Free Murder in the Palais Royal by Cara Black

see.
    “He’s right, Manu,” she said, slipping next to him at the bar.
    “Eh, I don’t know you, but we can dispense with introductions.” His gaze again flicked over her black-seamed stockings.
    “Aimée Leduc. But you know my partner.”
He shrugged. Took a sip of beer. Then another.
“Whatever you say, ma fille .”
“Mind telling me where you were last night?”
    “Funny.” He shook his head, caught the barman’s attention. “She doesn’t look like a flic, does she, Charlot?”
    Charlot averted his eyes. In the mirror, she could see Char-lot’s bald spot.
    “Weren’t you on rue du Louvre, in our office?”
    “Do you have a problem with that, ma fille ? You don’t look the type to pick a fight.”
    “But you do. Jealous, vindictive, a grudge-bearer. You locked Félice out.”
    “So Félice sent you?” He took another sip, then slammed the glass down. Foam dripped down the sides.
    She told me you’d be here. But I’m here about René Friant, “ my partner.”
    The banker set down some francs, then edged off his stool, which scraped the mosaic-tiled floor as he left. Charlot wiped the inside of a wine glass with a towel until it squeaked.
“Your partner . . . the dwarf?”
“You had a grudge against him, so you shot him.”
    “Shot him?” Surprised, Manu set his bière down, then threw back his head and laughed. “You think I shot that dwarf? Why?”
    “You’re the jealous type, Manu,” she said. “You were angry about Félice.”
    He pushed his hair back from his eyes. “I was at Place de la Bastille last night.”
    “Quick thinking, Manu,” she said. “But I bet there’s a Blue Fever helmet in your motorbike’s compartment.”
    “Charlot, put this on my tab.” Manu reached for his glass.
    But Charlot took the half-drunk beer and dumped the glass in the sink. He motioned to the manager. “First, settle your old tab, Manu.”
    Manu’s thin lips pursed. “No family feeling, eh? No wonder my sister left you, Charlot.” He straightened, reached into his pocket, and threw fifty francs on the bar.
    Now that he stood, she saw that Manu was short; he didn’t even reach her shoulders.
    “René’s a black belt; you wanted to avoid a confrontation you’d lose,” she said. “So you got some girl to impersonate me. Why?”
    “All that, for Félice?” He snorted.
    She followed him out the door. Mist enveloped the rue de Rivoli, drifting through the colonnades, blurring car headlights.
    As he took his white helmet from the motorcycle compartment, she peered in. The end of a baguette, a can of motor oil. No Blue Fever.
    He keyed the ignition, shaking his head. “Hire an assassin on the installment plan to shoot a dwarf?” His laugh echoed off the stone.
“Don’t tell me people don’t owe you favors, Manu.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Convince me, Manu.”
    “Like hell I will.” But his shoulders sagged. Resignation showed in his eyes. “I’m broke. I just spent my last fifty francs.”
    She believed him.
    “That dwarf didn’t change Félice’s feelings for me,” he said, grabbing her sleeve. “You did, Aimée Leduc, sticking your nose into my business. You scared Félice away, didn’t you? You persuaded her not to come.”
    His arm went around her neck, snapping it back, choking her. She felt a sharp point raking her skin under her sweater.
    Terrified, she tried to speak, but no words came out. Manu pressed the knife deeper against her rib. Choking, her air cut off, she struggled as the knife point went deeper.
    Then he let go. The motor revved and he roared away. Gasping, she stumbled against a topiary tree, rubbing her side. And when she looked up, he’d vanished in the mist.
    It had been stupid to accuse him outright. She was losing her touch. Losing her grip. Her shaking fingers were smudged with blood.
    * * *
    W HAT HAD SHE accomplished? She no longer thought Manu had bought the helmet or shot René. He seemed too petty a crook to have hired someone. Apart