Rough Trade

by Dominique Manotti

  ‘How did Simon’s system of hiring out studios work?’

  ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it. But I know he had membership of some kind. They had a key to the entrance door and the studios.’

  ‘Did they come at any time?’

  ‘No. I think they always rang first to make an appointment. On the phone they’d say: “It’s about the members’ evenings”, so I wouldn’t ask anything and passed them directly to Raphael.’

  ‘Raphael. Is that Simon’s first name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the evening, what time did you leave the office?’

  ‘I waited for Raphael, we’d leave together, practically every evening. About six or seven, depending on the workload.’

  ‘You didn’t wait for the members?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen even one of them.’

  ‘And on Friday the 29th in the evening … tell me what you did.’

  The typewriter click-clacked away in bursts interspersed by long periods of silence.

  ‘We waited for Bernachon.’

  ‘Did he come often?’

  ‘Not very, but, well … let’s say, fairly regularly. I must have seen him four or five times.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘He arrived with the girl at about eight. She didn’t look as though she were twelve.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He went away and the girl stayed. Raphael went down to the basement with her. He came up again after, I don’t know, perhaps ten minutes, and we left for the cinema.’

  ‘Can you be more precise about the time he stayed downstairs?’

  ‘I did my hair, put my lipstick on, looked in the mirror, and he was back again. I wasn’t conscious of waiting.’

  ‘I see how you spend your time. It’s not important. How did Bernachon come to pick up the girl?’

  ‘That I don’t know. The next day was a Saturday, and I never go into the office on Saturdays.’

  ‘And did Simon go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘At eight’

  ‘Did Bernachon only come on Fridays?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So in the mornings, what would happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never went to the office before nine. At that time of day, I’ve never seen any Thai girl.’

  ‘And Simon? Did he go to the office earlier?’

  ‘Yes, often. He had a lot of work to do before clients arrived.’

  ‘So I imagine … And you didn’t ever ask him any questions about his activities?’

  ‘No. At the beginning I didn’t know anything. And then he explained to me that he rented out the studios and that I should pass on certain calls to him direct. That’s all. It’s just that I’m not a busybody who asks all sorts of questions.’

  Daquin finished typing his report.

  ‘Reread it quietly. And if it concurs with what you’ve just told me, sign it. If there’s something not right, tell me at once and we’ll correct it.’

  She read it concentrating hard for a while.

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll sign it.’

  ‘And now, young lady, let me say something to you: get out of here at the double, look for a new job, a new boyfriend and forget Simon. He’s not worth it.’

  *

  With Bernachon’s statement, and Christine’s, Simon soon cracked. And from what he said, it was a funny business. He’d begun by fitting out a studio as a bedroom and hiring it occasionally to film X-rated videos. But very soon he’d had requests, coming first from his business clientele as a venue for their private orgies that the participants wanted to film. He soon saw there was a very profitable business here. As he was a very resourceful, imaginative man, he had not only fitted up the four studios along the same lines, but he’d also set up a club of a very special kind. Fifty members at 2,500 francs a month. Each member, when he joined for the first time, drew out a pseudonym at random from an urn, which had contained fifty of them, and received a key to the entrance door and studios. Simon explained to them how the cameras worked. It was extremely simple: it was automatic. Then, each member of the club telephoned using his pseudonym – they had complete anonymity. He kept a studio for a chosen weekday evening, or a half day at the weekend. He could come with the friends he wanted on condition that he said nothing about how the studios operated, the discretion of each individual guaranteeing everyone’s else’s security. He could also order girls, or boys, but there, Simon was only an intermediary and did not touch any additional money, the services being paid for directly to the prostitutes, except in the case of Thai girls, where it was paid to Bernachon.

  ‘Let’s go back to the Thais. How’s that arranged?’

