“No, not at all. There’s nothing on the surface. Le Guen’s Cave is entirely underground …”
“Well I don’t get it … It’s a mystery. I think they must have managed to open the cave, in one way or another.”
“No, it’s not that,” she said dryly.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Christine must have been looking for a second entrance.”
Sylvie picked up a pen and rolled it between her fingers.
“One day, I overheard a conversation between Autran and Palestro in their office at the university. They were talking about the presence of air in the cave—I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but in most caves sealed by the sea, the air is unbreathable.”
She pointed to a cupboard on which had been pinned a cross section of Le Guen’s Cave. Sugiton’s small pebble beach lay just above the underwater passage.
“In Le Guen’s Cave, what strikes specialists is the quality of the air. It’s far better than in Lascaux or Niaux! You have the impression that it circulates there. I often spoke to Palestro about it, but he was always rather vague on the subject.”
De Palma ran his fingers over the diagram of the cave. He needed time to think. Palestro was the only man who knew the secret of this cave—if there was one.
Sylvie came and stood beside him. With a slender finger she showed him a kind of rocky passageway which led back up to the surface.
“You shouldn’t go by this diagram. It’s extremely imperfect. Even I noticed that there’s a black hole in the ceiling.”
With a varnished nail, she tapped on the glossy paper at the place marked “Large mural of hands.”
“No-one has ever been inside this black hole. It’s complicated, because it’s about ten meters from the ground. Beneath it, you’re in water up to your belt.”
“And do you think …?”
“I have no idea. All I can tell you is that Christine was looking for something, and Palestro didn’t like it. He wouldn’t tell her anything.”
De Palma tried to piece everything together in his mind. But it seemed that each time anything became clearer, another problem arose in its place. Everything remained a muddle. Sylvie went back to the table and picked up her bag.
“That’s all I know, Commandant. Can I go now?”
All of a sudden her cold beauty made her inaccessible.
“Sylvie, I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us! I …”
“You suspected me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
He was expecting a scornful look, but all he saw in her eyes was extreme disappointment. She shook her long, black hair.
“I’m sure all these murders are linked to Le Guen’s Cave,” he said, trying to soften his voice.
“Do you still suspect me?”
“No.”
Sylvie showed him the way out.
“Can you forgive me … I …”
She stared at him with her dark eyes.
“Watch out, Monsieur le Policier, you’re becoming painfully clumsy.”
Palestro’s gaze was empty and sad. De Palma shook his hand for a long time, staring straight into his eyes. Then he drew his two colleagues to one side and gave them a rapid, whispered summary of his chat with Sylvie. He also asked them not to reveal what Lolo had said about the hand.
“About this man who was with Christine, when did you see him last?”
“I’ve already told you: the day I went to get my papers from Christine’s flat. When I came out, he was lurking around my car.”
“And then?”
“And then nothing. That’s what worries me the most. A tram passed by, and he vanished. How can I put it? It was like in a film!”
Palestro was silent for some time.
“That’s all I know,” he added in a low voice.
Moracchini walked over and sized him up for a moment. The pre-historian blushed. It looked as if his breath was sticking in his chest.
“I think the best thing,” she said softly, “would be for you to tell us the truth. And I mean the whole truth. Why didn’t you tell us that you followed Christine all the way to Sugiton?”
The professor started, and then stared at them mistrustfully. “Shall I repeat my question?”
“No, there’s no need … I admit that I did follow her.”
“And you got to the creek before her?”
“That’s right.”
The professor fell silent and peered anxiously at the three officers who were scrutinizing him.
“So?” Moracchini asked.
“When I saw her dressed for hiking, I guessed immediately that she was going to Le Guen’s Cave. So I drove out to Luminy, parked my car and—as I walk fast—I got to the creek some time before she did.”
“And then?”
“Then about an hour later, she arrived. I watched her. She took a folding spade from her bag and started digging. At the base of the cliff … That’s when I approached her.”
“What did you say?”
“I can’t really remember.”
Palestro waved his left hand vaguely, as though to chase away his embarrassment.
“Professor, I’m no fool, you know … Why did you say ‘going to Le Guen’s Cave’?”
“Why, what do you call it?”
“I just want to know why you didn’t say ‘going to Sugiton’?”
Palestro was at a loss; his defenses were no longer intact.
“It’s the same thing!” he exclaimed shrilly.
“No it isn’t, and I think you’re hiding something. So now you have a choice between leaving this station a free man and spending the night downstairs. Do you know what it’s like downstairs?”
Palestro looked up at Vidal and de Palma. He stuck his right hand in his jacket pocket and started fiddling with his keys.
“There’s a second entrance,” he stammered.
“And where is this second entrance?”
“Beneath the fallen rocks, to the left of the beach. I’m the only person who knows about it. You have to crawl to get to it. If you want, I’ll draw you a map, I can even …”
“We’ll see about that later,” Moracchini interrupted. “How did you find it?”
