Paris Noir [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  Julie shuddered in disgust, thinking her friend a bit twisted for revelling in such macabre details. It was as if, from fantasising about this series of sexual murders, she’d begun to imagine herself as one of the victims, and got a kick out of it. ‘You’re right, I’m a real perv,’ Claire laughed.

  ‘Well anyway,’ Julie interrupted her, ‘it’s finally over . . . We can breathe . . .’

  Through the bay window, she watched the light play on the buds of the trees on boulevard Louis Pasteur. It was a beautiful spring afternoon. This weekend, she’d go for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne, or the Luxembourg Gardens, or treat herself to a movie with Claire . . .

  ‘Don’t you believe it, darling!’ The medical student’s tone turned menacing. ‘Nothing’s over till he’s arrested! Right now the cops only have his name and his photo . . . And even if they catch him and he gets life without remission, he’ll be out after twenty years, you’ll see, if he doesn’t escape earlier! And then, when he’s out, he’ll start again. I’ve really studied his case: this ‘Guy Georges’, since now we know his name, is incurable. He’s not a madman, more an intelligent thug. He looks normal, maybe even likeable, it’s just he can’t resist, it’s in his past or his genes, he has to kill. Once a month if possible. He’s dodged the police so often he thinks he’s invincible. And at those moments, the wretched girl in front of him, tied up, weak and terrified, is just an object, not a human being. An object of rape and then murder.’

  ‘Claire, please stop . . .’

  The intern chuckled. ‘OK, I’m stopping, you poor thing. But nothing’s over, you’ll see. He knows he’s a marked man, he could get even more dangerous, take a girl hostage, I don’t know ... So you still have to be extra careful going home tonight, OK?’

  Julie rolled her eyes and pulled a face.

  ‘All right, all right. And if I’m too scared when I come out of the station, I’ll call you to come and escort me to rue Cels, OK?’

  The two friends burst out laughing, blew each other kisses down the phone and ended the call at the same time.

  The afternoon went by like a dream. Concentrating on the Mac screen, on her photos, titles and fonts, and files to be sent to the printer, Julie wasn’t aware of time passing. It was the end of March, the days were growing longer, but eventually the light faded . . . At 7 p.m., Gilles stood up, put on his raincoat and waved goodbye to his assistant. ‘Right, see you tomorrow, Julie. I’ll leave you to finish off the cover. Send it to Magnus, wait for his approval, then you can go home.’

  ‘But. . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. See you then, bye!’

  Magnus Laksson, a Finn who’d settled in the US, supervised the art direction for all the international editions. His trenchant opinions, utter lack of diplomacy, and ultra-conservative view of what Reader’s Digest should be in America and elsewhere, made him the bête noire of art directors working under him. Julie sent him the mockup of the cover accompanied by a few polite phrases in her approximate English and waited for the verdict, which, with the time difference (Laksson had no doubt gone for lunch), only arrived on her screen at 10.30 p.m., French time.

  The Finn hated the cover.

  The response, in two laconic, brutal sentences, reminded Gilles and Julie that the cover should never allude visually to the issue’s central theme but must be kept to some neutral and soothing image - and demanded a new one before the end of the day.

  Julie didn’t dare disturb Gilles at home so, valiant Breton that she was, she laboured over a new version of the cover which took until twenty-five past midnight, sent it to the US and shut down her computer. If she stayed to wait for the American reaction, she’d miss the last train home from Bagneux. And she didn’t have enough money on her for a taxi to Montparnasse at the night rate, which was at least sixty francs. Julie ran down the empty corridors, her coat under her arm, to the foyer where the North African night watchman, deep in a sports paper, nodded at her vaguely. She raced down the front steps and set off across a deserted Bagneux, in the glow of the streetlights, into an icy wind she hadn’t expected. Anticipating going home much earlier, Julie had even put on a miniskirt today, something she hadn’t dared do in four months, terrified by the possibility of a nocturnal encounter with the Ripper. But the morning news had reassured her on that score . . .

  Her heels clicked on the tarmac, she ran through the labyrinth of narrow streets, lined with peaceful small pensioners’ houses, as far as the main road which she crossed, defying the red pedestrian signal, between two cars hurtling at well over 50 miles an hour which honked warnings at her. The train indicator board in the empty station showed the Paris train was at the platform.

  ‘Oh no,’ Julie groaned, inserting her season ticket into the machine.

  The ‘doors closing’ signal sounded as she reached the platform. She ran as if her life depended on it, leapt between the sliding doors, forcing her way through, and she was inside, panicky and breathless, frantically tugging at the handle of her bag which was wedged between the strips of rubber, as the train pulled away.

  The few passengers in the compartment stared at her briefly before falling back into the apathy of exhausted workers or depressed night owls. She flopped onto a seat, her heart thudding, and watched vaguely as the suburban lights and bare station platforms slipped past. Ravenous (she hadn’t eaten since midday), sleepy, her head nodding, she nearly dozed off and missed her stop. Denfert-Rochereau. She jumped up and just made it through the hissing doors.

