Murder in Passy (11 page)

“Mademoiselle, our arrondissement encompasses two zip codes, with a Taittinger as reigning mayor. Despite our current
haut bourgeois
reputation, I recount our long history. It’s fascinating reading.” Gandon thumbed the pages, warming to his subject. “Eighteen seventy, the anti-Bonapartist Victor Noir’s assassination by Napoleon III’s nephew. A Républican hero. Legend goes women visit his tomb for fertility; go figure, but it adds glamour, eh, a footnote to history.” Gandon winked.

She shifted her feet, hoping this would lead somewhere.

“The attempt on Clemenceau’s life, 1919,” he said. “I’ll have you know we’ve even had our own serial killer, Dr. Marcel Petiot, a charmer who dismembered his patients, hid the bits in the courtyard well, then, copying his heroes the
boches,
incinerated them in his homemade crematorium. Of course, the real ‘French Connection’ heroin king, André Condemine, was gunned down not ten blocks from here.”

Gandon’s face was suffused with pride. Aimée unwound her silk scarf, wishing for an open window to ventilate the tepid, stale air.

“Who would have thought?” She hadn’t bargained on an earful. But the eager Gandon knew his turf. “Anything interesting on the political front?”

“
Bien sûr,
we’ve had our share.” Gandon thumbed the pages. “The 1980 synagogue bombing on rue Copernic, terrible. Four dead. I carried out what was left of the bodies.” He shook his head. “We had political terrorists—Action Directe, who’d hooked up with Carlos the Jackal. Not to mention a cannibal.” He looked up for Aimée’s admiration. “Name me another
quartier
that had a Japanese student cut up his teacher and eat her, eh?”

Aimée tried to look impressed.

“Even René Bousquet couldn’t hide his Vichy past. It caught up with him right in his doorway on Avenue Raphaël. Not two months ago, Princess Di departed on our patch too … don’t forget that.”

Gandon pulled out a map. “See, I color-coded and cross-referenced the crime locations on the chart below.”

Not a book she’d pick from the bookstore shelf. “Amazing,” she said, “such work and documentation.”

“But I have more.… ”

“Any action from the Basque Cultural center, your neighbor on rue Duban?” she smiled.

Gandon snorted. “Loud fêtes, noise-disturbance complaints. Unlike the eighties, when ETA came over the Pyrénées for sanctuary from Franco, robbed banks, bought guns.” Gandon rifled under the papers on his desk, found a copy of the current
Le Parisien.
“A sea change. Look at this: a French Basque leader ready to broker peace negotiations!”

Aimée stared at the small article midway down the front page.
Basque referendum agreement … negotiations set for Bayonne area … military units pull back … celebrating a reception at Musée Marmottan.

“
Merci,
Gandon,” she said.

A sea change? She’d find out. It might mean nothing, but right now she had little else to go on.

She hit Morbier’s cell phone number on her speed dial, praying he’d been released. Already late afternoon, and still no answer—nor any message from him on her phone.

In order to vindicate Morbier, she needed a suspect. Another angle. Minutes later, she headed down rue Duban, a narrow shop-lined street, feeding into the heart of the old village of Passy. Midway, she found the Basque Cultural Center in a courtyard near the rear staircase. After climbing the winding narrow stairs to the fourth floor, she knocked on the office door.

“Entrez,
” a voice said.

A young man wearing a T-shirt in red, white, and green, the Basque colors, and a wool cap sat behind a computer screen, humming to himself. Posters on the wall showed the picturesque harbor of Saint Jean de Luz and caramel stone castle fortresses in the Pyrénées, proclaiming
LE PAYS BASQUE, VIVE LA DIFFéRENCE
.

“
Bonjour,
Monsieur.” She smiled.

He pointed to the twilight descending over the jagged rooftops outside the window. “More like
bonsoir
, Mademoiselle.” He gave her a big grin. “I’m Edrigu. You’re here for tickets to the fête? We’ve got a special top DJ from Pau.”

“I wish, but I’m out of town then,” she said. “But my friend Irati.… ”

“That’s my daughter’s middle name,” he said. “Beautiful, eh? Means fern, you know.”

