Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black Page B

Mathieu stiffened in fear. He tried to breathe. The impulse to confess evaporated. Had they found out about the furniture? “What do you mean?”
    The flics pulled latex gloves from their pockets, slipped their fingers inside.
    “Let’s begin with your tools.” It was as if Mathieu hadn’t spoken. “The set of chisels. Like those.” He pointed to the ones on the shelf.
    Before Mathieu could summon the will to move his legs, one of the flics pushed over a stool, climbed up, and began taking his tools down.
    What about my rights, Mathieu wanted to shout. My rights!
    The past flowed over him. His helplessness. The unfairness. Those hired thugs had beat him up, tried to kick him out of his atelier, until he persuaded them he had money. And would keep giving them money if they just let him stay.
    “Monsieur . . . monsieur?” the one with the bags under his eyes was saying, tugging his elbow. “ Ça va . . . you’re white-faced. Not going to pass out, are you?”
    Mathieu shook his head.
    “What are you afraid of, monsieur?” he said. “We’re just doing our job. See, we have a warrant, but we prefer to have your cooperation.”
    “Cooperation?” Mathieu rubbed his forehead.
    “A woman was killed in the next passage. We have to check everything.” The man nodded. “I understand that it upsets you.”
    And from the look in his sad droopy eyes, Mathieu thought the flic did.
    One of the flics raised his eyebrows. “Can you tell me where your chisel is, monsieur?”
    “There’s a whole set, they’re up there,” he said. “More lie in the drawer.”
    “What about the number 4?”
    Mathieu looked up. “The number 4? It must be here somewhere, detective.”
    “Actually, it’s Commissaire ,” he said. “But these trademark Grifon chisels, they’re expensive . . . non? ”
    “My clients, the Rothschilds, the Louvre, want good work, Commissaire. We use the best tools,” he said. “Handed down in my family.”
    “Like this?” The Commissaire pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. Inside lay what appeared to be Mathieu’s #4 chisel.
    Mathieu’s eyes widened.
    “We found bloodstains on this, Monsieur Cavour,” he said.
    “But of course, I cut myself. . . .”
    “We need to test you and see if your blood is a match.”
    “Well, it should be.” Mathieu saw the flic slide a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. His mouth went dry. “Where did you find my chisel?”
    “Next to the victim, Monsieur Cavour,” the Commissaire said, gesturing to the others. “The car’s in the courtyard.”
    Stopped en route to the meeting called for the explosives detail, all Morbier knew was that this Mathieu Cavour was guilty. But he didn’t know of what.

Wednesday Night
    AIMÉE PRETENDED SHE WAS playing hide and seek in her grandmother’s garden in the Auvergne. She’d tie a mothball-scented scarf around Aimée’s head, spin her around four times . . . “Count them,” she’d say, then shove her forward. Her grandmother made her keep the blindfold on.
    Her giggling younger cousin Sebastien often gave his location away; under the ripe plum tree or behind the trickling water fountain. Despite her impatience, she’d stand as still as she could, until she thought she could hear the high grass shift in the breeze, leaves crackle or a branch rustle. She’d smell the aroma of an Auvergnat speciality, the soft-ripening Cantal cheese, from the lunch table.
    And then she’d pounce on Sebastien. Tickle him until he begged for mercy. And then it would be his turn and they’d do it all over again. All afternoon on those warm, summer days.
    She remembered the grassed-in yard bordered by crumbling stone walls; on the other side lay a muddy cow enclosure. Aimée would feel her way along the pebbly stone, the outcropping of azalea bushes, over the fallen ripe plums squishing beneath her sandals, hearing the occasional crunch of snail-shells. The drone of lazy summer bees competed with the cackle of hens.
    Sort of like now.