Lavorel interrupts, aggressive:
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘We don’t have a lot to go on. Deluc junior: no longer a part of this. Nothing specific on Pama, or on Perrot. So, I’m going to do as I’m told. There’s absolutely no other option.’ Lavorel silently fumes. ‘At least officially’. A sudden revival of interest. ‘The director has asked me not to implicate Perrot in my report. I’m not going to implicate him. I shall spend my day writing, and listening to the magistrate, the director and the journalists. But there’s nothing to prevent you from wandering around in the meantime, since you’re more or less unemployed. May I remind you, Romero, that we know virtually nothing about Perrot’s chauffeur.’
The atmosphere is suddenly relaxed.
Romero gets up.
‘Well, since we are agreed, I’ll make the coffee.’
It’s not exactly difficult for Le Dem to follow Perrot’s chauffeur when he leaves Le Chambellan at eight o’clock. He walks to Étoile métro station. Takes direction Nation via Barbès. He alights at Colonel-Fabien, walks up towards Buttes-Chaumont, turns off into the side streets that are all dead ends and enters an elongated, three-storey apartment block in Rue Edgar Poe. He goes into the concierge’s lodge on the ground floor, and does not come out again. Le Dem goes home to bed, in his two-roomed flat in La Courneuve. He’ll be back tomorrow morning at seven.
Le Dem wanders down Rue Edgar Poe which is deserted at this hour. At 7.10 a.m. the chauffeur sets off in the direction of the métro. Nothing to
be gleaned here, we know where he’s going. At eight o’clock, the concierge, pinafore, slippers, mops the lobby, distributes the mail and goes down to the basement. During this time, Le Dem hangs around outside. A hundred metres away, the little grocer’s shop raises its iron shutter. Le Dem drops in. Buys some biscuits and half a litre of milk. Chats about this and that. The concierge is married to the chauffeur.
At nine o’clock, the concierge comes out of the building. She has changed. A nylon raincoat with a leopardskin pattern, kitten-heels, she’s put on lipstick and is carrying a large shopping bag in her right hand. The perfect fifty-something housewife. Le Dem follows her, with no illusions as to the usefulness of the exercise.
Bus 75. She alights at La Samaritaine. Buys a few bits and pieces from the DIY department. The shopping bag fills up, insulating tape, adaptors, light sockets, bulbs, a very nice Phillips screwdriver. Then she walks back up towards Hôtel de Ville and Rue du Renard. Stops at the corner of Rue du Renard and Rue des Lombards and waits, clutching her shopping bag.
Her first customer arrives straight away, and now they’re going upstairs inside one of the first houses in Rue des Lombards. Le Dem can’t believe his eyes. Between ten o’clock and midday she goes up three times. At midday she has a simple lunch at the café on the corner, a toasted ham and cheese sandwich with a fried egg on top and a bottle of sparkling water. At one o’clock, she goes back to her post, still clutching her shopping bag. Le Dem takes advantage of the first trick of the afternoon to go into the café himself, eat a sandwich and have a drink at the bar.
‘Strange get-up for a tart, that old girl on the corner.’
The owner laughs.
‘It works, believe me. The best clientele in the street. Only regulars.’ In answer to Le Dem’s puzzled look: ‘She’s reassuring.’
At five o’clock on the dot, the woman in the nylon
leopardskin-patterned
raincoat gets back on the 75 bus. She does her shopping at the market on the way and walks back to her lodge. And probably starts doing her housework and cooking dinner for when her husband gets home.
Lavorel has got hold of a little scanner and an unmarked car with tinted windows. Now he’s parked in Rue Balzac, Romero beside him, in front of the driveway entrance to Le Chambellan. It is half past three, a good time to find the street almost empty. Pretending to read a
newspaper, Romero fiddles with the scanner, switches frequencies. The pleasure is no longer physical as it used to be, when they used to force locks and feel the catch give way in their hand. You can’t stop progress. After several attempts, the automatic gate to the car park opens. Romero grabs his bag and dives inside. Lavorel starts the engine and goes and parks a little further away.
Pitch dark. Torch. The car park isn’t big, only one level, spaces for twenty or so cars, only half of them occupied. On the other hand, no obvious hiding places. The air vents are much too small. No recesses. Two fat pipes running along the ceiling, not boxed in, insulated with fibreglass. Romero jumps, grabs a pipe, steadies himself and pulls himself up athletically. Lies down in the space between the pipes and the ceiling. The ideal place. If he lies still in this ill-lit car park, it should be all right. In any case, difficult to find anything else. Takes off his shoulder bag and puts it in front of him. Fishes out a walkie-talkie.