“
Vraiment?
Then you know my friend?” she asked, hopeful. “She gave me this.”

He shook his head. His brow creased as he perused the leaflet in Aimée’s hand. Gave a snort. “Old news. The Euskadi Action?” He stood up from the computer, glanced at the time. “Haven’t seen them for a while. We disagree with these protests. Not worth your while.”

“But it lists your center.… ”

“We pulled out,” he said. “Those types ruin the dialogue, stop progress for Basque autonomy. We’re progressive here.”

“How’s that?” she said.

“Simple. The referendum passed, and our consul Goikoetxea’s brokering negotiations for a Basque peace settlement,” he said. “Euskadi Action’s staging a protest. So what? For once, the Progressives gained a majority. Almost a done deal. Goikoetxea’s here to seal it.”

She recalled the article in
Le Parisien.
But how did it involve Irati?

“So you’re saying Goikoetxea’s a force for peace—”

“And progress, modern thinking,” he said. “Unlike ETA or the splinter group Euskadi Action. There’s more to Basque nationalism than our famous Ixtapha cherries and bombs. He’s making the official announcement of the new accord at the Marmottan reception.”

Piped strains of tinny music drifted in from outside the window. The music of childhood. “Aahh, the
orgue de Barbarie
,” he said.

Down on the cobblestoned street, an older man was turning the handle of an organ barrel. A few children looked out their windows, pointing. Aimée reached in her bag and threw down a coin from the window, as she’d done as a child.

Edrigu shut down the computer and pulled on his windbreaker. “My daughter would love to see this. I’ve got to pick her up from
l’école maternelle
.” He paused at the door. “If you want to know more, ask the
mecs
at the bistro.”

“Where’s that?”

“On the corner.”

* * *

F
OR ALL THE
bistro’s turn-of-the-century decor—pale nicotine-stained ceilings, an out-of-commission charcoal-burning stove with a flowerpot of asters crowning it, age-spotted mirrors above the red-and-white—checked tablecloths, lace curtains over faded lettering on fogged-up windows—the clientele surprised Aimée. Not the usual upscale wedge of the 16th outfitted in Hermès scarves, pearls, and tweeds.

Here the men at the bar wore flat black berets and loose suit jackets, and they perched over shot glasses of a pale yellow liquid. Everyone was smoking.

She’d kicked the habit. Three days and three hours short of a month. Not that she missed it.

To a man, they all turned, gave her a once-over that lasted a second, then turned back without a break in their conversation. A closed world, and she’d been noted as an outsider to their camaraderie. Her palms tingled; she felt as if she’d time traveled and been dropped into a Basque bistro in Bayonne. Complete with locals, pelota playing on the
télé,
and the aroma of something simmering in a red wine sauce.

At one of the tables, two older men—one wore a pinstriped suit, the other a cashmere overcoat—were selecting from a plate of green and black olives. The air lay thick with the tang of Gauloises and a dialect that she figured was Basque.

The only other female, a young woman in jeans and an apron, was sweeping the floor and didn’t look up.

Still, Aimée had to concentrate, use this as a route to find out about the Euskadi Action group and its link to Irati.

If Irati was receiving flyers from a Basque group down the street that didn’t meet any more, Aimée doubted it could be linked to Xavierre’s murder. Yet Xavierre would be known in this Basque community. Hadn’t René said that everything with the Basques was political? A peace announcement seemed to be imminent; little good that info did her. But right now she was clutching at straws, anything to point in a different direction regarding Xavierre’s murder. Any suspect instead of Morbier.

“Something to chase the cold, Mademoiselle?” The barman gestured to a stool. “This gentleman offers to buy you a drink.”

Time to learn whatever she could here. And a drink sounded good.

Aimée knocked back the shot of Izarra, the sweet Basque liqueur with its signature star on the bottle’s label.

“Forty different herbs; good for the heart, the digestion, and the spirit,” said the short white-haired man next to her.

More like forty proof. The herbal taste burned the back of her throat. He winked and pushed his beret farther up his flushed forehead. “Now, if I was forty years younger.… ”

“But you’re not, Citu,” said a man from the table. “Quit boring the young lady.”

