see the bleeding had stopped, and elevated Anais’s leg.
    As they sped up the Belleville streets toward Pare des Buttes Chaumont, Aimee slouched down. The streetlights flickered through the taxi windows. Cafes and bistros held lively crowds despite the cold, wet April night. Aimee paused, remembering the mailbox with