Rocco and the Price of Lies

by Adrian Magson

  With that he turned and climbed the slope back to his car, leaving the others looking bemused.

  ‘Did he just give you the go-ahead to break some heads?’ said Claude.

  ‘I think he did.’ Rocco looked down as Rizzotti lifted his arms away from his side and began patting him down. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m seeing where you hurt most,’ Rizzotti explained. ‘You might have some bruised ribs. I take it you won’t be coming into the office or going to anything like a hospital for a proper check-up anytime soon?’

  ‘Absolutely, Doc. Can you make it quick, though? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘All in good time.’ Rizzotti felt around his neck and shoulders, then checked his legs ‘God, you stink, man. How the hell you got out of that thing in one piece is a miracle.’ He gestured at the burning car, which was now sending a black plume of rubber-stoked smoke into the air.

  ‘Are you done?’

  Rizzotti smiled. ‘All done. But I would advise bed rest for a few days. I know you won’t take any notice but professional duty means I have to say it.’

  Rocco turned to Desmoulins and Claude. ‘Right. Time to finish this. I want you two to get to Ivry and locate Yuri Serban and his driver, Peretz. Serban first, though. Watch him and track him if he moves, but don’t let him see you.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Desmoulins. ‘Where will you be, in case we need to contact you?’

  ‘I’ll meet up with Caspar and we’ll go and see Vauquelin.’ He explained what Caspar had said: that Vauquelin was the one to go after. The lawyer was the weakest link because he had no loyalty to anyone other than himself and would be petrified at the idea of ending up in prison where revenge would be swift and painful. ‘Once we get him secured and ready to talk, we can go after Serban. If we don’t, he’ll probably skip town and disappear.’ He took a deep breath, relieved that there seemed to be nothing seriously wrong beyond bad bruising and a few cuts, and flexed his shoulders. ‘First, though, I need a lift to the station.’

  Forty-one

  Laurent Vauquelin’s office was located in a commercial building on the Avenue Victor Hugo in the 16th arrondissement, sharing space with other single-practice lawyers and accountants. When Rocco arrived, he saw Caspar waiting in a doorway just along from the entrance. On the way in he’d used the car radio to call Massin, who promised to have local officers on hand to make the arrests as soon as Rocco signalled. The same arrangement would be in place for Serban’s location when confirmed.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to call again quite so soon,’ said Caspar with a happy grin. ‘But I’m glad you did. A lot of guys would like to change places with me for a chance to nail Vauquelin’s ears to the wall.’ He stopped, staring at Rocco’s face, where the vivid bruising had been changing colour by the hour. ‘Christ, what happened to you?’

  ‘I got hit by a truck. It feels worse than it looks.’ He related what he’d learned from Dinal and took the paper bearing his name and home address out of his pocket. ‘Vauquelin’s the linchpin in this whole business, so we need his testimony to knock Serban over. It was Serban’s driver who delivered the letters and one of his thugs who tried to kill me.’ He passed the paper to Caspar. ‘Knowing we’ve got this should give Vauquelin a scare.’

  Caspar read it and smiled. ‘One look at your face will do that.’

  Moments later a police van carrying three uniformed officers pulled up to the kerb just along the street, and the driver gave a signal that they were ready. It was time to go. Rocco and Caspar went to meet them, and they all walked into the building together, a show of force that he hoped would unsettle Vauquelin right from the start.

  The lawyer was alone in his second-floor office. He looked up with a start as the five men walked in, pushing back the door with a bang. The office was expensively decorated and furnished, Rocco noted, the kind of décor that would reassure nervous clients that they were in the presence of an expert, capable of defending them to the ends of the earth as long as they could pay his fees. The outer room held a small settee and an empty secretary’s desk bearing a large Adler typewriter. Rocco led the way straight through to the main office, lined with expensive-looking legal tomes and framed certificates.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Vauquelin demanded, rising from his desk and reaching for his telephone. His eyes widened when he recognised Caspar. ‘You!’

  Rocco took the phone off him and dropped it on the floor. ‘Maître Vauquelin – or is it agent Vauquelin – I’m confused about what it is you do these days. We need to have a talk about your future. Please sit down.’

  Vauquelin was staring at Rocco’s face and clothing. He sank back into his chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he protested angrily, but he’d gone very pale. ‘Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction?’

  Rocco showed him the letter from the Interior Ministry. ‘This gives me authority to investigate wherever I see fit the blackmail attempts on Secretary of State for Finance Jean-Pascal Bourdelet, assize judge Jules Petissier and former head of the Sûreté Nationale, Jean-Marie Gambon. In case you haven’t heard, all these men are now deceased, apparently because of letters received accusing them of having bought copies of paintings under questionable circumstances.’

