Murder in the Palais Royal by Cara Black

Author:Cara Black [Black, Cara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2010-03-01T08:00:00+00:00

“Of course,” she said. Hoping to gain more, she opened the much-thumbed pages. “Before I bother him, I thought it better to check with someone in the congregation.”

The yellowed pages crinkled. No one paid attention. “Do you recognize these names?”

She pointed to the two names written in dark blue ink. The crowd had dwindled and the old couple’s gaze was locked on the red-cheeked toddler. She gave it one last shot.

“Elzbieta and Karlosch Ficowska from Bialystock?” Aimée said.

“Pronounced Beeyelischtok,” the old woman corrected. “That’s where I come from.”

Excited, Aimée leaned close to her. “This wouldn’t be you, would it?”

The old woman pulled up the reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Scrutinized the names. Then pressed the siddur to her chest for a moment.

“But that’s Effie and Carl!” She nudged her husband, the old man. “Effie and Carl Ficou! Look!”

“Eh, they’re dead, Myra, you forget things.”

“I don’t understand,” Aimée said. Disappointed, she realized the old woman had made a mistake.

“I only saw this siddur every day,” Myra said. “Where did you get this?”

“The names differ, Madame.”

“We didn’t keep our old names. What for? To remain the target of those hunters?” She took off her reading glasses. “After the camp, I can’t remember my old name half the time, not that I want to. It’s from another life. But look at that fascist Le Pen, nothing’s changed here since Dreyfus and the Stavisky affair.” She shrugged. “We’re Jews, we wander, that’s what we do. Ready to leave at a moment’s notice. My bag stays packed at the door. My daughter calls me ‘ferukt’—crazy—and my granddaughter gets excited and asks when I’m going on a trip.”

Aimée wanted to focus this talkative Myra on the names.

“You’re sure it’s Effie and. . . .”

“Carl. Bien sûr.

”

The old man leaned forward. “Murder, I call it.”

Aimée leaned closer.

“What do you mean?”

Myra took a handkerchief from her bag. Blew her nose. “A hit-and-run, left to die. What has the world come to, leaving old people to die in the street? So few escaped the Warsaw ghetto, and then they died in a Parisian gutter.”

Stunned, Aimée tried to think. Why was this siddur Nicolas’s insurance? How did this involve René?

“When did this happen?”

“Like yesterday, I can see Effie in my kitchen peeling potatoes for latkes.”

Aimée plumbed her brain. Latkes?

“You mean December, at Chanukah? Last year?”

“It’s some years ago, Mademoiselle.” The old man pulled her sleeve. His eyes were kind. “Myra remembers not so good. Forgets.”

“Do you remember?”

He sucked in his breath. Hard to do with his false teeth. “Open-heart surgery . . . I don’t remember time so good myself.”

What could she do?

“How can I give this to the family?”

“Too late. They moved,” the old man said. “It was in the papers, our Yiddish paper,” he said, “and a small mention in the French ones. They don’t write about all the incidents. At least this one, people heard.”

“What happened?”

“Effie’s little grandson saw them run over.”

Aimée took out a kohl eye pencil, the first thing she felt in her bag.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.