The Penny Thief

by Christophe Paul

  “I sure do,” muttered Henri.

  “The thing is, you programmers are all the same,” answered Tash with a chuckle, not understanding what Henri meant.

  That was the moment when Henri decided he wouldn’t be going back to work for the bank. He felt like moving on, starting a new life with her, far away from everything that had separated them until now. Tash loved the idea.

  They reached the majestic river together, and instead of crossing the Pont d’Austerlitz toward Place de la Bastille, they continued walking along Rive Gauche and Quai Saint-Bernard. They didn’t talk, just strolled arm in arm, looking at the current of the Seine as it ran away to catch up with the ocean.

  They walked past the Jussieu Campus and crossed Pont de l’Archevêché to Île de la Cité, went through the Memorial to the Martyrs of the Deportation behind the Notre Dame cathedral, and took Pont Saint Louis to reach the small island of the same name. Their destination was Berthillon, one of the best ice cream shops in the world. After the delicious treat, they decided to take a taxi to their appointment in Montmartre.

  The meal at Le Relais de la Butte was a complete success. Nobody was missing, not even the baker from Rue des Trois Frères with his moustache and his baritone voice. Everyone told their version of the story, even Henri, who made up his own, which he dreamed up while he was asleep, and this relieved everyone of their last remnants of guilt.

  The icing on the cake came from Henri as they were saying good-bye.

  “I think we’ll let you get back home,” said Marcel, pointing at a door on Place Émile Goudeau, ten steps above.

  Henri answered very seriously, “Yes, thanks to everyone. Now I need to go home and feed the dog.”

  There was a deadly silence and some blank expressions.

  “Just kidding! I don’t have a dog, but I think I’ll have a cat soon,” he said, glancing at Tash and laughing.

  39

  Pierre-Gabriel was searching frantically all over the house for Tash’s stun gun. He’d carefully inspected her dresser drawers, making sure she wouldn’t notice. Now he was looking around the living room and finding nothing—it wouldn’t turn up, not even at the top of the closet. There were no stores open at this hour to buy another one, and he wasn’t interested in anyone remembering he’d bought it.

  Where the heck could Tash have put it? He remembered it had reappeared a few years ago when she was putting away his winter clothes and was going to throw out a raincoat he hadn’t worn for years.

  “The closet near the front door!” he exclaimed, running out to the hallway.

  The closet was the reflection of Tash herself: organized on the outside, chaotic and rebellious on the inside. Pierre-Gabriel peered at the impeccably tidy interior—the coats hanging perfectly; the pretty storage boxes bought in a boutique, with Japanese floral motifs in shades of blue and white, neatly stacked and labeled. At first the labels gave the exact contents of each box, but over time they got slightly out of order.

  He decided to proceed methodically: that’s how boring he was, and that’s why he’d lost so much time on Pichon’s programs, wanting to turn them all into processes.

  He started by inspecting the coats, knowing he wouldn’t find anything there but not wanting to leave anything to chance. At last, he reached the boxes, then pulled out and opened the first one. It held a random array of objects: fans, sunglasses, odd gloves, the bag from an old vacuum cleaner they’d thrown out years ago, a multitude of collars for Émeraude, a slingshot. How bizarre, he thought. Where had Tash found a slingshot?

  The telephone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

  “I’m ready; where are you? It’s six.”

  “I haven’t left home yet. I haven’t found it, but I think I have a good idea,” he replied, on edge.

  “Time is running out.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up.”

  Pierre-Gabriel abandoned his methodical tactics and emptied the entire contents of the box on the ground, but the stun gun wasn’t there. He took out the next box and repeated the procedure—not there either, although he’d just found the bedroom TV remote they’d been searching for for ages. He subjected the following five boxes to the same treatment until the stun gun turned up in the last one because of Murphy’s law (or, more likely, because of the mess).

  “Got it. Wait, and I’ll check if it works. Damn, the battery is dead. Hang on,” he said, picking up a car cigarette lighter adapter from the pile of objects and checking the connector. “I don’t know by what miracle this charger is here, but we’ll charge it in the car as we go.”

  “Perfect. We’ll leave from La Défense. If I come and pick you up, we’ll take longer. Someone might see us, and I’d have to go all the way to the other side of Paris. From here, we’ll be there in three and a half hours, four at the most. I checked on the GPS at lunchtime.”

  “Sounds good. Where shall we meet?”

  “I’ll go down to the parking lot in twenty minutes and look for you on the second floor. There’s a cell signal there. When you arrive, call me and I’ll pick you up discreetly.”

  “I’ll get going.”

  Pierre-Gabriel quickly cleaned up and put away the chaos from the boxes as best he could. The order didn’t matter; Tash wouldn’t even notice. He left the bedroom remote on the key tray to remind himself to take it to its place—that way he wouldn’t have to get up to surf through the channels, because he was always the person who had to.

