Paris Love Match

Chapter 24





Outside Bernard’s, the gendarme had moved on. Piers walked along the line of well-dressed patrons. They eyed him curiously, maybe unsure why someone would leave the club so early, or maybe wondering he if resembled the man on the motorbike.

Streetlights glowed through the misty drizzle and the night air felt good on his face. Neons lit up hotel signs, and light from shop windows spilled onto the road. He blew out a long breath. If the painting had been the answer to their problems, it would have been a wonderful night to be in Sidney’s company. Even when she’d made his blood boil, she’d lit up his world.

He arrived at the entrance to the dead end. The street looked dark, the city economizing on street lamps. He bought a large aluminum flashlight from a pharmacy on the corner and headed into the street’s gloom. He walked in the center of the road, keeping away from the doorways, and stretching his shoulders and flexing his fingers. He kept the flashlight off, gripping it with his right hand and slapping it satisfyingly into his left. It had a good heft and he found the idea of fighting a mugger strangely appealing.

But he didn’t need to work out his aggression; he needed get Sidney back, and to get Sidney back he needed to find the money. He slapped the flashlight into his palm. Yes, he had to get her back. The dictator had men and guns but he didn’t have the money. That was all he wanted, and that was the only thing that would save her.

Piers’ mouth went dry as he approached the giant dumpster. Brunwald had thrown Morel and his men in them, and they were undoubtedly dead, but he still had misgivings. He gave the yellow monster a wide berth.

Auguste’s car looked unloved. The seats had been wrenched free of their moorings and the carpets were stuffed into the driver’s seat. The dashboard had been pulled forward and the carpet in the rear hatchback was missing, exposing the spare tire and tire lever. Worst of all, dark patches on the roof testified to Morel’s violent end.

Piers flipped on the flashlight. Bullet holes glinted around the rear of the car. Auguste had been shot at while he was escaping from Gare de l’Est. The shots had been aimed low, and none of the glass in the car was broken. It seemed absurd, but perhaps the dictator’s men were trying to keep a low profile. Blowing the glass out in the car certainly would have brought plenty of attention in the street.

The door opened with a jolt and a clang. A large chunk of dashboard dropped to the ground. He stuffed it back into the car and sat on the dislodged driver’s seat. His flashlight caught two bullet holes in the dashboard.

He placed his hands on the steering wheel and twisted to stare out of the rear window. Auguste had been running from the fight at Gare de l’Est, probably driving like a madman while being shot. He’d been heading to Montparnasse station. He’d probably planned to take the direct route, then been forced into weaving though streets to throw off his attackers. He’d lived in Paris, so he’d have known the route better than Brunwald’s men.

Piers looked out of the driver’s side window and down the street. So, why turn into a dead end? He stepped out of the car. The gunmen would have been on his tail, yet he purposely trapped himself. If Auguste knew the roads in the area, surely he could have shook them off in other streets without turning into a dead end?

Piers walked the last thirty feet down the street. A tall, white, wooden barrier blocked his way. It was secured to the walls of the buildings on either side, leaving no way to pass. He shone his flashlight over the temporary wall. A large sign apologized for the disruption in several languages. A single name was written underneath. He didn’t have to sweep the light across the length of the name to know what it said. It was expected and unexpected. In large, neat, Courier script, the words “Waterloo Large Construction” blazed into the night.

He pulled up a map of the area on his phone. The road zigzagged to another that led across the Seine and onto Montparnasse. Beyond the white barrier lay the building project his company had been contracted to construct.

Piers stuffed his phone back into his pocket. No wonder Auguste had spat at him when he saw the Waterloo emblem on his shirt. Auguste had turned down this street believing he could shake off his pursuers, but Waterloo had blocked off the street the day before. They’d put up the white barriers, moved in the cranes, and sent Piers to fix the software. There was no way Auguste could have known Waterloo would foil his escape.

Piers looked back at the car. It was pointing toward the white barrier. Auguste had dumped the car when he saw the barrier and continued on foot. But where? Back past the pharmacy? That would have meant passing the gunmen chasing him. He swung the flashlight over the walls lining the sides of the street. There were no alleyways to access other streets. Piers bit his lip. What would he do if people were shooting at him? The answer was simple: run. And he only had one choice.

Piers swung his light over the tall white barricade. The warning sign was attached with large wooden blocks that might give purchase. He pulled himself up, wary of a steep drop on the other side.

Balanced on the top of the wall he saw that the site was deserted. Serious construction hadn’t started yet. The cranes stood silent in opposite corners, a Portakabin between them. The surface layer of the area had already been removed, leaving mud everywhere.

Directly below him, the ground sloped down to a large pit that took up half the site: excavation for the foundation of the building Waterloo was to construct. The rain had turned the pit into a lake filed with thick brown water. He focused the beam from the flashlight directly below him and saw the smooth surface of the muddy slope was pockmarked in a line that descended into the water. Auguste’s path, perhaps? He examined the far side of the lake and saw similar marks leading down into the water. Or, more likely, one set of marks led in, and the other led out, because if Auguste had jumped this wall while running from his attackers, he’d have fallen straight into the lake.

Piers inched his way along the top of the wall, away from the pit, lowered himself down, and jumped the last five feet. His shoes were sucked into the thick mud. He levered them out and fought his way to the other side of the lake.

Along the side of the lake he found a broad net, secured at the top of the slope with large stakes and running down into the water. Waterloo’s idea of safety in case anyone fell in, and cheaper than a night watchman.

On the far side of the lake, footprints were clearly dug into the sloping side of the pit and continued to a metal ladder running up the side of the Portakabin. The building was locked and empty, yet to be filled with the mass of paperwork that followed a construction project. He climbed the ladder onto the roof.

The Portakabin was only a foot from another white temporary wall at the opposite side of the site. Piers ran his flashlight across it and a large stain, dark red and thigh-high, confirmed the route Auguste had taken.

Piers looked over the wall and its dark stain to a cobblestone alleyway below. An old couple hurried by. He checked the map on his phone. The alley led to the square in front of Notre Dame, the place where they had all met in that fateful taxi.

So, where had the money gone? If Auguste had taken it from his car, it was gone by the time he reached the taxi. Piers looked back down the alleyway. A group of men walked by, drunk and singing. If Auguste had dropped a bag of money in the lane, it would have been found long ago. The same went for the area around Notre Dame, and it certainly wasn’t in his car. Piers shone the flashlight around the building site. It was nothing but mud with one line of footprints. Auguste had run in and straight out. What options were left?

He walked back to the pit and knelt down by the safety netting to scan the surface of the lake. In the faint nighttime glow of moon and streetlights, he saw sheets of rain dimpling the surface with lines that bucked and twisted at the wind’s whim. He marveled that even in the cloying mud and winter cold, nature could reveal its beauty everywhere.

Everywhere, save one small square in the middle of the lake.