Read Online Murder at the Lanterne Rouge by Cara Black - Free Book Online
Authors: Cara Black
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us.”
Aimée’s heart churned. And it made sense.
Aimée kissed the woman’s paper-thin cheeks, a smell of Papier d’Arménie clinging to her. “No wonder Pascal loved you so much.”
Saturday, 8 A.M.
“Y OU’RE POPULAR , C LODO ,” said the volunteer at the Salvation Army shelter desk. “A
flic
left you a message. Someone else, too.”
Clodo stiffened. Already? January bit with cold teeth if the
flics
wanted to talk to him. He needed to get the hell out of here.
Clodo waved his blistered hand. “I’ll let my agent handle them.” His lungs burned, his eyes teared. He needed something warmer to wear.
He rooted in the clothes donations pile, grabbing a scarf. Pink and thick cashmere. He wrapped it around his neck.
“Hot enough water in the showers today, Clodo?”
Always a new volunteer. Kids who knew nothing about the streets. Or life.
“Not bad,” said Clodo.
Time to move. Once a week he came to this shelter in the east exit of the closed old Métro station. A shower, a meal, clothes, a warm place. But he hated the questions, the checking up. A few years ago, the city let the homeless sleep in alcoves on the platforms when the thermometer hit four degrees centigrade. Not anymore.
The volunteer refused to be put off. “The
flic
said it’s important, Clodo.”
As if he wanted to talk to a
flic
, after last night.
The
salauds
kicked him out from his spot on the stairs, which had been covered and dry. They’d questioned him about the
mec
the rats feasted on. Clodo, he minded his own business. Had to survive, didn’t he? He learned that in the war.
A racking cough overtook him. Damn lungs.
The kid pointed to the nursing station. “Get your cough checked out, Clodo.”
Like hell he would. He needed a drink. “Lend me some
fric
, eh. My cough syrup’s ready at the pharmacy.”
“You know we can’t do that.” The kid looked away. “But I can check on beds tonight in the Bastille shelter.”
Damn do-gooder. He needed a drink. He snorted and mounted the stairs to Boulevard Saint-Martin.
Later he’d sleep in the old ghost station. He knew the subterranean web of tunnels like the holes in his shoes. Had slept there during the air raids in the war, while the British bombed the train supply depots. People forgot that. They forgot how once neighbors, shopkeepers, postmen, and bourgeois families all huddled together in the deep stations—République, Temple, Arts et Métiers, and Saint-Martin, the ghost station. They forgot how the aerial bombing reverberations rained powder over their faces. The terror.
But he didn’t forget. He didn’t forget his parents, either. Communists, rounded up the day his Aunt Marguerite took him to the doctor for his seven-year-old checkup. They’ll come back, she’d said. But they didn’t. She worked nights playing the accordion and singing at the dance hall on the Grands Boulevards. He’d go to the shelter with Madame Tulette, the concierge.
“Watch where you’re walking, old man.” In the sea of passersby, a man in a suit jostled Clodo into a half-frozen puddle. The pavement rumbled and warm gusts shot up through the grill from the Métro running below. He leaned against the kiosk to catch his breath. Horns blared.
He remembered his aunt coming home at dawn with a tired smile and a package of butter, bread, a tied length of
saucisson
. The contents varied. Sometimes he’d meet a soldier in the bathroom on the landing. Green-gray uniforms with lightning bolts; then, after
la Libération
, the uniforms were blue with stars.
One day he’d found an envelope with money from his aunt on the kitchen table. “Getting married in Canada. Will write from Quebec.” But she didn’t. After
la Libération
he found his parents’ names on a deportation list of Jewish Communists.
Seized by another fit of coughing, he grabbed at the magazine rack. The kiosk vendor raised his fist. “Buy a paper or move on.”
“Who reads that shit anymore, eh?” he snarled
Aimée’s heart churned. And it made sense.
Aimée kissed the woman’s paper-thin cheeks, a smell of Papier d’Arménie clinging to her. “No wonder Pascal loved you so much.”
Saturday, 8 A.M.
“Y OU’RE POPULAR , C LODO ,” said the volunteer at the Salvation Army shelter desk. “A
flic
left you a message. Someone else, too.”
Clodo stiffened. Already? January bit with cold teeth if the
flics
wanted to talk to him. He needed to get the hell out of here.
Clodo waved his blistered hand. “I’ll let my agent handle them.” His lungs burned, his eyes teared. He needed something warmer to wear.
He rooted in the clothes donations pile, grabbing a scarf. Pink and thick cashmere. He wrapped it around his neck.
“Hot enough water in the showers today, Clodo?”
Always a new volunteer. Kids who knew nothing about the streets. Or life.
“Not bad,” said Clodo.
Time to move. Once a week he came to this shelter in the east exit of the closed old Métro station. A shower, a meal, clothes, a warm place. But he hated the questions, the checking up. A few years ago, the city let the homeless sleep in alcoves on the platforms when the thermometer hit four degrees centigrade. Not anymore.
The volunteer refused to be put off. “The
flic
said it’s important, Clodo.”
As if he wanted to talk to a
flic
, after last night.
The
salauds
kicked him out from his spot on the stairs, which had been covered and dry. They’d questioned him about the
mec
the rats feasted on. Clodo, he minded his own business. Had to survive, didn’t he? He learned that in the war.
A racking cough overtook him. Damn lungs.
The kid pointed to the nursing station. “Get your cough checked out, Clodo.”
Like hell he would. He needed a drink. “Lend me some
fric
, eh. My cough syrup’s ready at the pharmacy.”
“You know we can’t do that.” The kid looked away. “But I can check on beds tonight in the Bastille shelter.”
Damn do-gooder. He needed a drink. He snorted and mounted the stairs to Boulevard Saint-Martin.
Later he’d sleep in the old ghost station. He knew the subterranean web of tunnels like the holes in his shoes. Had slept there during the air raids in the war, while the British bombed the train supply depots. People forgot that. They forgot how once neighbors, shopkeepers, postmen, and bourgeois families all huddled together in the deep stations—République, Temple, Arts et Métiers, and Saint-Martin, the ghost station. They forgot how the aerial bombing reverberations rained powder over their faces. The terror.
But he didn’t forget. He didn’t forget his parents, either. Communists, rounded up the day his Aunt Marguerite took him to the doctor for his seven-year-old checkup. They’ll come back, she’d said. But they didn’t. She worked nights playing the accordion and singing at the dance hall on the Grands Boulevards. He’d go to the shelter with Madame Tulette, the concierge.
“Watch where you’re walking, old man.” In the sea of passersby, a man in a suit jostled Clodo into a half-frozen puddle. The pavement rumbled and warm gusts shot up through the grill from the Métro running below. He leaned against the kiosk to catch his breath. Horns blared.
He remembered his aunt coming home at dawn with a tired smile and a package of butter, bread, a tied length of
saucisson
. The contents varied. Sometimes he’d meet a soldier in the bathroom on the landing. Green-gray uniforms with lightning bolts; then, after
la Libération
, the uniforms were blue with stars.
One day he’d found an envelope with money from his aunt on the kitchen table. “Getting married in Canada. Will write from Quebec.” But she didn’t. After
la Libération
he found his parents’ names on a deportation list of Jewish Communists.
Seized by another fit of coughing, he grabbed at the magazine rack. The kiosk vendor raised his fist. “Buy a paper or move on.”
“Who reads that shit anymore, eh?” he snarled
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