He looked up, his prominent jaw working in time to what she imagined was the music beat. She saw the name, “Hassan Ely-mani,” embroidered in red on his upper pocket.
“Monsieur Elymani, may I have a moment of your time?”
He pulled out his headphones, set the broom against the crook of his arm, and lifted a bracelet of worry beads from his pocket. Brown and worn, they slid through his fingers.
“You a flic?” he asked.
“My name’s Leduc; I’m an investigator.”
“Tiens, they don’t do business there anymore,” he interrupted. “Scattered. I told the police,” he shrugged. “Like the clouds on a windy day.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Monsieur Elymani.”
“Over there,” he said, pointing beyond the day-care center to the narrow passage jutting into rue du Buisson St. Louis, with buildings slated for demolition.
“Voila. The slime hung out near rue Civiale,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Catch me up, Monsieur,” she said, scanning the street. The view from Sylvie Coudray’s window, she imagined, looked over those rooftops dotted with pepper-pot chimneys. She wanted to know what he saw.
“Who exactly are you referring to?”
“Les droguées,” he said, his cork-colored fingers coaxing the worry beads through his hands.
Junkies? Parts of the area, she knew, held pockets of them. Morbier, a commissaire, had told her flics often let junkies carve out a corner for themselves. “For efficiency,” he’d said. “We keep tabs on them, and they don’t venture further for clientele. Designer drugs come and go, but there’re always addicts with habits who work, pay bills, and stay afloat.” His tolerant attitude surprised her. “Fact of life,” he continued. “When they wash up on my turf, I put them back out to sea.”
Elymani ran his eye over her clothing. “You undercover?”
“You might say that,” she said, realizing her appearance could give rise to that conjecture. “I’m interested in Sylvie Coudray,” Aimée said pointing to the first-floor windows.
“I’m not a betting man,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “But does this have to do with the explosion?”
The rain had ceased, and weak sunlight filtered through the seventeenth-century hospital arches.
“Sylvie Coudray’s murder—” she began.
His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Who do you mean? They said Eugénie was killed.”
“Eugénie?” Aimée paused. Had Elymani gotten her confused with someone else? “Monsieur, can you describe her?”
Ahead, opposite them, a car pulled up.
“My hours change a lot,” Elymani said. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
A stocky man in a tight double-breasted suit alighted from the car and waved at Elymani.
Elymani slipped the worry beads back in his pocket and began sweeping. “Excuse me, but the patron’s here, and I haven’t hosed down the lockers.”
“Monsieur Elymani, does she live at number 20?” Aimée asked. “That’s all I want to know.”
“Look, I’m working,” he said bending down, scooping a clump of leaves into a plastic bag. “I need this job.”
“Monsieur Elymani, who’s Eugénie?” Aimée said. “Please, I’m confused.”
Elymani shook his head. “Lots of people come and go,” he said, motioning her toward the gate. “I get mixed up.”
Fine, she thought. Clam up when it suits you. She’d follow up later. She’d often found that witnesses who grew uncommunicative turned helpful later.
“May I talk with you after work?” she said, handing him her card.
“Don’t count on it,” he said.
“Please, only five minutes of your time.”
“Look, I work two jobs,” he muttered, glancing at the man who’d motioned to him a second time. “I’m lucky to do that.”
Aimée decided to cut her losses. She turned and walked over to the entrance of 20 bis and studied the nameplate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elymani in conversation with the man. He tossed her card into his garbage bag.
She ran her fingers over the name E. Grandet. Her mind teemed with questions. Why would Sylvie Coudray insist on meeting Anaïs here? Had Elymani mistaken Sylvie for Eugénie? Too bad the building had no concierge whom she could question. Concierges were a vanishing breed in Paris these days, especially in Belleville.
She had ventured one door down when a young woman with a stroller burst from the doorway. Empty string shopping bags twined around the handles.
“Excuse me,” Aimée said. “I’m investigating the death of a woman next door. Did you know her?”
The baby’s coo escalated to a higher pitch, and the woman’s mouth formed a moue of distaste. “I work the night shift,” she said glancing at her watch. “My husband too. We don’t know anyone. Or see anyone.”
The sky darkened, and a light patter of rain danced on their umbrellas.
“I’m sorry, I must bring the baby to the creche, give my mother-in-law some peace. Talk with her; she’s home all the time. Bellemtre, some flic wants to talk with you.”
She punched in the four-digit code, the door clicked, and she motioned Aimée inside.
“First floor on the right.” And the woman was gone.
The foyer, similar to next door’s, held piles of bundled circulars and newspapers in the corner. Aimée stuck her umbrella in a can with the others and tramped upstairs. A stout woman, her grizzled gray hair in a hairnet, beat a small carpet on the landing. The dull, rhythmic thwack-thwackl raised billows of dust. From the apartment interior, Aimée heard the Dallas theme song blaring from the television.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Aimée smiled, pulling out her ID. She felt the chill from her damp boots rise up her legs.
“You don’t look like a flic,” the old woman said, scanning Aimée up and down.
“You’re perceptive, Madame, I can tell,” Aimée said, edging up the stairs toward the door, trying to ascertain the view from inside her apartment. “I’m a private detective, Madame …?”
“Madame Visse,” she said, drawing out the s, her tone rising. “God’s got chosen helpers. Those he uses in emergencies.”
Aimée nodded. The old woman seemed a slice short of a baguette.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“Edouard—that’s my son—says people will think I’m folk, they’ll put me away,” she said, showing Aimée the way inside. “But that’s their problem, eh. I know what I know.”
Aimée looked around, noticing the boxlike front hall with rain boots, a crowded coatrack, and a crushed box of Pampers.
She moved into the kitchen. On the left a row of spice jars ringed the galley-style kitchen. Pots bubbled on the cooktop, curling steam fogged the only window. Rosemary and garlic aromas filled the air. Aimée’s stomach growled in appreciation—all she’d eaten today was a croissant. A patched lace panel hung over the open window, fluttering in the wind. To the left, inside a dark room lined with bookshelves, toys littered the floor. Cardboard boxes were piled everywhere.
“My son and daughter-in-law’s name are near the top of the housing list,” she said, her thin mouth curling as she frowned. “When they get the call, they’re packed.” The woman returned to her cooking and stirred the pot.
“Madame Visse, did you know the woman killed in the car bombing?” she asked, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. She wanted to see if Madame Visse’s window looked into her neighbor’s courtyard. The window was to the left of the cooktop. It overlooked number 20’s back courtyard.