René loved it.
Now the orchestra had decamped to l’Opéra Bastille, but ballet performances thrived. Les Rats, the corps of young ballerinas, rehearsed in the attic, and a beekeeper attended the beehives on the roof. There was a whole world here: costumers, make-up artists, lighting technicians and stage-set designers, stage crew and in-house firemen.
Courtesy of Saj’s connections, René had obtained an entrée backstage, where the latest victim’s father worked.
“I’m looking for Monsieur Imbert?” asked René
A rail-thin arty type wearing a bleu de travail and the typical loose work jacket, appeared under hanging chandeliers. He was carrying antlers and chewing the pencil hanging from his mouth.
“That you?” asked René.
A shake of his head.
René tried again. The antlers looked heavy. “They told me Monsieur Imbert works here in props.”
The arty type renegotiated the antlers to rest on his hip and stuck the pencil behind his ear. “Imbert’s gone fishing.”
Fishing?
Maybe his daughter’s attack was grounds for taking time off. Of course, how upset the whole family must be. Not a parent, René hadn’t thought of that. He’d need to work on developing his paternal instinct. Especially since Aimée had hinted she’d chosen him for godfather.
“I understand he gave a statement at the Commissariat this morning after his daughter was attacked.”
“His daughter’s at her grandmother’s.” He gave a knowing nod. “Whole thing stressed him out. He goes fishing when he needs to think.”
“You mean along the quai of the Seine?” The only other fishing spot René knew of was along the Marne outside Paris. He hoped that wasn’t where Monsieur Imbert had gone, or tracking him down would involve bumper traffic on the périphérique—meaning this could take all day.
“It’s important?”
“Otherwise I wouldn’t be taking your time,” said René, impatient. “I’m investigating a missing girl.”
“Behind makeup,” the man said. “Twelve floors down. Salle A, then the stairs. You’ll find it.”
“Find what?”
“Our cistern.” He grinned. “You know, the supposed Phantom of the Opera’s lake. The firemen dive train down there. We drain it every ten years.”
“Like they’ll let me down there?”
“Tap in the code ‘Fantome 1900.’ ”
Twelve floors of stairs. René groaned inside. All night in the car and now this.
The cistern under the Opéra was a dark and vaulted channel. Not the fabled lake—Gaston Leroux had made that up. René inhaled the algae and water smells while feeling for footholds on the slippery, wet stone. He grasped the wall and looked for a ledge. How did people get around beside swimming or a boat?
Then everything plunged into darkness. Damned timed light had gone off.
René’s foot slipped. Those expensive handmade leather soles weren’t famous for their traction. He grabbed out and heard splashing.
“Monsieur Imbert?”
A yellow beam of light illuminated the semi-transparent, greenish water. René noted white catfish, their whiskers lazy swirls in the water. There stood a man in hip-high waders attached by suspenders and a bicycle helmet mounted with a flashlight.
“Who wants to know?”
“Hit the lights and I’ll tell you,” said René.
Imbert’s chuckle echoed off the damp stone vaults. “No lights down here. Just the fish. They’re blind.”
René edged back a few centimeters at a time until he reached more solid footing.
“You accompanied your daughter this morning when she gave a statement at the Commissariat,” said René. “I’m investigating the disappearance of another girl, Zazie Duclos. I’d appreciate your help, Monsieur.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” He pointed to a niche with a carved stone ledge. René hoisted himself until he’d maneuvered inside, perspiration beading his upper lip.
“A detective, eh?” said Imbert, reading René’s card in the beam of the flashlight. “I guess you come in all sizes these days.”
Imbert told him his daughter, Nelié, had sensed the attacker’s presence and known to run. She heard him following her home from her violin lesson but never saw his face.
“Did she see anything at all? His clothing, shoes? Or hear his voice?” asked René.
Nothing. In the dark and the rain, she’d concentrated on getting away. Zazie? He’d never heard his daughter mention her.
Despite the dank cistern and his wet socks, René was determined to prolong the conversation. He knew there had to be something. He just wasn’t asking the right questions.
“Smells? Did he wear cologne or give off the smell of alcohol?”
The rapist hadn’t gotten that close, thank God, Imbert said. “Nelié feels the world differently. It’s lucky she noticed the attacker because she can’t always process other people’s presences like we do. She said he gave off a color, like anthracite—cold, hard. You see, my Nelié, she’s got this synesthesia.” He paused, searching for the words. “Her music teacher says it’s a gift. She sees colors for letters, numbers and musical notes. People give off a color to her. The doctor calls it a neurological condition.”
René nodded. He knew many artists experienced synesthesia—Berlioz, Billy Joel, some argued Vuillard.
“She could play the violin before she could read. Played by ear. Won every scholarship they have. Such a gifted girl, my Nelié. Her teacher’s suggested her for the Conservatoire de Musique.”
“Madame de Langlet?”
“The old dame herself.”
René needed to speak to this woman.
“But the attacker knew our place on Cité de Trévise.”
“Eh, how’s that?” asked René, recalling this secluded, narrow, passage-like enclave with a fountain festooned with nymphs. A chic address. “Do you mean he’d watched your daughter and knew her schedule?”
Like the other victims?
“No doubt, especially as the concierge found paper wedged in the gate to prevent it from closing.”