“It was simple. What strikes you when you arrive inside Le Guen’s Cave is the quality of the air. I suspected immediately that there must be ventilation. I mentioned this fact in my first research report, but what I didn’t say is that if the air is that good, the ventilation has to be considerable.”
“And so you concluded that there must be a large air hole, at least big enough for a man to pass through.”
“Exactly.”
De Palma got up and stood behind Palestro, leaving the professor facing a bare wall.
“So you went back inside via the air hole?” he said.
“Yes.”
“O.K. Let’s go on. What happened when you saw Christine in the creek?”
“Christine was furious. She insulted me. She accused me of keeping things to myself. Of not loving her … That kind of thing.”
Moracchini took Vidal’s chair and sat down beside the professor.
“I see,” she said slowly. “Christine was angry with you for not trusting her. She was quite right, when you think about it. You find a second entrance, and you keep it to yourself because you know that you’re the only researcher who’s capable of getting to the cave via the sea entrance. Christine couldn’t, and nor could all the idiots who attacked you after its discovery. By saying nothing about this access by land, you were able to control all the research into Le Guen’s Cave. It was the pinnacle of your career.”
“I …”
“It was pride, Professor Palestro … pride!”
Palestro’s face crumpled. His complexion was like clay.
“So,” Moracchini said, waving her hands in the air. “Tell us everything! You bawl her out, she insults you … then what did you do?”
“We spoke a little longer, then I left her
to her search. Strange as it may seem, I went home. No-one could have dissuaded her from doing what she wanted to do. She was extremely stubborn. And I was in despair.”
“Your story is a bit hard to believe when you consider that it’s at least a two-hour walk to the car park in Luminy. Especially at night.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“Why?”
“Because what she said to me really hurt. I mean, I was the one who made Christine, do you understand?”
Palestro looked at his hands. They were trembling. He had lost his orator’s confidence, despite his years of experience.
“Yes, I understand,” Moracchini said softly.
“When she started to insult me, I left in disgust. You know, I may be a university professor, but I’m still a bit, how can I put it?”
“Naïve?”
“Yes, perhaps. I thought that my presence would be enough to win her over. And all I got were insults. Among other things, she told me that she had used me. That was hard to bear. She didn’t give a damn about my feelings for her.”
“And then?”
“The following Sunday, I went down into the cave. I spent the night there. I checked everything. Nothing had been touched. Nothing at all!”
“Have you seen her since then?”
“No, never.”
“So, at the moment you’re the last person who saw her alive, and in a situation which was rather … unusual.”
“You could say that …”
De Palma produced a file of photographs which he had taken from Autran’s flat. He spread them out in front of Palestro.
“How odd,” he said, clearly surprised. “These are pictures of the large hand mural. They’re …”
“Hands from Le Guen’s Cave. That is to say, photographs of hands which we found in Autran’s flat. How can you explain that?”
“But … I’ve never seen these before. Never. I’m certain of it.”
“But they’re real!”
“I suppose they are. But it’s extremely strange. Only Le Guen and the photographer from the D.R.A.S.M. took pictures. And they’re all of far better quality. Incomparable.”
“They could have been taken by another member of the team?”
“That’s impossible.”
“So Christine, or someone else, managed to get inside the cave.”
Palestro did not try to hide his bitterness. He now understood that Christine had indeed got inside Le Guen’s Cave. De Palma showed him another photograph, which had meant nothing to him. It showed long lines carved on a wall of the cave, without any apparent form.
“It’s the Slain Man,” Palestro said.
Moracchini picked up the picture, turned it this way and that, then handed it to Vidal.
“Can you see a man here?” Vidal asked, giving the photograph back to the prehistorian.
“Look …”
The three police officers leaned over Palestro’s shoulders like schoolchildren.
“Here’s the head, there’s the torso and here are the legs, crudely represented. The two long lines you see here are arrows, or lances.”
“He wasn’t much good at drawing!” said Vidal, sneering at the carving.
“One last question,” said de Palma. “Your answer will not be held against you, whatever it is. When was the last time you went inside Le Guen’s Cave?”
“Um … a fortnight ago.”
“And everything was intact?”
“Yes, absolutely everything.”
Palestro could not take his eyes off the photos. He shook his head, trying to deny their existence.
“Professor, you can go now,” de Palma said. “But you must make yourself available to the police and magistrates should we need any further information. You’re a free man, but we might have to call you in later.”
The professor got up slowly. He glanced around the room once more, as if to convince himself that he would never be back.
De Palma motioned to Vidal, who understood at once that he was to follow Palestro to his destination, then call him.
When the professor and Vidal had gone, Moracchini stared intently at the Baron.
“Congratulations on your session with Lolo!”
“Drop it, O.K.?”
“No, we don’t do things like that in the police. I spoke with Vidal. What did you promise that shit?”
De Palma picked up his jacket and turned on his heel.
“Leave the kid out of this.”
“He’s not a kid, Michel, and you disappoint me. See you tomorrow.”
De Palma walked down rue de l’Evêché. It was almost dark. He opened the door of Le Zanzi and headed straight for the bar.
