Before he could hesitate, she nudged herself between him and the door leading out the back of his shop. She was determined to find out what he really saw in 1943. Despite the Gallic genius for evasion, she counted on the Pernod to loosen his tongue.
He shrugged. "As you like. I don't have much to say." He scrubbed the back of his neck with a grayish flannel washcloth as he led her down the narrow hallway lit by a yellowed bulb. Sliding off his shoes, he indicated that she should do the same before entering a parlor sitting room.
This room, suffocatingly warm due to a modern oil heater, smelled of used kitty litter. A Victorian rocker plumped with threadbare chintz cushions sat in front of a sixties greenish chrome television set. A bent rabbit-ear antenna sat on top of it. Cascading strands of blue crystal beads formed an opaque curtain that hung from the door frame to the floor, separating the small cooking area. Javel returned from the kitchen balancing a tray with two glasses and a pitcher of water. Aimee willed herself not to get up and help him while he laboriously set the rattling tray on a scrubbed oak table. She pulled a small tin of pâte out with the bottle and his eyes lit up.
"I have just the thing to go with that," he said.
He clinked past the beads again, carrying a chipped Sèvres bowl full of stale, damp soda crackers. Aimee watched him set out embroidered lace-fringe linen napkins and picked one up.
"These are almost too beautiful to use," she said, noting the ornately intertwined A and F.
"Arlette did these. The whole set is still stored in our wedding chest. I don't have guests much, figured might as well use them."
"You knew Lili Stein," she said. "Why keep it a secret from me?"
Slowly he mixed the water with Pernod until it became properly milky. He rubbed some pâte on a cracker. "Why are you snooping around?" he said.
"Doing my job." She moved her chair closer to his. "Lili's murder is connected to Arlette's."
He chuckled and poured himself more Pernod. "The prewar Pernod absinthe got made with wormwood and ate one's brain away."
"Who killed Arlette?" she said.
He drank it down and poured himself another glass.
"Aren't you the detective?" he said.
"But you have your own theory," she said. "Something you saw that the flics didn't?" she said.
Surprise flitted briefly across his face.
"What did you see?" she said, excited by the look in his eyes.
A long, loud burp erupted from deep in his stomach.
"Buggers," he said. "Beat me."
"Why? Why did they beat you, Javel?"
His eyes narrowed. "You're a Jew, aren't you?"
She shook her head. "What if I was?"
"I don't like your type," he said. "Whatever it is."
"Then don't vote for me at the Miss World pageant," she said.
He smeared pâte on more stale crackers and shoveled them on the plate.
There had to be some way to reach this concrete-headed little man. "Aren't you afraid, Javel? I mean, you mentioned hate attacks and random neo-Nazi violence in the Marais. But you don't seem very nervous to me."
He sputtered, "Why should I be?" He poured himself another glass.
"Exactly. Especially if you knew that Lili's murder had something to do with the past."
"Leave me alone," he said. "Go away." He turned, his mouth twitching.
"Tell me what you saw."
He shook his fist in the air but still wouldn't look at her.
Now she wanted to shake it out of him.
"Look, I know you don't like me but holding it in won't bring Arlette back! You want justice, so do I. And we both know we have to find it ourselves. Right? Did the flics do anything but beat you?"
She couldn't see his face. Finally he spoke, his back still turned toward her. "Everything started with that damned tinned salmon," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.
"Stuffed in her wardrobe. Everywhere," he said.
"Black market?"
He turned and reached for his glass. She slowly poured him another. Rachel Blum's words spun in her head.
"Arlette sold black-market food. She was a BOF, right?" she said.
Shaken, he looked up. "I haven't heard that term in years." He sighed. "She graduated to petrol, watches, even silk stockings. I told Arlette these things were too dangerous."
"Did Lili help her?" she said.
Saliva bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
"Where was Lili? Did you see her?"
"I tried to apologize," he shrugged. "But there were so many bloody footsteps. All over."
"Why were you sorry? Did you and Arlette argue?"
He nodded.
"The footsteps went upstairs?" Aimee asked. "You thought they were Lili's?"
He raised his eyebrows.
"Javel, Lili saw what happened. Why didn't you ask her?"
He shook his head. "She was gone. There were so many footsteps by the sink."
"Lili wasn't there? Maybe hiding somewhere?"
His eyes had narrowed to slits. She was afraid he was about to pass out. She took a gulp of Pernod to combat the pervasive ammonia smell from the kitty litter.
"Javel," she said loudly and tiredly. "Tell me why."
"I told the inspector." He spoke more lucidly, unaware of the tears trickling down his cheeks in thin silvery lines. "They beat me bloody at Double Morte. Called me a cripple. Said I couldn't get it up and laughed at me. First inspector got too greedy for a black-market collabo."
"What was his name?" Aimee asked.
"Lartigue. Run over by a Nazi troop truck accidentally, they say."
"Lili knew who killed Arlette, didn't she?" she said.
He shoved the empty glass towards her and she poured him more Pernod with a generous dash of water.
"Rachel said Lili knew," Aimee said. "Come on, Javel, who else would know?"
He shrugged, then leaned forward. "That Yid collabo who slept with a boche." He whispered, squinting his eyes, "With her bastard baby." His shoulder sagged. "Had the same eyes."
"Same eyes?" Who was he talking about?
"Such bright blue eyes for a Jew!" he said.
"When was the last time you saw her?" Aimee asked excitedly.
His head landed heavily on the table. Passed out. Only when he was snoring did Aimee tuck the crocheted blanket around him. She put milk in a bowl for the missing cat, rinsed out the glasses in his dingy sink, and shut the door quietly behind her.
Monday Evening
LE RENARD, "THE FOX," was a relic of Les Halles in the fifties. Somehow it had missed the wrecking ball that had swung on rue du Bourg Tibourg when they razed the old central market of Les Halles. There, Violette and Georges served their famous soupe a l'oignon gratinee at 5:00 A.M. for the few fish sellers who still plied their trade nearby.
Aimee had arranged to meet Morbier here. After Javel's information, she counted on getting Morbier's approval to set her plan in motion.
She entered the haze of cigarette smoke and loud laughter. Georges winked as she smoothed down her black dress, inched her toes comfortably in the black heels, and adjusted her one good strand of pearls. She slid around the corner of the zinc bar to kiss him on both cheeks.
"Eh, where have you been? The snooping business keep you too busy to shoot the bull with old flics?" Georges teased with a straight face.
"I had to raise my standards sometime, Georges, my reputation was getting tarnished," she threw back affectionately.
Morbier perched at the counter, poking in his pants pockets for something. He found an empty pack of Gauloises, crumpled the cellophane, then searched his overcoat.
"Any chance of Violette's cassoulet for me and this one?" She nudged Morbier as she said it.