Free Murder in Clichy by Cara Black

that shuddered in the wind. A turtledove swooped down near the pond. He passed the mansions overlooking the green lawns. The gilt trimmed fence gave it the look of a private park. Marie-Thérèse had walked Napoleon’s heir here; Proust had loved this little lake. Hadn’t he—or someone— waxed poetic about the perfume of a childhood spent in the Parc Monceau?
    Gassot resented the butter and shallot smells emanating from the kitchens of these mansions, the scurrying hired help, and the smooth hum of the limousines: the sounds and smells of the homes of the rich.
    Thirty minutes later, beyond Porte de Clichy at the Cimetière des chiens, he faced Tran. Tran, a smooth-faced man with thick, paper-white hair, wore navy blue pants and shirt and soft-soled canvas shoes. He chain-smoked as he weeded the gravel walkways. Lean and compact, Tran looked as he had in Indochina, except for the lines around his eyes and his white hair. The younger son of a Cao Dai priest, Tran had seen combat with Gassot’s regiment until his elder brother died at Dien Bien Phu. When the government outlawed the Cao Dai sect, he’d gone into service with French colonials.
    That’s when it had started, Gassot remembered. The whole sad mess. The meetings, the whispered asides during humid Haiphong nights where the corpses of fluorescent jellyfish glittered on the surface of black harbor water. Rumors of jade treasures amidst the rolling rhythmic slap of the waves. The air heavy with the scent of rotting mangoes in the compound guarded by the Montagnard hill tribesmen, with their green metal bracelets, multicolored loincloths, and carbine clips slung over their shoulders.
    “ Bonjour, Tran,” Gassot greeted him.
    “A wonderful treat to see you,” Tran said, one hand holding a weed-filled bucket, the other motioning to a marble bench. “Sit down.”
    A formality. They met here on the first Wednesday of every month on a stone bench overlooking the dog cemetery. But Gassot was three weeks early and he knew Tran must be curious.
    Gassot hesitated. He wanted to explain the fear and doubt, the smell of vengeance surrounding Albert’s death—explain it in a way so Tran would help, rather than dismiss them as scared old men.
    Rows of small blackened stone crosses and suitcase-sized marble slabs stretched before them. Withered white chrysanthemums left from Toussaint, All Saints Day remembrances, defied the wind whipping over the small tombstones. Funny, Gassot thought, dog owners tended their pets’ graves better than the families of the military tended theirs.
    “Makes you wonder about the world, eh, Tran,” he said. “Humans are less remembered than dogs.”
    Tran smiled and shrugged. “Maybe because dogs are more faithful. Truer,” Tran said, offering him a cigarette, a Vinataba brand. “Remember the La Bai we smoked, camarade ?” Tran asked. State Express 555, Ho Chi-Minhs’ favorite brand, had been a black market exclusive, too expensive for him.
    “ Merci. ” Gassot accepted one and lit his from Tran’s: the way they had in Indochina, where no one had matches to waste.
    He remembered the woody tobacco taste of the unfiltered cigarettes and the picture of playing cards on the package. He’d never smoked so much as in Indochina where it was a national pastime. That, and sabotaging the French. Of course, that came later. Much later, it was the Americans’ turn.
    “Has something happened, camarade ?” Tran asked. He exhaled smoke that spiraled in a blue-white haze.
    And then the Paris sky opened, rain spattering down in furious fits and starts. Unlike the warm Indochina monsoons that descended steadily onto corrugated tin-roofed huts, Gassot remembered, leaving fat beads of water on the curled palm leaves.
    Tran tugged his arm and they ran for cover.
    “Ça va ?” Tran said. “Your eyes are far away today.”
    Gassot could still hear the rustle of the silk worn by the half-Asian mademoiselles, denigrated as bui doi, the dust of life.