Murder in the Palais Royal Read Online Free PDF

said.
“Como?”
    “A time-honored antidote to hangovers.” The yellowish herbal mixture came in a blue-and-white label Traitement d’appoint de douleurs fonctionelles d’origine digestive, and worked wonders.
    She blocked his way to the phone.
    “Monsieur René . . . the blood . . . how could you shoot this little man?” Luigi said, white-faced.
    Perspiration beaded her brow; the atmosphere in this office was stifling. But she had to get him to talk, to get information.
“Weren’t you watching the championship match?”
“Torino versus Palermo. . . .” His voice trailed off.
    She cleared a space on a cracked leather chair. “Sit down. Let’s discuss what you remember, what you actually saw.”
“I saw you. ” He pointed his finger accusingly.
“Me? Did you see my face?”
    “I saw your raincoat. The one you wear yesterday. I hear shots . . . terrible. Like when robbers held up my uncle’s store in Torino. I never forget the sound.” He glared at her. “Next door, Monsieur René’s shouting ‘Aimée.’ Then you run down the stairs.”
    “Maybe you only saw a woman my height?”
    “I give Monsieur René CPR, try to pressure the wound.” Luigi’s voice quavered. “But so much blood.”
    “You saved René’s life, Luigi.” She rocked on her heels. “Thank you.”
    For a moment, doubt appeared on Luigi’s face, a fleeting look of concern. “I don’t like to believe my eyes.”
    And then the look vanished. “I tell Arnaldo, call polizia , ambulanzia . You run away.”
“And the flics —”
“I give statement,” he interrupted. “The police find your gun.”
He clutched his mouth as nausea overtook him.
“I know why you come back. Now you kill me.”
She stared.
    “ Non —” then Luigi stopped himself. Fear shone in his dark eyes.
“What did you actually see, Luigi?”
“Your helmet. Fancy helmet you wear,” he said.
“My helmet? But it’s here in the office.”
    Blue Fever helmets like hers carried a price tag of over eight hundred francs; they were made in a limited edition.
“Why would I keep my helmet on, Luigi?”
“You crazy . . . I don’t know.”
    “Can’t you see, Luigi, the shooter wore the helmet to hide her face? And frame me.”
    “I tell polizia .” He leaned forward, breathing hard. “Please, they investigate.”
    Given Vichon’s attitude and the snail’s pace of the investigation, she wouldn’t count on it. Valuable time was slipping away as they spoke.
    “Luigi, I’d never hurt René. Believe me.”
    As long as she was the main suspect, and until Mathieu was reached by the police and asked to confirm her alibi, the real shooter would have ample time to disappear. Or worse, she might make another attempt on René.
    She ran out into the dimly lit hall. The crime-scene tape still hung over Leduc Detective’s closed door. A knot of worry filled her chest.
    She had to get in. She turned the doorknob with a measured twist, tiptoed inside, and heard the technician, somewhere in back, whistling. Her helmet hung from the coat rack. She grabbed it.
    “Who’s there?”
    Aimée shut the door, ignored the wire cage elevator, and ran down the steps two at a time. Out of breath, she hailed a taxi on rue du Louvre.
    “Where to, Mademoiselle?”
    The shooter thought she’d gotten away with it, Aimée thought. Not while there was breath in her body. She’d find the guilty woman, and protect René.
    A police car with flashing red-orange lights pulled up across rue du Louvre. Had the fingerprint technician alerted a patrol car? Or had Luigi reached the flics in record time? She didn’t care to find out.
    “Place du Marché Saint Honoré,” she said, breathless, to the taxi driver.
An easy place to lose a tail.
“But it’s not far.” Not worth the fare, he meant.
    She slipped him fifty francs. “And I’m sure you know a short cut.”
    * * *
    B Y MID-AFTERNOON, SHE’D visited six motorcycle accessory stores. ToutMoto, the last carrying the Blue Fever line on