10 Rue Chappe

10 Rue Chappe

The death of Dr. Emanuel Cohen, a widower with no children, went unrecorded by the Paris press. Naomi Wallach had heard the

news that morning from a friend at the Weinberg Center and wasn't certain as to the details, including the precise location

of Cohen's fall. Gabriel, after engaging his waiter at Café Chappe in a few minutes of small talk, discovered that the incident

had taken place at the summit of the famous steps near the basilica. The waiter, whose name was Henri, had come upon the scene

while walking home at the end of his shift.

"What did you see?"

"A couple of cops and EMTs looking down at a body."

"You're sure he was dead?"

" Oui . He was covered by then."

"Where was he?"

"The first landing. Next to the lamppost."

At the southern end of the rue Chappe, where the café was located, the street was typical of Montmartre, narrow and cobbled and lined with small apartment buildings. The steps began at the rue André Barsacq. There were two separate flights, each with a pair of landings and an iron handrail down the center. The second flight, the one nearest Sacré Coeur, was the slightly steeper of the two. Gabriel paused on the uppermost landing and, crouching, examined the paving stones by the inadequate light of the streetlamp. If there had been blood the night before, there was none now. Nor was there anything to indicate there had been much in the way of a criminal investigation of the matter.

Rising, Gabriel climbed to the top of the steps. To the right was a small café, and beyond the café was the upper station

of the Montmartre funicular. A group of tourists were gazing up at the floodlit domes of Sacré Coeur. Two young women were

scrutinizing the counterfeit designer handbags arranged on a tarpaulin at the feet of an African migrant.

Gabriel turned and gazed down the steps of the rue Chappe. Something made him place a hand on the frigid lamppost. A fall,

even a minor one, would doubtless result in serious injury. Still, most pedestrians managed to make the ascent without incident,

especially lifelong Parisians and residents of Montmartre like Dr. Emanuel Cohen.

Gabriel moved away from the top of the steps and looked in both directions along the street. There were no surveillance cameras

in sight, nothing to record how Cohen might have lost his balance. If there had been an eyewitness, he surely told the police

what he had observed. Unless, of course, the eyewitness had been engaged in low-level criminal activity at the time of the

incident and had therefore chosen to remain silent.

Gabriel walked over to the African street vendor, a towering figure, thin as a reed, with weary eyes that gazed out from an otherwise noble face. They exchanged pleasantries in French. Then Gabriel asked the African if he had been selling his wares on this spot the previous evening.

The weary eyes grew suspicious. "Why do you ask?"

"A friend of mine fell down the rue Chappe. I was wondering if you were here when it happened."

" Oui . I was here."

"Did you see anything?"

"Are you a cop?"

"Do I look like a cop?"

The towering African said nothing. Gabriel looked down at the counterfeit handbags lying at the man's feet.

"How much for that one?"

"The Prada?"

"If you say so."

"One hundred euros."

"My wife's cost me five thousand."

"You should have come to me."

"How about I give you two hundred euros instead?"

"Two hundred it is."

Gabriel handed over the money. The African shoved it into the pocket of his threadbare coat and reached for the bag.

"Forget about it," said Gabriel. "Just tell me how my friend fell."

"He got a phone call when he reached the top of the steps. That was when the guy pushed him." The African pointed toward one

of the coin-operated telescopes on the opposite side of the street. "He was standing right there for several minutes before

your friend arrived."

"Did you get a look at him?"

" Non . His back was turned the entire time he was there."

"And you're sure it wasn't an accident?"

"Left hand, center of his chest. Down the steps he went. He never had a chance."

"What happened to the man who pushed him?" Receiving no answer, Gabriel looked down at the African's inventory. "How about

I buy another bag?"

"The Vuitton?"

"Why not?"

"How much would you like to give me for it?"

"I really don't like negotiating with myself."

"One fifty?"

Gabriel surrendered three hundred euros. "Keep talking."

"Another guy pulled alongside him on a scooter, and he climbed on the back. It was all very professional, if you ask me."

"And you, of course, told the police everything you had seen."

" Non . I left before they arrived."

"Did you at least try to help my friend?"

"Yes, of course. But it was obvious he was dead."

