Murder in the Sentier Read Online Free PDF Page B

on this sun-filled day, most sat under the awning on the terrasse . Shadows from the few clipped the trees on Place du Caire dappled the sidewalk.
    Christian Figeac, the deceased author’s son, was twenty minutes late to the cafe he’d chosen for their meeting. She’d contacted him via his father’s publisher, saying it was a police matter. After her bike ride from the office, she’d ordered an espresso. And waited.
    A tall man with stringy sandy hair entered. He was in his late twenties, a few years younger than she was. He wore a synthetic leather jacket, silver and tight, over a black shirt. His deep gray eyes sought her, nailed her, and she knew it was him.
    “Christian Figeac,” he said simply and shook her hand. His palms were moist and warm. He looked around, warily then said, “Let’s sit down over there.” He pointed toward an old-fashioned leather banquette.
    “For meeting me, merci ,” she said, bringing her espresso with her. “I apologize for the bad timing….”
    “I only agreed because you can help me,” he said.
    Help him?
    “Your father might have known my mother,” she said. “That’s why …”
    “He knew lots of people,” Christian Figeac interrupted, apparently uninterested.
    “Ever heard of Sydney Leduc or a woman named de Chambly?” She remembered the name B. de Chambly from the Frésnes Prison envelope.
    Christian Figeac shook his head. He rubbed his nose with his sleeve.
    “What about Jutta Hald?” Aimée asked. “Did she call or visit you?”
    He waved his hand dismissively. A nervous twitch shook his jaw every so often. “Listen, I can’t go in there anymore.”
    “Go in where?” She felt sorry for him but so far this conversation was going nowhere.
    He pulled out a thick cigar, Cuban by the look of it, and proceeded to light the end. But his hands shook, a steady tremor.
    “It’s Papa’s atelier, you see,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “Can’t seem to sell it. The realtor told me to spruce it up, you know, the vanilla treatment. But this is the 2nd arrondissement on the tony Right Bank. The place should sell itself.”
    “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “Now, I’m sorry to keep bringing this back to Jutta Hald, but I think she was looking for your father.”
    “Now she can find him under the earth with the worms.”
    He sounded bitter. And clueless.
    “It’s the ghosts, you see,” he leaned forward, a stricken look on his face. “They won’t let me.”
    Maybe he was insane. A dead end.
    She found a ten-franc piece and slapped it onto the table.
    “Look,” Aimée said, opening her backpack, “you’re going through a hard time. I wish you the best, but …”
    “Wait, please.” He grabbed her arm. Perspiration beaded his upper lip. She hadn’t seen him order but a white-aproned waiter appeared with an espresso, set it on the table for Figeac, and whisked her ten francs away.
    “I’ll think about those names you mentioned. What were they again? Signe? And who?”
    “ Tiens , I’ve got to go,” she said, trying to slide off the leather banquette. But her leather skirt stuck to the seat, making a sucking noise and riding up her thighs.
    “Hear me out.” He grabbed her arm again and wouldn’t let go. His cigar smoke got in her face.
    She kept her tone civil. “I came here to find out if there was some connection between your father, Jutta Hald, and my mother—”
    “Papa committed suicide last week,” he interrupted. “It was ten years to the day since my mother did the same thing.” He puffed on his cigar.
    Now the story came back to Aimée. In the seventies, his mother, an American actress, was rumored to be carrying a French terrorist’s baby. She miscarried and had a breakdown. Her career was over. Several years later, on the anniversary of the miscarriage, her body was found in her car in the Bois de Vincennes. Too many pills.
    “Papa wanted to clear her name,” Christian Figeac said. “Reveal how Interpol