“Good evening, Michel. You’ve been making yourself scarce.”
“Too much work, Dédé.”
“What are you having, the usual?”
And a pastis arrived on the bar in a flash.
Dédé had had Le Zanzi repainted off-white. Above the bar, his artistic brother-in-law had produced a variation on Marcel Pagnol’s card players from his Marseille trilogy. And he had done a decent job, especially in his depiction of the actor Raimu, with his cap cocked, his hands full of cards resting on a pot belly, and his rascally look. Raimu as César was the patron saint of Marseille’s bar owners, the inventor of the Mandarine-Picon cocktail, and here he was, splitting his sides in the fug of Le Zanzi. The painter had made a mess of Monsieur Brun. But then Monsieur Brun came from Lyon.
“The new décor’s not bad!”
“You haven’t seen it yet?”
“Well, it was about time …”
“True, we hadn’t done it in ages.”
Jean-Louis Maistre strolled in.
“Hi Baron, have you been in hiding?”
“I’ve been working, unlike someone else I know!”
Maistre looked round the smoky room.
“All the fascists are in this evening,” he whispered. “It’s nostalgia night. They’re all here! Completely pissed. Pour old Dédé. How does he put up with them? There’s even an ex-member of the Luftwaffe.”
“And that old bastard Antoine.”
“Who’s that?”
“An old Corsican, an ex-bandit. He often comes to Le Zanzi. You’ve never seen him?”
“Sure, but I’ve never spoken to him.”
“He must be about eighty. He’s half paranoid, and an old member of Sabiani’s team. But you know all that, it’s hardly news.”
“Wasn’t Sabiani the Maire of Marseille?”
“No, he was a town counselor before the war. He was a bit communist, a bit socialist and extremely fascist. He was with Doriot, collaborating with the Nazis at the time of Carbone and Spirito.”
“It’s funny that you know all this ancient history!”
“If you want to understand the mob, you have to. And in that respect, Antoine is quite a reference book.”
“Oh really!”
“Just think about it. He was Sabiani’s henchman, condemned to death after the Liberation … then mysteriously freed by Defferre and Guérini and their network. He’s the real thing!”
“You say he was condemned to death?”
“Absolutely! He worked for the Gestapo, in the Mangiavaca gang …”
“What a bastard! And he got away with it?”
“Oh yes, when you know the right people, you always get away with it. And he knew them all. He was a mobster who rubbed shoulders with everyone—the police, crooks, and a few bigwigs in the town hall. In the old days, when one of the Le Panier kids got into trouble, Antoine would go and see a commissionaire he knew, and they’d hush the whole thing up.”
“Where are you at with the Sugiton girl?”
“I’m making progress, but I’m falling out with just about everyone.”
“With Anne and the kid?”
“The kid’s got teeth! Right now, he’s like a moray eel.”
“Calm down, Michel. Working with you isn’t easy! You always have your little secrets.�
�
Without a word, Dédé placed a pastis in front of Maistre. The Baron’s mobile rang.
“It’s Vidal.”
“Where are you?”
“I followed our professor to rue Paradis. The bugger walked all the way. He rang at number 28, and the person who lives there shares his name. Do you want me to stick around?”
“No, go home. We’ll meet up tomorrow for a situation report.”
Maistre took an olive from the bowl on the bar.
“You’re starting to get seriously depressed, Michel.”
“I’m overworked.”
“Come round to mine this evening.”
“I can’t. I have to go and see someone.”
“So drop by on the weekend. We’ll go fishing. It’s the best time for gilt-heads and sea bream.”
“O.K., but let’s not use sugared mussels!”
The vast hall ended in a corridor lit with bright striplights. Anne Moracchini stopped for a moment and laid her hand on the cast-iron banister which led to the upper floors. She looked up and saw how the spiral staircase vanished into the dark night. The walls were the decrepit reminder of a splendid past; paint was coming away in large flakes, puffed up by the swollen saltpeter plaster. She could just make out the fine remains of trompe l’oeil marble columns which framed a rustic landscape half washed away by the dampness. The strong smell of a hookah, a combination of charcoal and tobacco, floated through the air.
At the end of the corridor, a sign on the wall read: The Friends of Constantine in French and Arabic. Moracchini rang the bell. A man of indeterminate age, as dry as a root, opened the door and held out his arms.
“Anne, my child, how are you?”
She took his hands.
“I’m fine, Saïd.”
Saïd squeezed her hands hard and drew her inside. “It’s not wise for you to come here at night.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, patting her side. “I’m not alone.”
“You were brave even when you were a child. You weren’t afraid of anyone. Even though you had every reason to be!”
Moracchini had first met Saïd when she was a small girl, in her native town of Constantine. In the ’50s, Saïd had been an important figure, a moderate lawyer in the Algerian independence movement, in the tradition of Ferhat Abbas. Anne’s father had begun his legal career in Saïd’s practice, which had meant that he was later put on the Organisation de L’Armée Secrète’s blacklist as a “Communist traitor.”
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