The man at the table cocked his fist by his nose, the gesture meaning tipsy. Like most of the ones leaning on the bar, she’d noticed from their glazed eyes and high-octane breath. So far, they’d muttered in a Basque dialect and were more interested in the handball game than conversation.

“Some olives, Mademoiselle?”

But an idea sparked into her head. No doubt inspired by the Izarra.

“Why not?” She gave a big smile and sat down at their table. “Maybe you can advise me. The Basque center’s closed. I wasted a trip here, but my niece wants to learn Basque,” she said. “I promised her a visit to Bayonne. Irati suggested the Center might give classes. But is it safe?”

“You’ve never had an olive like these. Taste.” Like a command, the man in the cashmere overcoat with a poker face rivaling film star Lino Ventura’s pushed the bowl toward her. Wrinkled black and green olives glistening with oil. “From my cousin’s grove in Navarre, aged, then cured high in the Alta Pyrénées.”

She chewed, tasting a deep explosion of herbs, almost the warmth of the sun, the meaty olive.

“
Voilà,
look at her face. She understands.” He gave a knowing look to his friend, jabbed him in the rib. Close-cropped white hair, rugged cheekbones, he let out a big laugh that splintered his face. “Ours is a language of the eyes.
Oui,
you already speak a little Basque.” Deep laughter erupted from his chest. “You Parisians don’t know from olives, don’t know from our country. Always worried, for what? Our people respect the land; we live with nature, not that old bloodshed.”

She spit the pit into her palm, dropped it in the ashtray.

“Didn’t I tell you, eh?” he said. “I’ll leave some with the owner. Bring your niece. The girl must visit the Basque country. Learn our language, the oldest language in the world, our customs; not even the Romans ruled us. She’ll never come back.”

“You’re from the tourist board?” She smiled. A high-powered broker of a sort, she figured, with his long black cashmere coat, well-cut suit underneath. A type to move in Xavierre’s circles.

He jabbed his friend again. “I like her.” He extended his hand, gripped Aimée’s in a strong handshake. “Beñat. My friend Paulo.”

“Aimée. But maybe you know my friend Irati,” she said. “Irati’s involved in the Euskadi Action, lives nearby.”

Paulo shrugged. “We’re here on business.”

“Her mother Xavierre came from Bayonne,” she said, lowering her eyes. “It was … terrible. It was on the news last night. Her murder.”

“Aah, a tragedy. I heard.” Paulo shook his head.

“My family knew hers, but years ago,” Beñat said. “Who’d ever think this could happen? Mademoiselle, how can you worry about the Basque country when you’ve got murder here on the streets?”

Beñat erupted in a salvo of coughing and covered his mouth. Racking coughs came from deep in his chest. His eyes watered.
“Excusez-moi,”
he said when he recovered. “Chest cold. Can’t seem to shake it.”

She didn’t know the man, but she felt sympathy.

“Has the doctor checked that out?”

“We have a deal, the doctors and I,” he said. “I don’t bother them; they don’t bother me.” He shot her a grin, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

“You sound like my godfather,” she said. Her shoulders tensed, thinking of Morbier in a cold cell in the damp, dripping underground.

“Tell him to try this. Puts the doctors out of business.” He downed a shot glass of Izarra, waved to the barman. “We’re late, Paulo.” He stood, his chair scraping back over the mosaic tiles. He buttoned his coat. “Take your niece to Bayonne, Mademoiselle.” He gave a brief bow.
“Enchanté.”

At the bar, Aimée caught the barman’s attention. “What do I owe you?”

He waved her francs away. “Taken care of by the gentlemen.”

“Great olives. May I order some?” she said, hoping to get more of a take on them. “That’s their business,
non
?”

“And I’m Franco’s bastard love child,” he said, a current running in his voice. No amusement glittered in his eye. “Bayonne business bigwigs. Money coming out of their pores. Ones who moan that the Paris-to-Madrid high-speed train will carve up the Basque countryside, ruin the culture. That’s until their lobbyists bribe planning commissions to build a station near their factory. Then they change their tune. Or ETA stops bombing the tracks.”