A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

  ‘I’m listening . . .’

  ‘If Jean-Paul Malanceau calls you back, please don’t tell him that I know what he’s up to. Kick him into touch. Just tell him you’re still not interested. I don’t think he will call you back, but just in case he does. I’ll settle this, but if he knows I know, I won’t have the upper hand. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Of course. No problem, Achilles. Really! What a bastard! You have some sort of code of conduct in your profession, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, but there are black sheep in every line of work, you know . . .’

  ‘I can see that, yes. Well, I hope you’re not too worried about it. It’s a sad state of affairs . . .’

  ‘I’ve known worse, don’t worry. You’re OK with the plan though?’

  ‘Fine by me. You’re a good lad, Achilles. I’m glad I wasn’t fooled by him!’

  I’m a good lad. Aren’t I just?

  We discuss our business for two or three minutes longer so as not to leave each other on a negative note. I then shake Gratien by the hand and say goodbye.

  Lyon isn’t far from here. Not far at all . . .

  28.

  Thursday, 24 December 1987

  I’m on my way to Lyon, where Jean-Paul lives in the centre. I feel liberated. I’d love to jump out of nowhere and surprise him. It might take me a while though. On Christmas Day, people rush to visit the colourful market on Place Carnot, between the Rhône and the Saône.

  You know I’m not some rabbit trapped in the headlights or some frightened little virgin, so let’s get this straight: in my field, low blows are part of the game. There is certainly a kind of camaraderie in this business, even a few genuine friendships, but betrayals are part and parcel of it. Salesmen are natural liars, and no matter how hard we try to form good relationships with third parties, we are always in competition. Nice men are not too common on the ground.

  I’m not a nice man.

  But this confrontation with Hector has been so oppressive in recent months that I’ve let my guard down. I’ve had to fight fierce competition before, but I’ve never had to use my hidden talents to do so – I’m talking here about my skills as a killer. Modesty is de rigueur these days, but if I’m honest, I have to admit that I’m good at my job. I know how to schmooze a client and get him to entrust me with representing his products. I know how to make him pick me over someone else. I have a stable and reliable base of regulars that I’ve built up carefully over the years. I have the best networks at my disposal, and so far, I’ve managed to make more and more progress even through hard times. Whenever another sales rep has looked at my customers with his attractive smile, I’ve always been able to regain control.

  I would never have expected Jean-Paul to betray me. When after several years he came and visited me at home on my way back from Strasbourg, straight after I discovered I was being framed for the murder of Caroline Berthier, I was happy to see him again.

  We hadn’t seen each other since the very lucrative contract we worked on together in the seventies, but we had been in touch on and off – generally to wish each other well every new year. So although we weren’t close, we had always remained on friendly terms.

  But now he’s trying to steal my clients . . .

  Well . . . it’s not a major concern, but I didn’t think he’d ever risk playing with me like that.

  I take a moment to reflect on the softening of my reflexes. When you can no longer read what lies in a person’s heart, you can be knocked off your pedestal before you even realise it.

  I don’t want to waste any more time than necessary with this. I need to keep my mind active, of course, but not in this way. The thought of Malanceau’s betrayal gives me a jittery feeling and that is not what I need right now.

  I’m in such a slump because of my invisible opponent that I can’t waste my energy settling scores. It’s low, futile and unworthy of me. Nonetheless, although I don’t want to give this problem any more attention than it deserves, if I want to move on with my life I will need to put my cards on the table so far as Jean-Paul is concerned.

  And no, I won’t go to Lyon.

  What would I gain from such direct confrontation? If we come face to face, it could end up in a fist fight. This is no age to be fighting. I’ll leave that to the teenagers. Plus, my recent confrontation with Sébastien Destrien has convinced me that my body is no longer up to it.

  I stop my car in Charnècles, a small village north of Grenoble. I park just in front of a deserted phone box a stone’s throw from a garage whose walls are soiled with a disgusting black deposit – a remnant of the carbon fumes that pollute the street.

  I enter the phone box and shove a few coins in the slot, then go through my notebook to find Jean-Paul’s number. I need a little time to decipher my writing. When Jean-Paul came to Nice, I remember him giving me his new number as I still had the old one in my little book.

  I dial the eight digits and wait. I don’t know what I’m going to say if he answers. I don’t much go in for impulse and manly displays. Such things have always made my hair stand on end. In my world, people should act with decorum, even when showing their contempt.

  I hear the click as he picks up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jean-Paul?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Achilles.’

  ‘Oh! Achilles, how are you? You know I was just thinking about you?’

  ‘Well, well . . .’

  ‘I’ve just got back from Villeurbanne. I met a lady who’s just started her own perfume lab. She’s not quite ready yet, but she’s looking for people who can help launch her brand when she’s got everything just right. I thought you might be interested in this for the Côte d’Azur. Do you have any perfumers on your books?’

  ‘No, Jean-Paul, I don’t.’

  ‘Ah, right . . . Well, I’ll have to send you the documentation then. You’ll like what she does. See, amigo, I’m not bad to you, am I?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jean-Paul. I have a lot of contracts . . .’