  Bernachon would bring one (or several) girls, Simon accompanied her to the studio, she would undress and wait for the client. Simon locked her clothes in the camera-room. The clients, when they left, would lock the studio behind them and the girl would spend the night there. The following morning at eight, Bernachon would come to collect the girl, to whom Simon had returned her clothes. On that particular morning, when Simon arrived, he had found neither the girl nor her clothes and the studio was apparently in order. He thought the client had let the girl run away. And he’d compensated Bernachon for the loss.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty thousand francs.’ Which had seemed reasonable to him. Not for an instant had he thought of a murder: all the members were gentlemen from ‘very good backgrounds’. Simon didn’t accept any Tom, Dick or Harry, they had to be recommended.

  ‘And so, on Friday evening, you didn’t know who was with the Thai?’

  ‘No.’ Simon knew simply that that evening, in that particular studio, was a member called Icarus. But who Icarus was he couldn’t say.

  Daquin stood up.

  ‘Take Simon’s statement. We must have the list of pseudonyms, the list of members and the list of the “service providers” whom he usually dealt with. Also his bank accounts and all his club accounts. If not we don’t accept a single word of his devious tale and we indict him for murder. After all, he had all the time to do it. I’m leaving you – I’ve things to do upstairs.’

  *

  Sobesky was more than an hour late but didn’t seem to notice. He went up to Attali sitting behind the big desk. He was small, thickset, with muscles and a belly. Square mouth, light blue eyes, brush-cut hair and a necklet of grey beard. Open, warm. Attali and Romero stood up to greet him, introduced themselves and sat down. Daquin, behind the small desk, was deep in a pile of files.

  Attali began: ‘We asked you here for four,’ he made a point of looking at his watch, ‘to ask you some questions about your notification of the disappearance of Mademoiselle Lamouroux that you made on Tuesday 4 March at the 10th arrondissement police station. Can you tell us what motivated this move?’

  ‘Virginie’s been my star model for the last three years.’ Sobesky, embarrassed, hesitated a little. ‘She’s also been my son’s girlfriend for the last six months. She lived with him. On Friday 29 February, we had a family dinner, with some friends. After the meal, my son and Virginie had quite a violent row, so Virginie left on her own, I don’t know why, Xavier didn’t want to tell me. The following morning, I went to spend the weekend with friends at Deauville. On Monday morning I had a fashion show with a big client. It was Virginie who should have been doing it. Come 11 o’clock, no one. It was the first time in three years she’d let me down. My wife stood in for her at a moment’s notice. She used to do that once … a long time ago. The client left, the deal fell through, what’s more I phoned my son at the hospital where he was on duty – he’s a medical student – and he told me he hadn’t seen Virginie since Friday evening. So, frankly, I was worried. On Monday I phoned all the friends we knew, no one had any news. So on Tuesday morning I decided to go to the police station.’

  ‘Did you know that Virginie Lamouroux was back in Paris? Since 5 March to be precise?’

&nbs
p; ‘I heard it from one of my friends who’s a manufacturer.’

  ‘She hasn’t contacted you again since her return?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t find that curious?’

  ‘Of course I do, but what do you want me to say?’

  ‘Did you know that Virginie Lamouroux went to New York from the first to the fifth of March, where she met your colleague Mr Baker?’

  ‘No. I knew nothing about it.’ Sobesky looked genuinely astonished.

  ‘Why? In your opinion?’

  ‘How d’you expect me to know?’

  ‘Has she known Mr Baker for a long time?’

  ‘It wasn’t apparent to me that she knew him.’

  ‘How long has Mr Baker been a colleague of yours?’

  ‘What’ve these questions got to do with my visit to the police station?’

  Romero took up the relay: ‘Since she came back from New York, we’ve arrested Virginie Lamouroux. She was in possession of a certain quantity of heroin.’

  ‘Virginie?’ His voice broke on the high notes.

  ‘You didn’t know that she was trafficking in drugs?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. I really like Virginie. She works as a model only now and then, like a lot of others, to finance her studies. She wants to become a museum curator.’

  Attali and Romero tried, for an instant, to imagine VL as a museum curator. It was difficult to take on board.