  Because she’d got on at the end of the train, Julie, walking along the platform towards the exit, came first to the narrow staircase that led directly to the square, in the former railway station converted to a regional express station. Which would mean having to cross the vast Denfert-Rochereau traffic intersection in the wind and cold . . . Julie opted for the next exit, which connected to the Métro, lines 4 and 6, and would bring her out of the station as close to her home as possible, with only rue Froiaevaux to walk up to rue Cels.

  In the bowels of the empty station, she used her ticket again to exit the row of ticket barriers and turned, following signs to the Porte d’Orléans line. It was a complicated network of corridors but the young provincial woman was becoming familiar with it. At the next intersection she had to turn left, then sharp right towards the escalator. It was in this last corridor that she saw him.

  Julie considered herself good at remembering faces, and she’d studied the photofit of the ‘east Paris killer’ in the media many times. The only difference was that the man had grown a thin moustache. Everything else matched the description given by the survivor. In his thirties, tall, athletic-looking, lithe, the dark skin of a North African. Closely cropped hair, practically shaved. Their eyes met just as he drew level with her. For that fraction of a second, Julie detected the glimmer of interest in the man’s eyes, saw the quick, sidelong glance at her slender legs below her miniskirt. She hurried on, short of breath, looking down, her expression as neutral as possible. Her heart was pounding wildly. What an appalling coincidence, what terrifying bad luck . . . Just as long as he didn’t turn round now and follow her! Julie didn’t dare look over her shoulder. She let her shaky body be carried by the escalator, praying she’d find an RATP employee still at the ticket window. It was almost one in the morning. The last trains had probably all left. She pushed the heavy glass door and saw with annoyance that the ticket office was closed, the blind was down, the lights out. Now she only had to walk up the last flight of steps to the square, where the wind was gusting hard and clouds scudded across the sky, revealing glimpses of a perfectly round, wan moon. It illuminated the powerful musculature of the Denfert Lion, which watched over the middle of the square in bronze impassivity.

  On the other side of avenue General Leclerc, one of the severe twin buildings of the former ‘Barrière d’Enfer’ tollgate housed the entrance to the sinister Catacombs - the place where, in 1785, the Prefect Lenoir dumped millions of skeletons, hauling them from the cha
rnel house of the Innocents in macabre cartloads and filling the air of Les Halles with a foul stench. Julie turned left, walked past the gate to the little park and reached the corner of rue Froiaevaux, just before the taxi rank where one solitary vehicle was waiting. After crossing the road, attempting to look natural, she half turned round.

  The olive-skinned man was there, standing at the top of the station steps, lighting a cigarette and looking to left and right. He saw the trembling young woman’s silhouette and, putting away his lighter, strode deliberately in the direction Julie had taken.

  She nearly fainted. He’d spotted her. Singled her out as his next victim. At this stage of the game, he had nothing left to lose. Wanted by every police force, accused of six or seven rapes and murders; what difference would one more or less make to the sentence he’d get? Guy Georges wanted to experience the pleasure of a terrified, pretty young woman one last time, thrust his penis into her and then his blade, before ending his life behind bars. The full moon was beckoning, arousing his powerful killer instincts . . . Julie, after hesitating and deciding not to get into the taxi, feverishly repeated to herself Claire’s words of advice, as she scurried beneath the trees which were bending in the wind: ‘If you notice you’re being followed, never go straight home. Go and sit in a public place, a café, wait for the guy to realise he’s been seen and give up.’ In front of her, rue Froiaevaux, the quickest way to rue Cels, stretched out along the cemetery walls. Ill-lit, gloomy, completely deserted. A real death-trap, an invitation to murder . . .

  Julie was beginning to understand what the prostitutes of Whitechapel must have felt, wandering anxiously in the fog, straining to her the footsteps of Jack the Ripper. Changing her route, she turned left into rue Boulard, then walked up rue Daguerre. The shops were all closed, but still, she’d be nearer her building, where she was hoping to see, two streets before hers. La Bélière, a night bistro, usually open at this late hour.

  A quick sideways glance told her that the man in denim, whose cigarette made a red dot in the shadows, had also turned into rue Daguerre.

  Further up the narrow street, she saw, far away like a safe haven, a reassuring port in the storm, La Bélière, its lights blazing. Walking faster, Julie pulled her mobile from her bag, pressed ‘contacts’ and then ‘call’ as soon as Claire’s name appeared. Her friend absolutely had to come to meet her in the café. Cochin Hospital, like Claire’s flat, very close to her work, was only fifteen minutes away on foot. The killer, who only attacked lone women, would give up and go away if he saw them together.

  ‘Hi, this is Claire Le Flohic’s phone. I can’t speak to you right now, but leave me a short message and I...’

  Putting the phone away, Julie pushed open the door of the smoky bistro. There were hardly any customers.

  ‘We’re about to close, miss,’ warned the owner, who was drying glasses behind his bar.

  Julie clasped her hands: ‘Please, just a coffee,’ she begged. ‘I’m meeting a friend, she won’t be long.’