  ‘Well, you should think about it! Honestly, it’s a good little deal, but if you’re already busy, don’t worry, I’ll—’

  ‘It’s just that I’m renewing with a few clients at the moment. Do you know Raniéri in Aix?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘You do!’ I insist. ‘They make all those posh sweets . . . calissons. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Ah . . . Yes, yes . . .’

  ‘And Pelleray, in Grenoble, the one who makes the cakes? You remember him?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Yes, Jean-Paul . . . I know I told you about him. We’re like partners, aren’t we, you and I? And I think I told you about all my contracts. In this business, people tend to keep their cards close to their chest, but with you, I told you everything. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I thought so. Well, listen to this . . . The cake people and the confectioner have both told me that someone’s going around trying to steal my contracts. Can you believe it, Jean-Paul? Some miserable prick is going after my customers. The cheek of it!’

  ‘Wait, Achilles, it’s not—’

  ‘Christ! I mean, I’m well known in the business, aren’t I? Who do you think would dare do something like this? And you know, the worst part is that this man is doing all this behind my back . . .’

  ‘No, Achilles, it’s not what you think—’

  ‘What? Well, what do I think, Jean-Paul? Go ahead and tell me, I’m all ears.’

  Silence.

  ‘Well? Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Achilles, it’s not what you think. I’m your man . . . I’m the salesman who—’

  ‘I know, Jean-Paul, and you’re lucky I didn’t find out about it before. You did a good job, you know. Making them believe you were going to see them with my blessing. Jesus, Jean-Paul, you’re really taking the piss . . .’

  ‘No, not at all . . . Look, Achilles, it’s
not like that. I didn’t know they were your customers. I didn’t know you worked with those companies. I thought . . . When I realised they had a contract with you, I backed off. Honestly, I just let it all drop.’

  ‘Stop it, Jean-Paul. I know you’re lying. A little dignity wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘No . . . I . . . Achilles . . . I haven’t seen you since . . . I would never have done something like that to you, Achilles.’

  I scream. The noise thunders around the phone box and I bang the receiver against the glass in my rage.

  ‘Achilles? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I’m still here. And really, Jean-Paul, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You tried stealing business from me, it’s as simple as that. That was a sneaky trick. The least you could do is admit it. Just say it and we’ll leave it at that! We’ll never talk about it again.’

  ‘We’ll never talk about it again? You mean we’re still friends?’

  ‘Are you joking? Listen to me carefully: from now on, just forget about my suppliers, understand? If I ever hear from you again, I will ruin your reputation. I will start a war, and believe me, you’ll regret it. I want you out of my life. Don’t come near me again. If I ever see you . . .’

  ‘Achilles! Don’t take it like—’

  ‘Quiet! Shut up and listen: if I ever see you again, I’ll knock you senseless. You don’t know me, Jean-Paul. You don’t know what I’m capable of. You have no idea who I really am.’

  ‘Actually, Achilles, I do know.’

  I sigh. ‘Jean-Paul, I don’t want us to ever cross paths again. Understand?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Do you understand? Answer me! Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s understood, but you don’t know who I am either.’

  I put the phone down. My nerves are raw, and that conversation has done nothing to calm me down. I kick the inside of the kiosk several times.

  As I step outside, I spot the owner of the garage walking towards me. He must have seen me trying to smash up the phone box. Shit! I’ve made myself look like a common vandal.

  I hurriedly apologise to the man before starting up the car and driving off.

  I’m going to have to strike while the iron’s hot. If I want to get things straight again, I’m going to have to estimate the number of clients he’s tried to steal from me. Not everyone will have had the same scruples as Gratien Pelleray.

  Even customers who don’t really want to stop working with me may have given in to him. The Raniéri case confirms this. If Jean-Paul, vile sycophant that he is, has charmed them, I may have a more slender portfolio than I thought.

  I need to call all my customers. I will have to take notes and make sure I have all my listings with me. It will be complicated to do this from a phone box.

  I continue on my way to Colombier-Saugnieu. I’m now nearing Lyon-Satolas airport – I know the place well. Although I travel most of the time by car, it’s not uncommon for me to take a plane for longer journeys. There’s a restaurant near the entrance where I regularly enjoy lunch or dinner.

  I have to manoeuvre several times to get the Mercedes into the only narrow space available in the staff car park, then I open the boot and nervously grab the file containing all my customer listings. These documents contain the most important elements of each of my contracts. All the suppliers I represent are there, proudly printed out on coloured cards. Each card includes their contact details and the history of our relationship: when we first started working together, how our turnover has evolved, what commission rates I receive . . .

  I enter the establishment and wave to the waiter. He’s a young man I haven’t seen before. He looks like that singer from A-ha.

  ‘Hello. Is your boss around?’

  The kid doesn’t have time to answer before the manager appears behind him, towering over his shoulder. He stares at me and smiles. I don’t know his name, but he knows that when I eat here, I don’t count the notes that fall out of my jacket at the end of the meal. His smile widens. I think he’s worked out that smiles are proportionate to tips. I explain to him that I’ve just had some worrying news at work and need to monopolise his phone for a while.

