Murder in the Rue de Paradis by Cara Black

Author:Cara Black [Black, Cara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 1900-11-16T08:00:00+00:00

Wednesday Noon

NADIRA SMILED AT Monsieur Delbard as she climbed into the back seat of the air-conditioned chauffeur-driven car. “We’re feeding the ducks in Canal Saint-Martin. You’re so kind to give us a ride.”

“It’s on my way, Nadira,” he said.

She could never lay it on too thick for Monsieur Delbard. He was trim, if pallid. In his fifties, he wore a blue shirt and linen trousers, and his blue blazer hung from the window hook. “Paul loves the interesting places you take him.”

Juice from an orange segment dripped from the corner of Paul’s mouth. “We saved our old baguettes, Papa. Nadira says it’s better for the ducks. And ‘Waste not, want not.’”

“She’s right, Paul.” Monsieur Delbard flashed a huge smile at her and brushed back the hair from his graying temples.

“We’ll picnic, watch the barges go through the nine locks. Do you remember how many swing bridges we’ll see, Paul?”

He held up two fingers.

“So educational, too.”

“I’m applying to the Sorbonne teaching program next year,” she said.

She cast her eyes down as she’d seen cook do when suggesting she’d like to attend a pastry course. Impressed by the chef, who’d attained two Michelin stars, the frugal Delbards agreed. The cook holed up with her boyfriend at the hotel during the course and came back radiant. “Watch how I play it, Nadira. Learn.” And Nadira did.

“That’s my dream, Monsieur Delbard, to teach at a school for children with special needs.”

“Admirable. You’ll be wonderful.”

The Canal Saint-Martin wound alongside on the left framed by chestnut and plane trees. Two men sat with fishing poles watching the lock fill with water. Paul shouted with glee: “Look, Papa!”

The chauffeur parked the car and opened the trunk. He reached for the stroller, but Nadira stopped him. “Merci, but it’s tricky. Let me do it.”

She lifted it out, careful to compensate for the added weight of the rifle, and strapped Paul in.

“Have a wonderful evening, Monsieur,” she said.

He pressed a wad of francs into her palm, folded his hand over hers, and held it a moment longer than necessary. It was only a matter of time, she knew, until he hit on her as he hit on all the female staff. “Take a taxi back, Nadira, it’s so hot. My treat.”

She disengaged her hand. In her culture, no man touched a woman unless they were married. She felt defiled, but the mullah had given her dispensation to cover such situations. Her mission, he said, overrode the usual precepts.

She and Paul waved goodbye until the Renault disappeared along the quai.

Paul ate a sandwich, then fed the ducks, marveling at the lock man’s patient explanation of how the canal system worked. “It’s our route to the north and the Belgian waterways, petit, four and a half kilometers long.” He detailed a several-hour journey stretching from Bassin de Villette part of the way underground to the Seine.

“Nadira, I want to ride the peniche; you promised me a treat!”

“And you will get your treat, Paul.” She smiled at the perspiring older man and pressed ten francs in his hand.

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