Murder in the Bastille Read Online Free PDF Page A

wait?”
    “Of course.” Now she was stuck.
    “I’ll find the volunteer coordinator,” the nurse said, guiding Aimée to a hard plastic chair with sticky armrests. “Have a seat. It might take some time.”
    “Where’s my room?”
    “Second door on the left. But wait until we can show you, mademoiselle. We follow rules in this ward. It’s for your safety.”
    Footsteps slapped over the linoleum.
    No way would she wait, it could take hours. Might as well find her own way back.
    She stood, felt her way along the smooth wood hall railing, guiding herself by the low drone of the TV from rooms and the muffled beep of machines. So far so good, she thought. But as she rounded a corner and felt the second door, she smelled bleach and soap.
    Then she ran into something with ridges that crinkled like cellophane. She stepped on a soft foamlike substance that yielded. Something hard whacked her cheek. Clanging noises came from her feet and then they were cold and wet. She grabbed what felt like a pole. Her feet stung.
    Great.
    She’d walked smack into a mop, upsetting a pail of soapy ammonia by the stink and the burning of her toes. Or something worse. She’d stumbled into a broom closet.
    A total liability! She couldn’t even find her room. Useless! She fought back tears welling in her useless eyes.
    What was that other smell . . . familiar and jarring? And it came back. That awful odor as hands gripped her neck from behind, squeezing tighter and tighter. Her choking gasps for air. She trembled.
    Tar.
    “Found something interesting, mademoiselle?” asked a voice she recognized.
    Why had he sneaked up on her?
    “Dr. Lambert,” she said, taking a deep gulp, “what’s tar used for in the hospital?”
    “Besides tarring the roof?” he said. “Who knows?”
    “That wouldn’t be kept in a closet, would it?”
    “Mademoiselle Leduc, I planned to run more tests on you,” he said, before she could ask more. “But now I need to finish my rounds.”
    “Go ahead, Dr. Lambert.”
    “First, you need help.”
    Strong arms grasped and lifted her up. A stethoscope hit her arm. Her wet, bare feet dangled in the air. She felt frightened and disoriented.
    “Look I can walk . . . put me down.
    “Not if you’ve got a chemical burn.”
    Her feet stung and a big lump wedged in her throat. Hugging her to his warm chest, the doctor carried her back to her room, sat her down, stuck her feet in a tub of water, and paged the nurse. “Do me a favor,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back.”

    “ ZUT! TH I S looks like a nice mess,” said a nurse with a soft Provençal accent. Embarrassed, Aimée let the nurse clean her up. The doctor hadn’t answered her question about the tar. The nurse remained silent when Aimée asked, and scurried off before she could press the question.
    In the hospital bed, Aimée fumbled for the room phone. After two tries she got the operator. But Leduc Detective had the message machine on. She tried René’s apartment. No answer. Then she tried his cell phone, and got his voice mail.
    “Please René, I’m sorry, but can you bring me clothes?” she said. “Makeup. My boots. Everything’s gone. Unless it’s scattered in the passage. And can you check on Miles Davis?”
    She knew how to do two things well, smoke and park at an impossible angle. Now she could do only one. If only she could have a smoke!
    What was she thinking? How could she apply makeup? And her apartment, she’d have to reach the contractor and put the work on hold.
    All she got was their answering machine. She left a message to call her at the hospital. Would they have started the work?
    She dialed the operator again and had him try Commissaire Morbier, her godfather, at the Préfecture.
    “Groupe R,” said an unfamiliar voice.
    “Commissaire Morbier, please.”
    “What’s this regarding?”
    “I’m his goddaughter, Aimée Leduc.”
    “He’s working out of the Commissariat in