  He grabbed the stun gun and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Years ago, a friend of Tash’s had been attacked in a parking lot during a visit with a client. Because of her work, Tash had to travel frequently to her clients’ offices and factories (many of them located in questionable neighborhoods and industrial estates), and many of those meetings finished late at night. Tash’s friend had a scare—her bag and phone were stolen. Although the thieves hadn’t touched her, paranoia still took over Pierre-Gabriel’s mind.

  He bought Tash a stun gun for self-defense, a weapon capable of emitting three million volts and leaving a bull frozen in its tracks. The man who sold the stun gun offered to modify it to increase its effectiveness, and Pierre-Gabriel accepted. The only inconvenience was that the gadget was six inches long and an inch thick. With a little training, Tash was able to pull it out of her purse in less than two seconds, but she still considered that enough time, as she said, for her aggressor to knock her down with one blow and rape her. Even so, she agreed to take it with her when she had to go to the meetings, carrying it in her large black purse. Secretly she felt that it would be more efficient to use the purse as a weapon instead.

  Over time, she climbed up the organizational ladder and had to travel less and less, and the awkward stun gun eventually disappeared.

  Pierre-Gabriel took a last look around the house. Satisfied that everything was neat and tidy and in its place, he left. Tash might arrive at any moment, and he would rather not have to explain anything. He left a note saying that he’d gone to the office and not to wait for him for dinner, as he was likely to be working late.

  She probably wouldn’t even call him. She’d been in a strange mood for a few days, and she usually didn’t call when she was acting that way—one of Tash’s idiosyncrasies.

  Pierre-Gabriel left the building and went straight to the subway two blocks away, oblivious of the man stepping out of a parked car, hot on his trail.

  40

  Another man was calmly sitting on a bench in Place Émile Goudeau under the shade of the chestnut trees. He looked up from the thriller he was reading, distracted by a couple parting affectionately in front of a building opposite him.

  He looked at his phone; it was six thirty. He took the opportunity to snap a photo. The couple looked better than when they’d gone inside more than three hours ago. They had enjoyed a lively lunch with the people who had been watching over the man at the hospital.

  T
he girl gave the guy a last kiss, waited for him to go back in, and walked down the steps—probably toward Abbesses, the nearest subway stop.

  About five minutes later, the heavy door of the building opened again, and Pichon went out to the street. He looked in the direction Tash had gone moments earlier and, not seeing her, went in the opposite direction toward the top of Montmartre.

  Christ, this surveillance was starting to get on his nerves—all those days doing nothing, sitting in hospitals and on public benches, and now the guy in the coma had started walking. The detective didn’t like going for strolls on Paris sidewalks—he preferred the country—but he started walking behind Pichon without hesitation and kept a safe distance.

  Fifteen minutes later, he didn’t know whether to continue or abandon the task. Pichon was strolling painfully slowly, stopping at every single store: buying cheese at one, pâté at another, a baguette at the bakery, milk at the grocery store. The detective was almost at the end of his rope when Pichon picked up his pace on one of the long stairways that are emblematic of Montmartre. When he reached the stairs, Pichon was already halfway down. The detective raced forward so as not to lose ground, but a few steps later, his foot caught on the edge of a loose tile. He fell sideways abruptly, and his ankle made a strange popping sound. Then he launched into a frenetic, unconventional sprint, half hanging on the railing, and landed, exhausted, at Henri’s feet.

  “Are you all right?” asked Henri as curious onlookers drew near.

  “I think I twisted my ankle.”

  “Wow, let me see.”

  “Ouch!”

  “I don’t think it’s too bad, but it would be good to have it checked by a doctor.”

  “Thank you, don’t worry. I think I can walk.”

  But he couldn’t—his ankle refused to carry him any further. He cursed himself for not staying where he was, peacefully reading his novel on the bench, until Pichon returned home. It was clear that his subject was only going for a little stroll because he was wearing an old blue track suit. He didn’t look ready to leave the country, much less leave behind that beauty he’d spent the afternoon and previous days with.

  “I’ll call a taxi for you,” said Henri, taking out his phone.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Henri Pichon smiled as he watched the taxi drive away carrying the confused detective, who tried to interpret Henri’s last phrase.

  He could have broken something, thought Henri, feeling slightly guilty as he resumed his walk. The Montmartre neighborhood association had been complaining for years about the three loose steps on that staircase, which had already caused more than one accident.

  Now that he was alone, without any medication, detectives, or lovers in the vicinity, his head was clear and he could concentrate. With Tash nearby it had been impossible—especially that afternoon, when she’d slept in his arms after making love. And that was the right word, he thought. He loved her too much to think about anything other than her and their future together.

  But now he was alone, calmly strolling for the first time in years, and the track suit fit perfectly. It was from another era, and it always helped him think and find solutions.

  There were several points that needed to be analyzed, one by one. He didn’t know their chronology or the relationship between them, but he had to take everything into account right then.