  ‘So what?’ Vauquelin blustered. ‘That has nothing to do with me! And what right has this man,’ he pointed at Caspar, ‘to come into my office. He’s no longer a serving officer!’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Rocco agreed. ‘But he’s acting as my consultant, so is covered by this letter.’ He sat down with a sigh. ‘Do you really want to argue the toss? I’ve had a very rough day and I’m feeling irritable, especially after a man tried to kill me using information provided by you.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ The lawyer began to rise. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean–’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Rocco, ‘or I’ll have you handcuffed to your chair.’ He made a signal and one of the uniformed officers, a brigadier, stepped forward and produced a pair of cuffs. The smile on his face left nobody in any doubt that he would enjoy using them.

  Once Vauquelin was seated again, Rocco leaned forward and picked up a fountain pen from his desk set. It was silver, heavy and beautifully embossed, a symbolic tool of this man’s trade. He unscrewed the top and took the slip of paper from Dinal’s wallet out of his pocket. Immediately beneath his own name and address he wrote a single word. Then he turned the note round so that the lawyer could see it.

  ‘Nice colour ink you use,’ he said. It was, as he’d suspected, a distinctive shade of violet.

  Vauquelin looked down. He did a double take once he realised what Rocco had written. The single word was ‘Serban’. The colour of the inks was identical.

  ‘I don’t understand. What game are you playing, Inspector?’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t know Yuri Serban?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no. He’s a client. So?’

  ‘Good. Glad we’ve cleared that up. You see, I know you passed this slip of paper to Yuri Serban, who in turn gave it to one of his men, a lowlife named Pierre-Yves Dinal, of Rue Riblette, here in the city. Dinal’s orders, which he’s prepared to swear came from Serban, were simple: to dispose of me in an arranged accident. As you can see, he failed. See the line of criminal connection I’m drawing here? You were seen in Serban’s company very recently, as witnessed by former officer Casparon here, and now here we are with a note of my name and home address in your handwriting in the pocket of an assassin who’s prepared to swear both it and the orders came from Yuri Serban. Pretty damning, I’d say.’

  This time Vauquelin propelled himself to his feet without being stopped. ‘I know nothing about any of that,’ he protested, his face turning a vivid shade of red. ‘This is outrageous!’

  Rocco looked at the brigadier, who stepped forward and quickly cuffed one of Vauquelin’s wrists to the arm of his chair, then stood over him until he subsided.

  ‘That’s for your own safety,’ Rocco informed the lawyer. ‘You look as
if you’re getting too excited. I’d hate you to injure yourself before being charged as an accessory to murder – along with the attempted blackmail of senior members of the establishment, resulting in their deaths.’

  Vauquelin scowled. ‘How could I – I don’t even know them!’

  Rocco took out three photos, one each showing Vauquelin in the company of Bourdelet, Petissier and Gambon.

  ‘Seriously? You all look very comfortable to me.’

  This time Vauquelin’s mouth opened but nothing came out.

  ‘Where did the paintings come from? You can tell me that, surely.’

  ‘You know the answer to that already. I got them from Cezard.’ His face was sullen and his tone churlish. ‘He agreed to me selling them on his behalf. There’s no law against it.’

  ‘I’m not saying there is. But you knew these men well enough to know they’d be interested, didn’t you?’

  ‘They called themselves art lovers.’ He shrugged, evidently feeling he was on safer ground. ‘Not that Gambon would have known the first thing about art. All he wanted was a naked woman on his wall. Cezard needed a market for his work and I knew where to find it. They were show-offs to a man. They all knew what they were buying, so you can’t twist that against me.’

  ‘I’m not even trying. What about the fourth painting that Gambon sold to an American buyer?’

  For once Vauquelin looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I have no idea. I only sold him one, a nude.’

  Rocco let it go. They didn’t have any evidence, anyway. He decided on a change of tack. ‘How long have you been representing Yuri Serban?’

  The question caught the lawyer off guard. He looked apprehensive again at the mention of the gangster’s name. ‘I don’t know … maybe five years.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Property transactions, mostly. He owns a number of small businesses.’

  ‘Did you mention the paintings to him?’

  ‘I might have, in passing. We talk about lots of things.’

  ‘In passing.’ Rocco let several seconds go by, studying the other man’s face in the silence. ‘Whose idea was it to send the letters?’

  ‘What letters? I don’t know anything about letters.’

  ‘The ones you wrote using the typewriter on your secretary’s desk.’ He didn’t wait for another denial. ‘Did you know we can now identify individual machines by their key strokes and the pressure of the letters on the paper?’

  ‘Nonsense. I’d have heard about that. You take me for a fool?’

  ‘Anything but. If you doubt me, try calling the police labs at Rosny; they’ll confirm it. We’ll be taking the typewriter in for comparison today. I’ll be happy to give you a receipt.’

  Vauquelin said nothing for a moment, then sighed. ‘What do you want, Rocco?’

  Rocco felt a buzz of excitement go through him, and was pretty sure it was shared by the others in the room. They would have recognised the signs. Like hearing of a death in the family. Only instead of shock, grief and despair, criminals went through denial to outrage to justification and, finally, confession. He wasn’t certain quite where Vauquelin was, but he was moving along the track.

