The dark club’s centerpiece, a minuscule black-carpeted stage, was ringed by red velvet sofas with gold tassels. The tables sported rotary-dial telephones—a retro gimmick for ordering champagne. Or maybe they were original, like the cracked, mosaic-tiled floor, she thought.
She kept her fingers off the water rings on the counter. She saw only one client—a florid-faced man with thinning hair, expanding waist and a broad Toulon accent. He sat laughing on a sofa, his tie loose, surrounded by three miniskirted women who kept his champagne flute topped up. Slow night. No one so far matched the FotoFit Zazie had showed her. Where was the bartender?
“Monsieur?”
“Un moment,” came a voice from a cellar opening in the floor behind the counter. Cool, mildew-tinged air drifted up from the subterranean depths. She heard cranking and metal grinding as a monte-charge, a dumbwaiter, delivered a rack of champagne bottles.
The bartender emerged up the cellar steps, his broad shoulders strained under a tight T-shirt. An amazing arc of pomaded brown hair swept back into a ducktail behind his sideburns. A real Johnny Hallyday wannabe, only now Johnny, the Gallic Elvis, was an aging rock star with tax problems.
“Un Perrier,” she said, her throat parched. “And information, s’il vous pla?t.”
“Do I know you?” he asked, a drawl clinging to his syllables. A Marseillais, from his accent—but then most of the bars were owned by Corsicans and Marseilles gangs. Or so the stories went. She flashed her private detective’s license with its none-too-flattering photo. At least she looked thinner in it.
He plunked a glass and a green bottle on the counter.
“I’m looking for a thirteen-year-old girl, red hair. She’s been seen outside your club.” She shoved a fifty-franc note across the bar.
In one quick movement, he flicked off the bottle cap. “Minimum’s one hundred.”
This would cost. Pigalle’s red-light heyday had waned as massage parlors replaced cabarets and clubs. Bartenders gouged anyone’s wallet for a simple drink. She put down another fifty francs. “So you’ve seen her?”
“Not today,” the bartender said.
She pulled out Zazie’s copy of the computer-generated FotoFit. “Have you seen this mec?”
“Not tonight.”
“Try stretching your vocabulary.” Aimée’s grip tightened on her chilled glass. “So last night then? He’s a regular?”
The bartender shrugged. “What’s it to you?”
She debated telling him. But he needed to work for his money first. “For a hundred-franc Perrier, I ask the questions, and you answer. What do you know?”
But he’d slipped from behind the counter to serve another bottle to the table with the florid-faced man surrounded by hostesses.
The club’s door opened, sending in a current of humid air.
“Always first class with you, Aimée,” said René Friant, her partner. He was wearing a straw-colored linen suit, pink shirt and matching tie. His mouth turned down in distaste as he maneuvered himself up onto the barstool. At four feet tall, he was only a little taller than the stool himself. “Don’t tell me we’re in some under-the-radar, poised-for-discovery, three-star wine bar?”
Before she could explain to René, the bartender returned.
“Go along with me, René,” she said.
“Served you before, little man,” said the bartender. “Kir Royale, wasn’t it?”
René’s cheeks reddened. It seemed René had frequented this seedy bar à bouchon, where hostesses’ salaries were based on the number of champagne corks their clients popped.
“Ah, no doubt you’ve got a treasure trove of Romanée-Conti and vintage Dom Pérignon stashed in the cellar,” René said. His green eyes flashed. “This place was famous during the war. A notorious haunt of Gestapo and high-ranking Vichy. The good old days.”
Aimée stared at René. Where did that come from?
“Close, little man,” said the bartender, not skipping a beat. “Just give our checkered past a few years to ferment into a titillating historical ambiance. There’s still too many alive who remember the jackboots.”
“Let’s get back to this mec,” Aimée said, shoving the FotoFit across the counter again.
“Came in a few times.” The bartender shrugged. “Like I said.”
René’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this about?”
She nudged René. Gave him the eye to keep his mouth shut. “Can you give me any specifics? His name?” asked Aimée.
“His friend was looking for him earlier today, too.”
That could fit—if this was the rapist, maybe he was supposed to meet his friend, and instead he’d followed Sylvaine from school. But where was Zazie?
“His name?”
“Think I’m an information service?”
She willed herself not to throw her Perrier in his face. This bartender might fleece farmers from the countryside, plumbers from the provinces, traveling salesmen hoping the red lights of Pigalle still shone for a racy interlude away from their wives. Or René. But not her.
“I think you’re willing, non, let’s say eager to assist in capturing the rapist who attacked and killed a twelve-year-old girl on rue de Rochechouart this afternoon.”
“What?” said René.
She kicked him to keep quiet.
The bartender blinked. “I don’t want trouble.” He hefted a crate of empty bottles onto the monte-charge. Pressed the red button and with a clanking it descended. “Ecoutez, we’re under surveillance, like all the clubs, checked for anyone underage, licensing regulations. Vice keeps us on a tight leash.”
René made a clucking noise. “No wild gangland like the fifties and sixties?”
“Commerce, little man. I operate a business, pay taxes. If we step out of line, we’re closed for fifteen days. Next time it’s six months, and we’re dead. No more club.” He grabbed a towel. “We’ve kept up the tradition since Le Chat Noir opened in 1890. Keep our nose clean and continue shining the red light of Pigalle, Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergère. All the world knows and comes to see.”
He talked the talk. Sounded like the businessman he said he was. But if his “house” was white as pearl, why did she notice the dove-grey shutters?