‘Lavorel, can you hear me? I’m in position. Don’t abandon me, will you?’
At 6.30 p.m., Perrot arrives at Le Chambellan. Lavorel alerts Romero. The chauffeur drops him off on the pavement, then takes the car down to the car park. And parks not far from Romero, who crawls along the pipe to get a glimpse inside the car. He is dirty, stiff with cramps, but suddenly alert. Barely ten minutes after the arrival of the car, a pretty female figure, short black skirt, turquoise silk camisole, black hair, comes out of the lift and heads straight for Perrot’s car, opens the passenger door, sits down, and starts unzipping the chauffeur’s fly, apparently without saying a word. Romero is torn between the triumph of being right over Daquin, and huge disappointment. Let’s see, three hours lying still, wedged between pipe and ceiling amid flakes of fibreglass to peep at a girl giving a
blow-job
to a faceless groin. It’s over fast. A quickie. The girl raises her head and spits on the car park floor, while the chauffeur does up his fly. Romero still can’t see his face.
The girl gets out of the car.
‘I haven’t got time to chat today. Perrot won’t be long.’
Then she leans through the lowered window and holds out her hand. The chauffeur gives her ten little plastic sachets. She counts them, takes out a few banknotes stuffed in her belt, drops them on the passenger seat and sashays back to the lift.
Romero feels less tired.
‘In two days, the balance of power has considerably swung in our favour. We still don’t know how the conglomeration around Pama and Perrot is organised. But we have something to blow Perrot out of the water. The chauffeur. That’s a small miracle.’ Romero remembers the hours he spent hiding, sandwiched between the pipes and the car park ceiling. A miracle that cost some effort, all the same. Pimp and pusher. He can legitimately be arrested. He has a lot to lose, so he’ll talk. A chauffeur always knows everything. Need to fine tune him. Take the time to find out who his dealer is. Concentrate on the wife. The chauffeur is too close to Perrot, it’s hard for him to take risks. When we feel the time’s right, we’ll move in on the dealer and that will lead us by chance to Perrot’s chauffeur. Once things are in motion, it’ll be very hard to stop them.
Doorbell. Michel opens the door, and Jubelin enters stiffly. He can’t bring himself to feel at ease with him.
‘Annick’s waiting for you on the balcony.’
The table is set, and Michel has prepared some food and left it on the sideboard: a platter of cold meats, cheeses and fruit. Annick comes to greet Jubelin.
‘There’s not much for dinner. You hardly gave me any warning…’
‘It’s perfect. Most importantly, I want to talk to you undisturbed.’
From the living room, Michel indicates that he’s leaving. Annick smiles at him.
‘See you tomorrow, Michel.’
Annick pours aperitifs. Jubelin wastes no time.
‘Thirard was arrested four or five days ago, in a sting on a cocaine trafficking network that he was at the centre of…’
Now, it’s a certainty. The slush fund is definitely drugs money… So Nicolas’s murder… of course Jubelin knew. And I’m becoming a nuisance to him. This is no time to lose my grip.
‘… and I wanted to talk to you about it.’
‘How does it affect us, Xavier?’
‘We have a promotional campaign coming up, don’t forget. Some of it was shot at Thirard’s place, and we sponsor him too. Doesn’t look good.’
‘True. I think I can sort that out before the launch of the campaign. Thirard’s name won’t get out.’
‘That’s not all. From what I’ve heard about the investigation, Nicolas is thought to have been involved in the drugs trafficking.’ Annick raises an incredulous eyebrow.
‘Do you think that’s possible?’
‘Actually, I do. He knew Thirard, and that would explain why he was killed.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Whether you believe it or not, is irrelevant.’ Stifled anger. ‘What matters is what our clients think. One of our executives murdered over a drugs trafficking matter is pretty disastrous for our corporate image.’
Annick remains silent. I see what you’re driving at. Don’t count on me to make this easier for you.
‘Not to mention that the investigation won’t stop there.’ Jubelin’s expression becomes serious. ‘To be absolutely honest, Annick, the police know that you snort coke too.’
‘I’m not the first person to do so in the circles we move in. Nobody gives a damn. Including the police.’
Jubelin leans across the table and gently grabs her wrist.
‘You must look after yourself, Annick.’ In a caring, gentle voice: ‘Your name may be cited in an investigation into drugs trafficking and a murder. We need to protect you.’
‘And protect Pama.’