  ‘I want to save your life.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Once Serban hears you’ve spoken out against him, he’ll do anything he can to make sure your testimony never reaches court. But,’ he held up a finger as Vauquelin went to protest, ‘help us and we can make sure he doesn’t get to you.’ He waited another few seconds, then added, ‘It’s your choice: speak up now and get a lighter sentence away from Serban’s thugs, or you can take your chances out on the street. You know what he’s capable of.’

  It was a bluff, but one he was fairly sure Vauquelin wasn’t in a position to call. He must have witnessed Serban’s real nature up close on more than one occasion, and would know he’d be immediately vulnerable so that Serban could protect his own back. Whether awaiting trial or in prison afterwards, there would be no protection from the Romanian’s vengeful nature.

  ‘I had no idea just how far he was prepared to go.’ The admission came after a long silence. Vauquelin’s voice was flat, unemotional. He was staring at the piece of paper on his desk.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With everything … and you. All I proposed for him to do was to get the letters delivered and he’d take a cut of the returns. I mentioned it first in passing because I wasn’t sure he’d go along with it. But he liked the scheme … perhaps a little too much, although I didn’t see it at first. He wanted to accelerate it to more targets. I was only interested in three.’

  ‘He used Georges Peretz to make the deliveries?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vauquelin looked surprised. ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘He wasn’t as invisible as he’d hoped. A yellow van trying to be a PTT vehicle only works if it’s got the right letters on the doors.’

  ‘I might have known. Serban’s not one for fine detail.’ He sounded bitter.

  ‘So, the blackmail was your idea? Why? I thought these men were your friends.’

  ‘So did I! They all treated me like dirt. I was useful when it came to protecting their interests, but once Petissier took against me after a couple of court cases he didn’t like, and began spreading lies about me, they and a lot of others cut me off without a second thought.’ He looked at Rocco as if seeking his understanding. ‘Pretty soon I was no more than a pariah. Older clients dropped me, new ones were warned off and … and some investments I’d made went sour because people I trusted pulled out.’

  ‘You lost money?’

  ‘Yes. A great deal.’

  ‘What else about Serban’s reaction?’

  ‘When he learned that you were investigating the deaths and getting closer, he said I should manufacture some evidence to discredit you. I said I couldn’t and he threatened to torch my office and home. The man’s a maniac. He’s become dangerously ambitious and wants to be the head of a criminal empire here in the city. I’d already decided to cease all dealings with him.’ He shrugged. ‘Too late, it seems. But I know everything about him.’ He looked around at the men in the room. ‘I can provide evidence of fraud, criminality and violence going back over at least four years. I kept notes of all our dealings.’

  Rocco got to his feet. ‘Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.’ He turned to the brigadier. ‘Your arrest, I think. Get him into protective custody and take a detailed statement. I’ll send in a report to your office. Just make sure he doesn’t fall down any stairs on the way out.’

  The officer smiled and said, ‘That’s a promise, Inspector. We know what he’s like.’ He unlocked the handcuff, immediately placing it around Vauquelin’s other wrist and nodding at his men to take the prisoner away.

  ‘One down,’ said Rocco to Caspar. ‘One more to go.’

  Forty-two

  Yuri Serban evidently had an abundance of faith in his ability to stay out of trouble, in spite of what he’d sent his man Dinal to do. He was where Caspar had suggested Desmoulins and Claude might find him, holding court in the Bacau restaurant.

  ‘Not very imaginative, is he?’ commented Claude, from the passenger seat of Desmoulins’ car. After checking his office and finding it empty, they had proceeded to the restaurant where an obvious bodyguard was standing outside, scanning the street.

  ‘Like a lot of his kind, he thinks he’s untouchable,’ said Desmoulins, and grinned. ‘I think he’s in for a shock.’ He opened the car door. ‘Fancy a coffee while we check out the opposition?’

  ‘If you’re buying, I’m ready.’

  ‘Good. What’s your favourite film?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Your favourite film. What is it?’

  Claude thought about it. ‘I suppose Rififi if I’m pushed. Why?’

  ‘Mine, too. And the best scene?’

  They walked along the street, discussing the film by director Jules Dassin and tossing scenes back and forth. They passed the bodyguard and turned into the res
taurant, continuing the discussion while checking out the patrons and layout.

  Yuri Serban was easily identifiable. Seated at the table described by Caspar, he was talking in low tones to two men. They were nodding without speaking. When they left, they were replaced by another man who had been waiting at the counter. This one handed over some sheets of paper for Serban to study before turning to leave.

  ‘Yesterday’s takings,’ said Desmoulins softly. ‘I bet the tax authorities would love to see those figures before they get doctored.’

  They ordered coffee and counted three members of Serban’s entourage seated around the room. With the bodyguard outside, that made four.

  Serban himself seemed relaxed and oozed confidence, master of all he surveyed – at least in this small corner. He only had to raise his head and one of the waiters was by his side awaiting instructions. The remainder of the clientele seemed to be ordinary locals.

  ‘I’ll get Lucas on the radio,’ said Desmoulins, finishing his coffee. ‘Can you stay here and watch the room?’

  ‘Love to,’ said Claude, eyeing the pastry counter. ‘I might have a piece of cake while I’m waiting, so don’t rush.’