Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis Read Online Free PDF Page B

sweatshirt. “Le Pen, that fascist . . . you’re calling me a saboteur?”
    He banged his fist on the littered desk, sweeping papers onto the floor.
    Brigitte’s eyes flashed. “And as soon as you could, you headed here and ransacked the office!” She grabbed his arm.
    He had to calm down. If they didn’t believe him, the oil companies, led by Alstrom, the worst one, would get away, implicating him as a spy, a saboteur. “I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “But you must believe me: we were all betrayed.”
    Four pairs of eyes stared at him.
    “We had them dead to rights; the evidence was here, in black and white. So they sent someone to steal the files after setting me up,” he told them. “If we don’t find those files or get hold of Orla—who has more information—the oil companies will be able to push their agreement through. We can’t fight among ourselves; we have to act against them before it’s too late.”
    Instead of nodding in agreement, Brigitte reached for the phone. “You stole the files. You’ve worked things perfectly so the agreement can’t be stopped,” she said. She picked up the receiver and dialed 18. “You can tell your story to the flics when they arrive.”
    His pulse raced. He’d been framed but they wouldn’t believe him. He was cornered. He made his feet move, backed out the door, and ran down the stairs.

Monday Midnight
    AIMÉE PUSHED OPEN the gleaming green door of the Chambre Professionelle des Artisans Boulanger-Pâtissiers , the bakers’ union and academy, and rushed past bread sculptures, ancient kneading tables, and a turn-of-the-century wooden bread cart in the foyer. Woodcuts of bread ovens lined the walls. The door clicked shut behind her. Now if she could just . . . The door buzzer sounded and she jumped. Her hands trembled. To get in, you had to know the door code, like she did; few buzzed unannounced at night. The buzzer sounded again, echoing off the stone-paved foyer. She leaned down, trying to catch a glimpse of the person who was buzzing for admittance through the crack in the four-hundred-plus-year-old door. But no one was visible in the dim sodium yellow of the streetlight. A car engine started, and she heard the the motor idling on the quai. She hoped it was the person who had followed her, about to drive away. Then a muffled cough came from right outside the door. She had to hurry and get out of here.
    Pungent warm yeast smells filled her lungs. In the rear, she saw a group of men in the kitchen wearing white cooks’ shirts buttoned on the side, like a culinary military uniform, she always thought. Indeed, the baking master ran the academy with precision rivaling the nearby Arsenal’s cavalry exercises.
    A row of bullet-like moist white baguettes sat on the marble kneading table, poised for insertion into the wall oven.
    “Escaped again, eh?” Montard asked, measuring cup in hand, his wide brow and flushed face beaded with perspiration.
    The buzzer sounded again. Montard shot a look over his flour-dusted shoulder. “Another man who wouldn’t take no for an answer? This one’s persistent.”
    She’d used the academy’s back exit before. It came in handy when a date turned sour. She shrugged, sticking her shaking hands in her pockets.
    “The espresso is on me, Montard.”
    “Someday . . . you’re always asleep when I’m working.”
    The oven timer beeped and Montard sprang into position, reaching with a long wooden paddle to hoist the baked loaves onto cooling trays. She walked past the industrial-sized aluminum mixer and hundred-kilogram sacks of flour and bins of Maldon sea salt to open the fire exit door. Threading her way through the courtyard, past a dormant rose trellis and hedges winding by an old well, she emerged by her own courtyard’s old carriage house. She paused until she was sure that no one was following her. Shining her penlight in the corners, she checked her courtyard again. And then trudged upstairs. In her apartment