  ‘She’s certainly had her share of affairs, that’s normal for a girl nowadays. But to go from there to thinking that she’s selling drugs …’

  ‘That’s why we’re trying to clarify her relationship with Mr Baker.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been working with Baker for a year and a half. We met at the ready-to-wear Salon. He suggested a licenced contract for the States. Obviously, I accepted. And it’s working well. I’ve never seen Baker and Virginie together.’

  Without moving from his desk, Daquin asked: ‘Do you work with Anna Beric?’

  Sobesky turned to him, frowning.

  ‘Of course. What are you implying, asking that?’

  ‘Mme Beric disappeared at the same time as Virginie Lamouroux, but she still hasn’t reappeared.’

  ‘What connection d’you think there is between these two women?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s you I’m asking. Is there a professional connection?’

  ‘No. They each carry on in their own very different sectors. In my opinion, they don’t even know each other. Anna’s a very old friend. She started in the rag trade at the same time as me, as a dressmaker supervising alterations, nearly twenty years ago. Then, still with my setup, she did everything: she was a mannequin, a saleswoman, representative, secretary. I taught her everything. And she left to start her own business about twelve years after that. Since then I’ve gone on working with her. And don’t tell me that she’s into drugs too, because I’d laugh in your face.’

  ‘How did she come to begin with you?’

  ‘It was Superintendent Meillant who brought her to me. He was an inspector at the time. She was in a mess, and she needed help. And she came out of it remarkably well.’

  ‘You know Superintendent Meillant?’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s disappeared too?’ Smile.

  ‘No. Not as far as I know.’ Daquin returned his smile. ‘It’s simply curiosity on my part.’

  Sobesky looked serious for a moment. Then: ‘I’ve no reason not to give you an answer. Yes, I’ve known Meillant for a long time. Since the spring of 1943 to be precise. I was a child. A Jew. He wasn’t much older than me. He saved my life. We’ve stayed great friends. Now I want you to explain to me what I’m really doing here.’

  Attali took over: ‘Quite simply, Monsieur Sobesky, we’re informing you officially that Virginie Lamouroux has not disappeared, that we’re therefore filing your statement, and we thank you for being so co-operative in answering our questions.’

  Sobesky got up, shook hands with the two inspectors, glanced at Daquin who was once more immersed in his files and went out.

  Daquin rose to make a coffee.

  ‘Where are we now, patron?’

  ‘I’m not too sure, to tell you the truth. One thing’s certain. VL knows Baker. So ask her how it is that Sobesky isn’t up to date on the fact.’

  *

  Before leaving, Daquin took a large brown envelope from a drawer in his desk. Inside were two big black and white photos, doubtless taken at a cocktail party. On one of them was a woman outlined in crayon and a post-it from Lavorel: ‘This is Anna Beric’ She was still very beautiful. Tall, dark. A brief reminder of the red dress in the wardrobe. And two smaller photos of Meillant coming out of the police station.

  Meillant and Anna Beric had not just crossed paths once. He’d also taken the trouble to find her a job. It was hardly likely that he’d completely lost sight of her. She was too beautiful, too fascinating. And they both worked in the Sentier.

  12 FRIDAY 14 MARCH

  9 a.m. 10th Arrondissement Police Station

  Attali was waiting for Virginie Lamouroux. She walked into the big waiting room, and went up to him, with a small nod and a smile.

  ‘So where’s this register I have to sign?’

  Attali pushed it over to her. She signed.

  ‘Mademoiselle. May I say you look ravishing this morning.’

  ‘Thank you, monsieur l’inspecteur. Your compliment goes straight to my heart.’

  ‘I’ve just one question to ask you.’ He stood up, took her arm, in a move that was to be half gallant, and half to stop her running away. ‘How is it Sobesky hasn’t a clue you know Baker well enough to pay him a visit in New York?’

  Virginie looked a bit perturbed by the question, but not enough to affect the good mood she had arrived in. She smiled at Attali.

