Read Online Murder Without Pity by Steve Haberman - Free Book Online

broke the gloom as cars sped past. “I push paper. How would I know for sure I wasn’t followed? A motorcyclist… I’m not sure.”
    “You’re not sure of what?”
    “Whether he tried to hit me or didn’t see me until the last moment.” Where was his Paris? he wondered. Some unseen force had snatched away its cafés, fountains and flowers, leaving only half-light and shadows. He heard a rustle of fabric and turned.
    Left hand steering, Henri used his right to unzip a tote bag stuffed in the gap between the front bucket seats. He shook out a small, opened box with a micro-cassette recorder inside and held the package up. “This tape’s either a gift from God or from someone who hates. It’s in English, and it might mean something.” He pressed a button, and from the recorder came the sound of a telephone ringing five times.
    Seconds later another one rang. “ Where were you? I called your telephone booth Monday night. The ninth .”
    “ Don’t start on me, sir. I’m in no mood. I got stuck on the damn metro and couldn’t get there in time. Sir ”—the choirboy voice rose in irritation—“ Paris has become a war zone. The police are searching practically everyone these days. Or haven’t you noticed? Say what you want about our food. At least our police are more civilized .”
    Leclair switched the tape off and handed the parcel across. “I’d say it’s from someone who hates your Monsieur Boucher. Notice how my name’s in bold type on the front. ‘Leclair’ is so sharp it practically jumps out at you. It’s as if the sender demanded legibility to ensure I got it. You’ll notice something else if you think about it. Fear. There’s no return address. No fingerprints either; I checked. The sender must know Boucher has powerful patrons and wants to avoid a firing or worse.” He groped left and eased ahead. “According to the postmark, the gift was sent six days ago from the Odéon Post Office. I got it yesterday morning. The Odéon Post Office, let’s see. That narrows our mystery giver down to only those passing along Boulevard Saint-Germain.”
    Stanislas lifted the micro-cassette recorder’s plastic hood and peeked inside. There was no writing on the tiny cassette. “Only half of Paris,” he said.
    “I know.” Henri steered left. “It’d be safer if you got in back. The police are thick tonight because of those metro bombings.”
    Stanislas parted a curtain of heavy beads that hung behind the front seats and squatted on a spare tire, facing Leclair, the recorder on a knee. He began to slip on the earphones when Henri downshifted abruptly, and he pitched against the back of the driver’s seat. Through the slit in the curtain, he made out cars ahead and to both sides bunched up like rush hour. The taillights of a Citroën in front blinked red dots and dashes as it poked ahead. Henri braked. He studied his rear view mirror and smacked the steering wheel. Stanislas understood. They had stumbled into a random checkpoint.
    Leclair kneaded the steering wheel tensely, while he let the engine run. “The police must have blocked off the side streets and pinched everyone into the boulevard,” he muttered over his shoulder.
    After awhile he switched the ignition off. A driver jammed further up the line honked his outrage. Others followed with beeps. After several more minutes the Citroën bumped ahead, and Stanislas could glimpse a trail of flares along the avenue’s left side. A breeze whipped dense red smoke about in the fog, nearly blinding their view.
    “Company’s coming.” Henri lowered the radio’s volume.
    Stanislas moved further back. He heard a man from a distance yell a command, next the crush of boots closing in, finally a name called. “Henri.” The greeting was a statement of recognition. It carried no warmth.
    “Joxe.” Henri stared straight ahead.
    From the sound of his breathing, Joxe must have stopped at the driver’s window, Stanislas thought.
    “It’s still