Murder in Pigalle Read Online Free PDF

genius, who could translate the black notes on a page into strains of music that elevated his heart.
    He’d take that job. Any job. Sweep gutters with a broom. But he’d live straight.
    This was his chance.
    Jules wouldn’t like it, but
c’est la vie.
He’d decided.
    He hit Jules’s number. Heard him answer and clear his throat. His throaty smoker’s cough.
    “Took you long enough, Zacharié.” In the background he heard muffled voices, then the slam of a door. “We’re moving up the schedule.”
    “What now, Jules?”
    “Change of plans,” Jules said.
    The
salaud
would make it difficult, like always. Every project with Jules doglegged and spiraled. But he hadn’t had a choice in prison. Now the situation played out differently.
    “We’re moving up the schedule,” Jules said again.
    Zacharié stepped over a splattered cloud of pigeon droppings and braced himself. Time for the tricky part—to extricate himself from the job he’d set up. He’d keep it short, make it a chain of command issue.
    “Let Dervier know the new plan,” Zacharié began. “He’s the one handling—”
    “
Au contraire
,” Jules interrupted. “You deal with the labor issues. Run your team.”
    “Dervier’s a pro.”
    “More old-school than pro,
n’est-ce pas
?”
    “He’s experienced. What this job needs,” Zacharié said. Thank God he’d talked Dervier out of retirement. This heist demanded a seasoned pro, with steady nerves. Dervier’s forked tongue, split after a territorial gang dispute near Barbès, had put him on the sidelines last year. But he’d heisted buildings with much more complex security systems than this target. “Dervier grew up in the
quartier
, the son of a concierge, knows the sewers and old tunnels like the back of his scarred hand.”
    “My contract’s with you, Zacharié,” he said. “Didn’t I fix the judges, arrange your parole?”
    Zacharié wanted to throw the phone. Stamp it to pieces. Forget this deal and what he owed Jules. If he did this job now, he’d jeopardize his chance of gaining custody of Marie-Jo. He needed to convince Jules of Dervier’s skill so he could back himself out.
    “Speaking of parole, the officer makes me check in every day, monitors my job interviews,” he said, searching for an excuse. His mouth felt dry. Why couldn’t he summon the courage and shout no?
    Jules gave a small sigh. “Work it out, Zacharié. The job’s tomorrow night.”
    The supplies hadn’t arrived. The team wasn’t ready. “But we planned on after Fête de la Musique. Everyone goes crazy in the
quartier.
”
    “That’s why it’s perfect timing,” Jules said. “Make it work, Zacharié.”
    “Jules, my parole officer watches me like a hawk. If you move the job up, then count on Dervier. He’s perfect. You don’t need me. The team’s primed. I guarantee it.”
    There, he’d said it.
    Pause. Already he felt better. Jules would see reason.
    A horn blared over the phone. But the sound came from the boulevard—a car in front of him. The passenger window of a black Peugeot rolled down in front of him. Jules’s smiling face peered out of it. “Get in, Zacharié. You love your daughter, don’t you?”

Monday, 8 P . M .
    A IMÉE PERCHED ON a sticky leather stool at NeoCancan, a Pigalle bar fronted by a smoked black-glass window with a RECHERCHE HÔTESSES sign. The bar Zazie insisted the rapist frequented, and none too elegant.
    She needed to know if Zazie had come here tonight. She glanced at her moisture-clouded Tintin watch face. Hours already since she—or anyone—had seen Zazie.
    The dark club’s centerpiece, a minuscule black-carpeted stage, was ringed by red velvet sofas with gold tassels. The tables sported rotary-dial telephones—a retro gimmick for ordering champagne. Or maybe they were original, like the cracked, mosaic-tiled floor, she thought.
    She kept her fingers off the water rings on the counter. She saw only one client—a florid-faced man with thinning hair,