‘Of course. You are the company’s public face, you alone. But that’s not what I’m worried about. You must take a holiday. A long rest. In an establishment where they’ll help you get over your addiction. I’ll find you the best there is. If you take care of yourself, I have assurances that the police will leave you out of any proceedings.’
Annick looks at him. Nice try. An acute instinct for opportunity, speedy action, long-term strategy, and a hell of a nerve. No wonder you’re CEO, and I’ll have a job finding someone of your calibre. But you don’t know what cards I’m holding.
‘Do you want my resignation? Right away?’
‘There’s no question of you resigning. I was talking about a holiday. Think about it, and we’ll talk again at the end of the week, before the police come to see you for the third time.’
‘Coffee? Or a liqueur?’
Daquin arrives at the scene of the crime, Boulevard Maillot, accompanied by Romero. They go up to the seventh floor where Inspector Bourdier is waiting for them.
‘A gruesome murder, Superintendent, discovered by Madame Renouard when she returned home less than an hour ago. On questioning her, I gather, amid a number of inconsistencies – as you’ll see, she’s pretty shaken up – that she’s implicated in some way in your investigation into cocaine trafficking…’
‘That’s correct, she is mixed up in it. As a witness for the moment.’
‘I thought it best to inform you.’
‘You did the right thing, thank you. Is she a suspect in this murder?’
‘It’s highly unlikely. At the estimated time of the crime, she was at her office, several people have confirmed it. The victim, a man called Nolant, was an illustrator, something arty. And had a strange relationship with Madame Renouard according to the concierge. Separate apartments on the same landing but constantly together. He did the shopping, the cooking, the housework. Joint bank account. They got on wonderfully, again according to the concierge, but didn’t sleep together because he was as queer as a coot. Come and see the carnage.’
The inspector pushes open the front door. Small hallway. To the right, a huge room used as a studio. Two large drawing boards in the corners, professional lighting, shelves for storing rolls and sheets of paper. Two big armchairs in the centre of the room. A kitchenette behind a counter. Everything is immaculately clean and neat. Daquin goes over to one of the drawing boards. A sheet covered in pencil-drawings of silhouettes, a lot of movement but no faces. Rather good.
‘This way,’ says Bourdier.
Daquin and Romero follow him. Door to the left of the hall. Two men are already at work in the bedroom which has been ransacked. Television, hi-fi, lights, telephone and Minitel smashed, books and records strewn over the floor, the bed bare, the sheets pulled off, and, at the foot of the bed, on the carpet, face down, surrounded by a dark stain, the naked body of a man.
That long, slim, fair-haired body. The light, curly down on the legs. Daquin walks over to him. His skull has been smashed. Kneels down. A
painful wrench in the gut. With his thumb, he traces the line of the nose, the half open lips (memory of fresh lips), cold, stiff. Michel that night, blond, sensual, tender, attentive, smiling…What a waste to destroy that life. Daquin stands up, a shattered expression on his face.
Bourdier shows him a cast-iron lampstand with dried bloodstains on it.
‘The crime weapon, most likely. Forensics haven’t confirmed yet. Looks like a gay pick-up that turned nasty. What do you think?’
‘Looks like it.’ Terse. ‘Unless it’s been made to look like that. Can I talk to Madame Renouard?’
‘Of course. She’s in her bedroom. I asked a woman police officer to stay with her, as a precaution.’
‘Come on, Romero.’ Then, turning to Bourdier. ‘Inspector, don’t leave here before I’ve had a word with you.’
On entering the vast main room of Annick’s apartment, Daquin stops, amazed. On the walls, a pale tobacco-coloured Japanese wallpaper, white oak parquet floors, to the left, a huge sofa in front of a stone and timber fireplace with a fire laid in the grate. In one corner, facing the door, a forest of bamboo and plants, and sitting in a wicker armchair amid the plant containers, a golliwog in a red bowler hat and suit stares at the visitor. Several Eames chairs, two Regency wing chairs covered in
duck-egg
blue velvet. And on the right-hand wall, a mosaic of tastefully framed drawings. Daquin walks over to it. Works from very different periods, of varying quality and techniques, but the overall effect has tremendous charm, Michel’s charm, his desire to seduce. And in the bottom left-hand corner, an Indian-ink silhouette of Annick portrayed as a heroine of a spaghetti western, advancing towards him. Not hard to recognise Michel’s style, and, beneath the irony, tremendous affection. Beyond the room, a vast flower-filled balcony overlooking Paris. But who is this woman? I’d never have pictured her in an apartment like this, nor living with a man like Michel.