  ‘Because Sobesky’s the sort of person who thinks he’s cunning, when in fact he’s a vain, naïve cunt. I’m pissed off with him, and his little schemes, and the way he puts his hand on my bottom. Pissed off with him and his son. Sod them. D’you understand, monsieur l’inspecteur?’

  Attali was taken aback.

  ‘I understand very well.’

  She left with her dancing step.

  Romero, hiding by the police station exit, followed her from a distance. She went in through the entrance of a building in rue des Vinaigriers. Romero could have sworn she gave him a little farewell wave. He hurried after her through the entrance. Several staircases, three courtyards in a row, two other exits out into a passageway that led to the street … It took only a few minutes to ascertain that Virginie Lamouroux had abruptly and of her own free will left without saying goodbye.

  10 a.m. Autoroute to the South

  After a very peaceful beginning to the morning, a fuck with Soleiman and breakfast in bed (blinis, crème fraîche, taramasalata and coffee), Daquin drove towards Fontainebleau. It was a fairly nice day, and quite pleasant to get away for a time from all that Bernachon-Simon filth. How much did Simon actually make? Fifty memberships at 2,500 francs, 125,000 francs a month, tax-free, shit! And that, in addition to his official income. Obviously you had to deduct what he had to pay out to his protectors – about whom they knew nothing as yet. Daquin was not driving fast, which gave him time to think about a whole load of things. And to pay some attention to an alarm signal – completely instinctive – which told him that, when you’re driving at 110 kilometres an hour, it wasn’t normal to have that Citroën CX behind you the whole time. He checked … filled the tank. The Citroën continued on its way. But two kilometres further on, it was behind him again. Daquin took the turn to Barbizon, stopped on the verge, spread out a map, which he pretended to consult, The Citroën overtook him. He set off again. He was now certain. But why have a superintendent followed – this is what was strange. And who would do it? Traffickers? Or other police services? People in cahoots with the Marseilles traffickers, for example. How should he react? Until he knew more, prudence was advisable. I’ll wait and see wha
t happens, he told himself. I’ll still go on to Barbizon.

  11 a.m. The Auberge of Bas-Bréau

  The auberge was beautiful. The façade was very old and behind it stood low buildings of a more recent date, but discreet, with a garden full of flowers and colour. It was, no doubt about it, a marvellous spot for an amorous assignation. Daquin could readily imagine Anna Beric in this setting. Meillant, less so. But perhaps, after all, he didn’t know him that well. He went into the bar. The décor was three-quarters English. No customers, the barman was alone: it was still rather early in the morning.

  ‘A coffee, please.’ He took out his warrant card. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing serious, just a routine inquiry about two people we’ve reason to believe are customers here.’

  He showed the photos. The barman’s face lit up with a big smile.

  ‘Of course, it’s Mme Beric. A delightful, beautiful woman, very polite, and not like some of those old cows, know what I mean?’

  ‘I know what you mean very well. Does she come here often?’

  ‘Yes, she’s a regular. I couldn’t say exactly how often she comes, but we see her at least once a month.’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘I don’t know what his name is. He’s always with her. Most times, they arrive separately and meet up in the bar, at about eight in the evening, then they have dinner and spend the night here. Next day they each go their separate ways. But it’s always she who pays. Funny, isn’t it? He doesn’t look like a gigolo exactly.’

  ‘No, not exactly. When was the last time you saw them? Roughly?’

  ‘Three weeks ago? Tell me, I hope there’s nothing serious bugging her?’

  ‘For our part, no. She’s only on the fringe of a very complicated case, and I need to hear from her as a witness. Thank you very much for your co-operation.’

  And Daquin paid for his coffee, despite the barman’s protests.

  An idle stroll down Barbizon’s main street: artists’ studios and galleries showing piles of lousy paintings, and here, there was no trouble in tracking down the Citroën, parked in a small adjacent street. He memorized the registration number, lunched peacefully on the terrace of a little café and read the papers. Then an uneventful trip back to passage du Désir.