  She sat down at a table towards the back, near a window. Took out her mobile again and toyed with it. Her coffee was brought, along with the till receipt. She paid immediately. Just as the waitress left her table, Julie saw the olive-skinned man enter, sit on a bar stool near the door and order a drink. Julie looked down at the steaming coffee, the bill, her hand quivering over her mobile. Then she pressed ‘call’ again.

  The voicemail message again. She listened to the end this time and when it was her turn to speak, after the beep, whispered into the phone: ‘Claire, it’s Julie. Listen . . . Call me back as soon as you get this, it’s urgent. You have to come and meet me, I’m in La Bélière on rue Daguerre. I don’t dare go home, I don’t know what to do. Claire, I’m scared . . .’

  She ended the call, making sure to keep the mobile on. Minutes went by. Julie gulped her coffee. It was still scalding, and very strong. At the bar, Guy Georges was chatting with the owner, a glass of beer in his hand. ‘What a moron that man is,’ Julie said to herself. ‘Can’t he see the guy looks exactly like the photofit? He could at least make a discreet call to the police . . . But hey, he’s a man, what does he care, he can’t understand the terror Parisian women have been living with for four months . . .’

  Claire’s voice came back to her, telling the story - which she seemed to delight in - of the attack endured by Elisabeth O, the only victim kept prisoner by the killer to have come out alive . . .

  The girl was going home late, after spending the evening with friends . . . She arrives at the entrance to her building, punches in the door code . . . crosses a courtyard, goes through a second door and up the stairs . . . On the first floor, where her flat is, she hears the entrance door to the building slam shut. Then, hurried steps on the staircase, and a shadow jumps on her . . . The attacker puts a knife to her throat and she hears a hoarse voice say: ‘Don’t shout, don’t move. Open your door.’ Terrified, Elisabeth obeys. The door closes behind them, the guy immediately tries to reassure her: ‘If you behave yourself, you won’t get hurt. I’m on the run. I just need to sleep here for a few hours. I’ll be off in the morning.’ The flat was a duplex, with the bedroom on the lower level. They go down together . . . He’ll have to tie up his prisoner, Guy Georges apologises, so he can sleep . . . He lets her smoke a last cigarette, then starts to bind her wrists, chatting all the while. Despite his North African appearance, he has no accent. She asks his name. He answers: ‘Eric’. ‘You don’t look like an Eric,’ she observes. Irritated, he growls: ‘Just call me Flo.’ Then he takes off his shoes, settles down as if he really does want to sleep. It’s completely dark in the bedroom, but a light’s still on in the hall . . . The killer gets irritated again, and goes to switch it off. In the meantime, Elisabeth, who’s surreptitiously managed to free her hands, opens the window and jumps into the yard, running off down the street. . .

  Julie, who was spinning out her coffee while she recalled Claire’s story, looked up. Surprise: the man was no longer at the bar, the owner was alone, wiping it down. The man had left. Julie couldn’t believe it. The killer had lost heart, seeing her talking on her mobile and clearly waiting for someone. Yes, of course . . . And anyway, she now acknowledged, maybe it wasn’t Guy Georges after all . . . Her imagination was playing tricks on her ... A photofit isn’t necessarily faithful... If it was really true to life, the cops would have caught him ages ago . . .

  The other customers were getting up to go.

  ‘This time, we’re closing, young lady!’ the owner called as he locked his till.

  Julie was back outside in the icy wind, nervously inspecting both sides of the road. The customers were laughing as they walked away, the bistro’s metal shutter crashed down with a painful grating sound. She pulled on her gloves, shivering. Steam formed in front of her mouth. Giving up on Claire, Julie turned right, walking back up the road towards her building. She passed the picture framer’s, the accordion shop, and turned right at the corner of the bakery Le Moulin de la Vierge. Julie was now in rue Fermat, practically on her doorstep.

  Crossing the road in front of the traffic wardens’ station, all closed up of course, she realised she was completely alone. No sounds of voices or steps. The area was desolate. She need only stop at 5 rue Cels, press in her door code, push open the door, slip under the porch and cross the courtyard to the staircase. Which she did as quickly as possible. She only had two floors to go when she heard the outer door slam shut. She should have heard it a little earlier. Then rapid steps on the staircase.

  Her heart beating so hard she thought it was going to burst, Julie ran up to the fourth floor, the last, charging into the narrow corridor of the attic rooms. The fluid, quick steps were coming up the stairs, closer and closer. She grabbed the keys from her bag, trembling, had trouble inserting the right key in the lock. The second the door was finally open, a shape rushed at her and shoved her roughly inside. Julie stumbled, with a squeal. The door slammed.

  ‘Don’t shout. Don’t move.’
r />   Some groping around, then the man found the switch. Light shone from the ceiling, revealing the North African man in his jean jacket. Julie opened her mouth, tried to scream (The ones who got away, Claire repeated, were the ones who screamed their heads off. The man ran for it. . . ), but couldn’t. No sound came out.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Guy Georges declared. ‘I don’t mean you any harm. I just need a roof for the night, that’s all. I’ll be off early in the morning.’

  She nodded, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You see, when I saw you in the Métro, I fell for you straight away. I need help, you’re beautiful, you look kind. I’m homeless, my landlord threw me out because I’m three months behind with the rent. . .’