"Where was his phone?"

"On the landing next to him."

"I assume you picked it up as you were leaving."

The African hesitated, then nodded. "Forgive me, Monsieur. Those phones are worth a lot of money."

"Where is it now?"

"Are you sure you're not a cop?"

"When was the last time a cop paid you five hundred euros for two fake handbags?"

"I gave the phone to Papa."

"Great," said Gabriel. "Who's Papa?"

***

While loading his inventory into plastic rubbish bags, the street vendor introduced himself as Amadou Kamara and explained

that he was from Senegal, the unstable former French colony on Africa's west coast where joblessness and public corruption

were endemic. A father of four, he concluded that he had no choice but to go to Europe if his family was to survive. He attempted

the typical Senegalese route north, an overcrowded fishing boat bound for Spain's Canary Islands, and nearly drowned when

the vessel capsized in the treacherous waters off Western Sahara. After washing ashore, he walked to Morocco's Mediterranean

coast, a journey of more than a thousand miles, and managed to reach Spain in an inflatable raft with twelve other men. He

did backbreaking agricultural work for a couple of years in the blistering Spanish sun—for which he was paid as little as

five euros a day—then moved to Catalonia to peddle counterfeit goods on the streets of Barcelona. After a scrape with the

Spanish police, he made his way to Paris and went to work for Papa Diallo.

"The local distributor for Prada and Louis Vuitton?"

"And a lot of other luxury brands as well," replied Amadou Kamara. "The bags are manufactured in China and then smuggled into

Europe aboard container ships. Papa is the biggest player in the Paris market. He's from Senegal, too."

"What else is Papa into?"

"The usual."

"Stolen iPhones?"

" Mais bien s?r ."

They were walking along the rue Muller, a dark and uninviting street rarely traversed by foreign visitors to the Eighteenth Arrondissement. Their destination was an immigrant quarter known as Goutte d'Or. Gabriel was carrying one of the contraband-stuffed plastic bags, an accessory after the fact. Not for the first time he wondered how his life had come to this.

"And what's your story?" asked Amadou Kamara.

"It is so insignificant compared to yours that I won't bore you with the details."

"At least tell me your name."

"Francesco."

"You're not French."

"Italian."

"Why do you speak French so well?"

"I watch a lot of French movies."

"What kind of work do you do, Monsieur Francesco?"

"I clean old paintings."

"Is there money in that sort of thing?"

"Depends on the painting."

"My daughter likes to draw. Her name is Alima. I haven't seen her in four years."

"Don't tell Papa about the five hundred euros I gave you. Send it to your family instead."

Goutte d'Or, otherwise known as Little Africa, lay to the east of the boulevard Barbès. Its densely populated streets were

among the most vibrant in Paris, especially the rue Dejean, the quarter's bustling open-air market. Gabriel and Amadou Kamara

threaded their way through the evening crowds, a mismatched pair if there ever was one.

There were more markets on the rue des Poissonniers, and a café called Le Morzine. Its windows were obscured by lotto ads

and posters for African sports teams. Papa Diallo was holding court at a table inside, surrounded by several associates. He

had biceps the size of stockpots. His spherical hairless head appeared as though it was mounted directly atop his torso.

A chair was procured from a neighboring table and Gabriel was invited to sit. Amadou Kamara explained the situation in a Senegalese dialect. At the conclusion of his discourse, Papa Diallo displayed two rows of large white teeth.

In French he asked, "Why do you want it so badly?"

"It belonged to my friend."

"Are you a cop?"

"Amadou and I have already covered that ground."

The two men exchanged a glance. Then Papa nodded at one of his associates, who placed the phone on the table. It was an iPhone.

The screen had survived its collision with the steps of the rue Chappe intact.

"Original SIM card?" asked Gabriel.

Papa Diallo nodded. "I can get two hundred on the street. But for you, I'll make a special price."

"How much?"

"One thousand euros."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Neither is life, Monsieur."

Gabriel looked at Amadou Kamara, who had not seen his child in four years. Then he opened his billfold and peered inside.

He had twenty euros to his name.

"I need to find a cash machine," he said.

Papa Diallo flashed a luminous smile. "I'll be waiting."