Murder in Pigalle Read Online Free PDF Page B

expanding waist and a broad Toulon accent. He sat laughing on a sofa, his tie loose, surrounded by three miniskirted women who kept his champagne flute topped up. Slow night. No one so far matched the FotoFit Zazie had showed her. Where was the bartender?
    “Monsieur?”
    “
Un moment
,” came a voice from a cellar opening in the floor behind the counter. Cool, mildew-tinged air drifted up from the subterranean depths. She heard cranking and metal grinding as a
monte-charge
, a dumbwaiter, delivered a rack of champagne bottles.
    The bartender emerged up the cellar steps, his broad shoulders strained under a tight T-shirt. An amazing arc of pomaded brown hair swept back into a ducktail behind his sideburns. A real Johnny Hallyday wannabe, only now Johnny, the Gallic Elvis, was an aging rock star with tax problems.
    “Un Perrier,” she said, her throat parched. “And information,
s’il vous plaît.
”
    “Do I know you?” he asked, a drawl clinging to his syllables. A Marseillais, from his accent—but then most of the bars were owned by Corsicans and Marseilles gangs. Or so the stories went. She flashed her private detective’s license with its none-too-flattering photo. At least she looked thinner in it.
    He plunked a glass and a green bottle on the counter.
    “I’m looking for a thirteen-year-old girl, red hair. She’s been seen outside your club.” She shoved a fifty-franc note across the bar.
    In one quick movement, he flicked off the bottle cap. “Minimum’s one hundred.”
    This would cost. Pigalle’s red-light heyday had waned as massage parlors replaced cabarets and clubs. Bartenders gouged anyone’s wallet for a simple drink. She put down another fifty francs. “So you’ve seen her?”
    “Not today,” the bartender said.
    She pulled out Zazie’s copy of the computer-generated FotoFit. “Have you seen this
mec
?”
    “Not tonight.”
    “Try stretching your vocabulary.” Aimée’s grip tightened on her chilled glass. “So last night then? He’s a regular?”
    The bartender shrugged. “What’s it to you?”
    She debated telling him. But he needed to work for his money first. “For a hundred-franc Perrier, I ask the questions, and you answer. What do you know?”
    But he’d slipped from behind the counter to serve anotherbottle to the table with the florid-faced man surrounded by hostesses.
    The club’s door opened, sending in a current of humid air.
    “Always first class with you, Aimée,” said René Friant, her partner. He was wearing a straw-colored linen suit, pink shirt and matching tie. His mouth turned down in distaste as he maneuvered himself up onto the barstool. At four feet tall, he was only a little taller than the stool himself. “Don’t tell me we’re in some under-the-radar, poised-for-discovery, three-star wine bar?”
    Before she could explain to René, the bartender returned.
    “Go along with me, René,” she said.
    “Served you before, little man,” said the bartender. “Kir Royale, wasn’t it?”
    René’s cheeks reddened. It seemed René had frequented this seedy
bar à bouchon
, where hostesses’ salaries were based on the number of champagne corks their clients popped.
    “Ah, no doubt you’ve got a treasure trove of Romanée-Conti and vintage Dom Pérignon stashed in the cellar,” René said. His green eyes flashed. “This place was famous during the war. A notorious haunt of Gestapo and high-ranking Vichy. The good old days.”
    Aimée stared at René. Where did that come from?
    “Close, little man,” said the bartender, not skipping a beat. “Just give our checkered past a few years to ferment into a titillating historical ambiance. There’s still too many alive who remember the jackboots.”
    “Let’s get back to this mec,” Aimée said, shoving the FotoFit across the counter again.
    “Came in a few times.” The bartender shrugged. “Like I said.”
    René’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this about?”
    She nudged René. Gave him the