Chapter 20
Eiffel Tower
Paris
Cyrille de Montcalm made the drive from Montmartre to the Eiffel Tower in twelve minutes, a quarter of the time she’d need at any other hour.
Two policemen waited at the barriers, with them a very impatient Francis Matthieu.
Cyrille badged the cops and bantered with them for a minute, then told them to get the hell out of there.
“Don’t you have any poules to roust in the Bois? ”
Smiles all around. A wave to wish them good night as they piled back into their vehicles.
“So,” said Cyrille, directing the full force of her personality onto Matthieu. “How’d you get that shiner?”
The nice, chatty Cyrille had taken a break. This was the real Cyrille: pushy, pissed off, and about one misunderstood comment from blowing up. Matthieu was no longer the victim. In her eyes, he was the assailant and to be treated accordingly.
“He hit me,” said Matthieu. “That’s why I called you guys.”
“You look like you can take care of yourself. Who was this guy . . . Conor McGregor?”
“I already explained. He was a foreigner, maybe American. He talked to some of the security earlier. They saw him too.”
“Well, I didn’t,” said Cyrille. “Explain it again.”
“He was six feet tall. An older guy, I don’t know. But fast. I didn’t see it coming.”
“He just hauled out and hit you? Like that?”
“Do I have to go over this again?” Matthieu complained. “I just want to go home. Come on.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Cyrille. “I get out of bed and come all the way down here to help you out, and you’re copping an attitude.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then how did you mean it?” asked Cyrille, getting up in his face. “I ask a question; I want an answer.”
“I’m sorry,” said Matthieu. “It’s late. Like I said, he told me he was with some hotel and that one of his guests had lost a bracelet.”
“And you just let him in? I would have told him to bug off and come by in the morning.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Cyrille.
Matthieu studied his shoes. “I . . . uh . . .”
“You put the squeeze on him,” said Cyrille. “How much? Stop acting so guilty. Come on. Spill.”
“Five hundred,” said Matthieu.
“Nice,” said Cyrille, with mock appreciation. “You should have been a businessman, not a dishwasher. So he pays you five hundred, you let him in, and what happens?”
“There wasn’t a bracelet,” said Matthieu. “It was BS. He wanted to see the security cameras. He said he’d been at the restaurant earlier with his wife or something and she was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” asked Cyrille. “From the Jules Verne. Are you messing with me?”
“That’s what he said. I know it’s impossible, but whatever. He wanted the see the security tapes.”
“He was there earlier?” asked Cyrille.
“For lunch.”
“Did you check the reservation book? The man’s name is right there.”
“It’s locked up,” said Matthieu. “I don’t have the passcode.”
Cyrille shook her head in disbelief. She wasn’t mad at Matthieu. She was perplexed. Dekker hadn’t tried to conceal his identity, not really, and he’d left Matthieu alive to tell everyone about it.
“I told him he couldn’t see the cameras,” said Matthieu. “That’s when he hit me.”
“Just belted you.”
“He wanted the keys, and I wouldn’t give them to him. I tried to get away. I got an elbow in.”
“An elbow?”
“I almost got him with a casserole,” said Matthieu.
“A what?”
“A pan.”
Cyrille stared at Matthieu with a kind of wonder. How lucky was this guy to be alive? “Is that all he wanted? Just to look at the cameras?”
Matthieu nodded. “For his wife, I guess.”
“Did he see her?”
“I don’t know. I was kind of out of it. But afterwards, he asked me lots of questions about Monsieur Rosenfeld, our ma?tre d’.”
“Like what?”
“Where he lives. His phone number. I’m guessing that’s where he went. To Rosenfeld’s. Maybe you should call him.”
“You tell that to the cops?”
“No, but I just figured he seemed kind of desperate. That’s what I would do.” Matthieu shifted on his feet. “That’s when he stole my iPhone.”
“He has your phone right now?”
Matthieu nodded. “He stole it.”
“What’s your number?” Cyrille entered the digits into her own phone. “Did you give him Rosenfeld’s info?”
“Only his mobile number,” said Matthieu. “I don’t know exactly where he lives. Somewhere in the Marais, I think. Rue des Rosiers.”
“You remember it? Rosenfeld’s number?”
“No.”
“So, what do you want out of this?” asked Cyrille.
“I want you to arrest this guy. I want my phone back. It was expensive.”
“Did he take the five hundred euros too?”
“No.”
Cyrille stepped away to light a cigarette. Something didn’t add up. She looked at Matthieu. Young and dumb. She offered him a smoke. He took it and touched her hand as she lit it for him. And now he’s flirting with a cop. What a crapaud.
“Know what that prick told me?” said Matthieu. “He said I shouldn’t tell anyone about him. That if anyone asked about my face, I should just say I had an accident. He begged me. He said it was to protect me . . . not him.”
Cyrille ground out her cigarette with the toe of her boot. “As if.”
“Right?”
“Hey, it’s late,” she said, amicably. “Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
“You don’t mind?”
Cyrille touched his sleeve, gave him a look. “Not at all. Where you at?”
“Not far,” said Matthieu. “Rue de Grenelle.”
Cyrille walked him to the car. “Wait a sec. I have to unlock it from inside.” She paused before climbing behind the wheel, doing a one-eighty of the area. Quiet as the grave. She grabbed a towel from the back seat and spread it across the passenger footwell. Leaning over, she unlocked the door.
Matthieu folded himself into the car. He struggled getting the safety belt over his shoulder.
“Do me a favor,” said Cyrille. “I dropped my lighter down there earlier. By your feet. Take a look, will you?”
Matthieu bent forward, craning his neck. “I don’t see it.”
Cyrille placed the muzzle of her pistol against his skull and pulled the trigger.
Poor kid. He should have taken Dekker’s advice.