“Non.” Madame Tardou blew her nose. “Look, if that’s all you need to know I’d appreciate if you left.”
But the woman might have noticed something after all, even if she didn’t realize it.
“If you’ll permit me to clarify a few things. Think back to eleven o’clock last night. Did you hear anything unusual on the roof, see any lights over there?” Aimée pointed at the apartment windows almost directly opposite.
“I did hear snippets of conversation,” Madame Tardou replied. “At first I thought they were speaking Italian.”
Italian? Excited, Aimée took a step closer. The woman reeked of eucalyptus oil.
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Non. And it must have been some drama on the télé. I was drifting in and out of sleep with this terrible cold.”
“What made you think it was Italian?”
“We used to go there on holiday,” she replied.
“What did they say?”
“Maybe it wasn’t Italian.”
“Please, it’s important. Can you place the language?”
Zoe Tardou shook her head. “I know they talked about the stars and planets.”
Had Zoe Tardou been dreaming after all?
“How could you tell?”
“Sirius, Orion, and Neptune, those names I could understand.”
“Male or female voices?”
“Male voices. Two, at least. I remember, in the village people talked about the constellations,” Zoe Tardou said, her gaze somewhere else, speaking as if to herself. “It didn’t seem so odd.” She shrugged. “Almost familiar. At least where I came from.”
Curious, Aimée wondered how this tied in. If she didn’t pursue the words of this strange woman she feared she’d regret it later.
“Where’s that?”
“Near Lamorlaye.”
Lamorlaye? Why did that sound so familiar? Her mind went back to the scratched yellow Menier chocolate tin always on her grandmother’s counter, the words fondé 1816 above the braids of the Menier girl with her basket filled with chocolate bars. And every summer afternoon her grandmother preparing her a tartine et chocolat, a thick slab of Menier chocolate laid between halves of a buttered baguette.
“Lamorlaye, that’s near the Château Menier, the family that’s famous for the chocolate.”
Zoe Tardou sniffed and blew her nose. She sat down and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes.
“So you watched the stars at night?”
“Eh?” Zoe Tardou bristled defensively. “The orphanage bordered the observatory—” She stopped, covered her mouth with her tissue. Like a little girl caught telling tales out of school.
“What do you mean?”
“The countryside’s full of glue sniffers,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “I went back last year. The young riffraff lie around in train stations sniffing glue.”
Glue sniffing? Where had that come from?
“Excuse me but—did you water your geraniums last night?” Aimée asked.
Madame Tardou started and dropped her tissue on the floor. ”What if I did?”
“We think some men escaped across the rooftops and descended through your building’s skylight. Did you see them while you were watering your plants?”
“It’s not safe anywhere any longer.”
Aimée paused. “Madame, did you hear any gunshots or see anyone?” she asked.
The woman shook her head. “The world’s full of opportunists.”
“I agree,” Aimée said, trying to humor her before returning to her line of questioning. “But when you watered your geraniums, did you see men on the scaffold or any on the roof?
“I’m going to call the locksmith to get more chains and bolts installed.”
Did Zoe Tardou fear retribution if she gave Aimée information? She seemed to be afraid of something.
“Please, Madame Tardou,” Aimée said. “A man was murdered. We need your help in this investigation. Whatever you tell me will remain confidential.”
Now the doorbell buzzed.
“Let me get that for you,” Aimée said. Before the woman could protest, she answered the door, accepted a proffered package, and returned to find Zoe curled up in a chair.
“Here’s your medication.”
“I’ve told you all I know, I watered my geraniums, but I saw nothing. I don’t feel well.”
“Madame Tardou, your information may be important,” Aimée said. “If you don’t wish to cooperate with me, I’m sure investigators will insist on taking your statement at the Commissariat.” A threat; she hoped it would work.
Zoe Tardou clutched her flannel nightshirt, pulling it tight around her. “Why question me, why not that pute on the street?”
Aimée didn’t remember seeing a prostitute on the street. “What pute?”
“The one who hangs out around the corner. The old one, she’s in the doorway all the time. Ask her.”
“What does she look like?”
“You know the type, lots of costume jewelry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you must leave.”
At least she had someone to look for now.
WITH RELUCTANT steps Aimée retraced the route she and Sebastian had taken. She pulled out her cheap compact Polaroid and took photos of the hall carpet, skylight, and the broken lock.
Outside, on narrow rue André Antoine, passersby scurried, late to work or school. She walked to the doorway of the building opposite. No prostitute. Disappointed, she tried Conari’s number.
“Monsieur Conari’s out of the office,” his secretary said.
All the reasons she’d hated criminal investigative work came back to her. Half the time potential witnesses were out of town, or at the doctor’s, or the hairdresser’s, and tracking them down took days. Leads turned to dust. Evidence deteriorated.
But Laure needed help. Now.
“When do you expect him?”
Aimée heard phones ringing in the background.
“Try again later.”
AIMÉE OPENED the frosted-glass-paned door of Leduc Detective, ran, and caught the phone on the second ring. Gray light worked its way through the open shutters into a zigzag pattern on the wood floor. She nodded to her partner. René’s short arms were full as he loaded paper into the printer.
“Allô?” she answered the phone, at the same time grabbing the ground coffee beans.
“Mademoiselle Leduc? Maître Delambre here, Laure Rousseau’s counsel,” a high-pitched male voice said.
Thank God. But he sounded young, as if his voice hadn’t changed yet.
“I’m between court sessions so I’ll get to the point. We have reservations concerning your involvement in Laure Rousseau’s case.”
“Who’s we?” Aimée said, catching her breath. “Laure asked for my help.”
“The police investigation has been comprehensive and thorough,” he said.
He not only sounded young, but as if he needed to show he was in control. She hit the button on the espresso machine, which grumbled to life.
“So comprehensive, Maître Delambre, that they haven’t yet questioned the inhabitants of the building opposite or investigated a broken skylight?”
“That’s the investigating unit’s responsibility,” he said. “And just how would you know this?”
“As I said, Laure asked for my help,” she said. Better to explain and try to work with him. Not alienate him. “We’re childhood friends; our fathers worked together in the police force.”
“You have admirable intentions, I’m sure, but your involvement won’t help the case or be looked on as anything but meddling.”
In other words, back off.
“I’m a private investigator,” she said, figuring it would be better not to mention that computer security was her field. “That’s what I do. You don’t even seem interested to learn that there may have been an eyewitness.”