René’s mind went back to the count’s chateau in Amboise where he’d grown up. To that WWI rifle the cook had kept in the pantry, the pheasant her husband hunted with it strung upside down in the shed, its plucked feathers carpeting the dirt floor.
“Alors, the grandfather dies,” Baleste continued, “his heirs discover a Luger in the cellar or the attic or under the floorboards. They think, ‘He really was in the Resistance?’ Fat chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look to history,” said Baleste. “Who armed the scattered pockets of the Maquis, the loose networks of the Resistance, with Enfield rifles and Sten submachine guns? The British. Rare to find them with German arms.”
“Et alors?”
“Two years ago in the countryside, a jealous husband took his uncle’s old Sten gun and finished off his wife. In the process, the thing jammed—they were notorious for doing that during the war. It recoiled and took half his shoulder off.”
René wished he’d get to the point. “Try being helpful, Baleste.”
“When the Wehrmacht retreated in defeat, a lot of these Lugers found their way into closets,” said Baleste. “These pieces withstood the cold of Russian winters and the heat of the North African desert. Tough. Built to withstand extremes. Captured Lugers were prized. Why throw this untraceable workhorse away? Even with the bullet-casing striations identifying the piece,” said Baleste, “it’s impossible to identify the owner.”
Damn, René thought, careful and methodical. It fitted the rapist’s modus operandi.
“Have any shootings with matching bullet striations been reported before, Baleste?”
Baleste’s phone console lit up with red lights. He ignored them and shifted his foot with effort. Grimaced with pain and blew a gust of air from his mouth. “Not in the last five years. I’d remember.”
“Why’s that, Baleste?” Impatient, René wished he’d cough up some detail, some link to help identify the shooter.
“Five years ago the Ministry of Defense funded our project: a research database documenting and referencing specific incidents involving military firearms.” Jacques grabbed a copy of L’équipe, the racing paper, off his desk and swatted at a buzzing fly. He shut the binder. “There’s always the chance Aimée ticked off an old Nazi.”
“Serge copied you on the ballistics report,” said René. “Don’t you have more to say?”
Baleste leaned over, winced and eased his cast-bound leg higher on the crate. “I’ll say ten to one this Luger lay forgotten in some old codger’s desk. Now, with a good cleaning and oiling, it’s no fuss to use. And no one’s the wiser.”
René’d learned little. As he stood, Aimée’s words came back to him—never leave without a name, a place, a referral. He gave it a last shot.
“This happened in Pigalle. Strike any bells from the past?”
“Some gangster heyday tie-in? All moot now. Still …” Baleste paused. The tourists’ footsteps shuffled, never ending, outside his window. Spit it out, René wanted to say.
“Madame Mimi ran Bar Pigalle,” he said. “Years ago she told my grandfather the Nazis left arms in her cellar. ‘Left’ being a loose term. No doubt Mimi sold them years ago at the flea market or to connoisseurs who go for that.” He shrugged. “She’s dead now. Her grandson took over, renamed it the NeoCancan.”
Could it be? “The Johnny Hallyday wannabee?”
“So you know him?”
“Maybe he deals with collectors,” said René.
For the first time, Baleste smiled. “Or maybe it’s a fart in the wind.”
But in Baleste-speak that meant René was following the right track.
“I’ll give him a call. Get back to you.”
“Better yet, Baleste, tell him I’ll drop by,” said René, checking the time.
“He’s picking up supplies. Give him two hours. And you can pick up something for me.”
“D’accord,” René agreed. “Très gentil of you, Baleste.”
“Not really. He’s my cousin’s husband. Just grab the bottle of Romanée-Conti the little turd owes me.”
Wednesday, 2 P.M.
JULES’S DAMN CELL phone vibrated in Zacharié’s shaking hands in the gar?onnière above the guitar shop. The same number flashed again.
The caller was more than impatient, he realized. Downright angry.
But what else could he do with this file? How could he get away with this? This crazy idea that the Rasta–hippie hacker had?
Go transparent, give this to the Ministry. And then go straight back to prison?
Or like that old film—a German spy movie he couldn’t remember the title of. Funny, that was all he could imagine—a cheap-movie scenario—but hell, it was the same thing. His life was a cheap-movie scenario. Big, bad brother coerces little brother into doing his dirty work, then sabotages him to take the fall. In the film, the little brother outwits him in the end … about to do the hand-off to the bad guy, he gives it to the good guys.
Or tant pis … give it to this insistent caller, pocket the money, take Marie-Jo and head to Gare Saint-Lazare, board the train to a new, free life. Free and fugitive.
Nothing involving Jules had ever been easy—it could all be another setup.
He had to think of the big picture, the long term with Marie-Jo. School, stability beyond the scope of his crazy ex and her scum boyfriend.
The phone vibrated in his sweating palm.
Marie-Jo stirred on the bed. “Papa?”
“Oui, ma chérie,” he said, coming to a decision. “Go back to sleep. I’m going out for an hour. Stay here and I’ll bring your favorite tartine. Tu promets?” He kissed her forehead.
She nodded and gave a sleepy smile. “Don’t be long, Papa.”
And it tore his heart.
Wednesday, 2 P.M.
AIMéE LOOKED UP from her screen as René entered Leduc Detective. “Any joy from Baleste, René?”
“I’m working on it,” he said. “The NeoCancan’s owner’s grandmother kept a Nazi cache of arms. Whether any are left … I’ve got to wait till Johnny Hallyday returns.”
Her fingers paused on the keyboard, her damp tunic sticking to the small of her back.