  ‘Well, the shift doesn’t start for two or three hours, monsieur, so you won’t be any bother.’

  ‘Thank you so much. I’ll make it up to you. I knew you’d help me out. Where can I set myself up?’

  ‘In my office. I’m not using it at the moment.’

  I follow him and a mere two minutes later, after refusing a coffee, I’m alone in a shabby little room. There’s a poster of Alain Prost, the racing driver, pinned to the wall in front of me. I put my things on the desk and dial the first number.

  There’s no need to waste time getting in touch with the smaller suppliers. If Jean-Paul has launched a hostile takeover bid, he’ll have selected only those likely to bring in the big money. He already has a large portfolio and won’t waste time chasing what are known in the business jargon we all know and love as ‘small fry’.

  ‘Well, yes . . . A Jean-Paul Malanceau did contact me, Achilles . . . When? Well . . . it was April. No, no, he didn’t say you’d recommended him.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Jean-Paul who?’

  ‘Monsieur Clazay? I thought you’d passed away. We never heard from you . . . You’ve not done anything with our contract, have you? Malanceau? No, no, he hasn’t been in touch . . .’

  ‘Malanceau? Yes, indeed. He told us he was calling on your behalf. I thought he was working with you . . . No, no, he just came to reception . . . He didn’t tell me he wanted the contract.’

  ‘No, I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Malanceau? Oh yes! He wanted to see me, but I didn’t have time. He told me he’d call back.’

  ‘Malanceau? Yes, he came at the beginning of March last year. He told me you had too many suppliers on your books and that you’d offered to pass us on to him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, now that you mention the name, it does ring a bell. I think he called us three months ago, but I told him you’d been to see us recently, and after that he didn’t push me any further.’

  ‘Jean-Paul who?’

  ‘Monsieur Clazay! It’s been a while . . . Oh yes, I signed with Jean-Paul, yes. He’s very good, by the way. You made a good choice there . . .’

  Eventually, I ask for a coffee before going to the upstairs bathroom to relieve myself. The bitterness of the espresso forces me to close my eyes, as though the darkness might amplify the strength of the aroma.

  Out of the fifty or so suppliers I’ve contacted, two thirds have been called, sometimes visited, by my friend from Lyon.

  I would be willing to bet that after the heated discussion between Jean-Paul and me earlier and the barely disguised warnings I gave him, he won’t dare to continue this business of destabilising what I’ve spent years building up. The procedure is simple: I will have to physically visit each customer to reassure them and convince them not to heed the siren’s call.

  I take advantage of my time in the office to prepare a battle plan that will allow me to correct the problems this uncharacteristic lack of vigilance on my part has caused.

  First of all, I carefully note the names of the thirty or so suppliers approached by my ex-friend and now competitor. I then draw up several columns and note down the turnover achieved with each client in 1986, which will allow me to prioritise my course of action – the development potential, the number of products processed, the date on which Jean-Paul called and/or visited the supplier, the duration of the contract between the supplier and myself.

  I’m going to have to warn Claire that I’m not likely to be back at our apartment in Cimiez any time soon. This current blow means I will have to put all my other projects to one side to focus on consolidating my now failing business.

  My eyes scan the lists of information before me, then the dates seem to pop out . . . and I shudder.

  My breathing almost stops. It takes
me several seconds to come to my senses.

  Among all the dates and places listed in this summary, there is one in particular that draws my attention: on 3 March 1986, Jean-Paul was up near Lille. He visited the Albret factory which makes bêtises de Cambrai sweets. The manager chose not to work with him.

  On 3 March 1986, Jean-Paul was in the vicinity of Lille.

  The 3 March 1986 . . .

  On 4 March 1986, I killed Françoise Laville, the nurse . . . in Lille. I drew a most splendid image on the body of this twenty-eight-year-old girl. It was a truly beautiful piece of work: the Place du Concert, one of the most majestic squares in the northern capital.

  I also know that when Caroline Berthier was murdered on 5 November 1986, Jean-Paul was in Montpellier.

  Jean-Paul Malanceau reappeared in my life as if by chance.

  But there is no such thing as coincidence. Chance never comes into it.

  I had Hector in my sights from the beginning. I asked myself the right questions. I just couldn’t see the truth.

  29.

  One question: why?

  Why would Jean-Paul imitate The Artist by killing Caroline Berthier?

  I can understand all the reasons that led him to steal my clients. As I told you earlier, my job is like swimming in a shark tank, and it’s not surprising that Jean-Paul wanted to increase his income by encroaching on my territory.

  We worked together in the 1970s, but then we more or less lost touch. We made a phone call to one another about once a year – nothing to suggest an eternal friendship; I would be naive to think as much. I can imagine very easily that after about ten years, Jean-Paul thought he need have no qualms about attacking me, but then rather than do it head-on, he chose to interfere in my professional life in the most cowardly and sneaky way.

  Come on!

  I know he started these manoeuvres of his long before the murder in Lille. For all we know, he’s been furious about my success for years. He envies me and I accept that, but how can he go from being a traitor to being a murderer?