  In one of his moments of lucidity, he’d witnessed an unsettling scene. He didn’t know when, because he didn’t have a strong notion of time; and even when he woke up completely, he didn’t know whether the events had actually happened or if they were the product of a dream with characters who took on the faces of real people.

  He recalled seeing a doctor in a white coat, with the face of Pierre-Gabriel, approaching his bed to unplug his drip bag and swap it for another one that looked the same. He disappeared into the shadows, then reappeared unexpectedly, took off his coat, and wiped it hysterically on the floor with his hands and feet. It reminded Henri of a witch’s dance from a fairy tale. Then the figure disappeared again.

  Then the wall moved like a curtain, and an older man with a face he didn’t recognize seemed to put something into his coat pocket. He disappeared for an instant and reappeared to swap out the same bag, and that was it.

  On Sunday, after the medical staff had removed the entire network of intubations required in these cases, Henri got up several times to walk and looked through the hall windows. A man reading a book at the entrance of the opposite pavilion kept glancing up constantly at the door of Henri’s pavilion. He was there all day and part of the night before being replaced by—surprise, surprise—the man from his dream who had swapped back the drip bag after Pierre-Gabriel.

  This didn’t leave much open for interpretation: it hadn’t been a dream, and the man who was watching him had most likely helped Henri avoid great danger, even saved his life.

  Who were they? The police? And what did they want?

  From what Tash had told him, her husband was working intensely on the programs and routines, and perhaps he hadn’t found the meaning of the romantic messages—but he had most certainly detected the diversion of the pennies. Now he would probably be looking for the route the money followed and trying to figure out where it was.

  The rules of the game had changed. On Sunday night, Henri logged into the bank computer through Valérie’s cell phone. His passwords were disabled, but he had his own back door. He could enter the system without leaving a trace. It was his system, and he and his uncle had created it before any risk procedures and control paraphernalia had been introduced.

  Now there was no evidence against Henri. The system had never recorded his programs, and they no longer existed. Not one client had protested, and the bank had not been affected. He had prepared it all from the beginning, and his only mistake had been not setting up an automatic procedure of exchange and cleanup that would initiate in case he didn’t intervene within forty-eight hours. He would do that next time—if there was a next time.

  His research on the bank network revealed that two copies of the programs had been made: one hard copy and one digital. Had they both been for Pierre-Gabriel, or was there a third person involved?

  41

  “I’m at the main access door in the second-floor basement, where are you?”

  “Near the access to the archive. Come here, and I’ll pick you up on the way. Get in the back and cover yourself with the blanket I left on the seat.”

  Morgane had to circle back twice because the first time, Pierre-Gabriel bumped into a colleague who was stopping by the archive before going home.

  Then Morgane had to pick up a phone call from Maillard, who asked her not to come to his house that night; he was tired and wanted to go to bed early. It was perfect.

  Pierre-Gabriel had shot out of the subway, unaware he was being followed—it was the last thing he could have imagined. It was a splendid afternoon, and the shadows of the towers still didn’t cover the whole esplanade. People were smiling as they left work. It was time to go back home or to go and have a drink with friends. The forecast predicted rain for the next few days, and it was now or never.

  The detective was following Pierre-Gabriel calmly at a distance, convinced that his prey was going to be late leaving the office. When he saw him enter the tower, he went in behind, pretending to wait for someone, and made sure he was taking the elevator. But he noticed that, from this angle, the down arrow seemed to be lit.

  The detective went outside and planted himself on the terrace of the café next to the tower. From there he had an exceptional view of the main entrance and the men and women who were leaving after a long day’s work. He ordered a martini with ice, like he’d seen in ads.

  Meanwhile, Morgane’s car was leaving the parking lot through the west exit of the tower on the opposite side of the main entrance, two level
s below the esplanade.

  “You can come out now, we’re at Quai Léon Blum,” said Morgane after a long time.

  Pierre-Gabriel emerged from under the blanket. They were skirting the Seine on the expressway, passing in front of the modern offices of Dassault Aviation. On the other side of the river, visible between the trees, were the Longchamp Racecourse and Bois de Boulogne, one of a pair of parks known as “the lungs of Paris.”

  “We’ll get to the A10 quickly, not too much traffic today.”

  “Did you call the giant?”

  “Yes, from Éveline’s phone while she was making some copies. That way if anyone checks—”

  “You think of everything.”

  “Everything!” she said, proudly pulling a dark-haired wig from her bag.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said there was a problem at a Poitiers branch and I had to go catalogue and photocopy all the documents and files required.”

  “And he believed you, just like that?”

  “He has no reason not to. Yesterday he was drooling over me during lunch, and no matter how naïve he is, I must have made an impression, don’t you think? I told him that tomorrow after work I had to catch the first train back, but perhaps I’d have enough time to drop by and see him tonight if it’s not too late.”

  “And?”

  “He told me not to worry about the time, that I’ll always be welcome.”

  Pierre-Gabriel pulled out the car lighter and plugged in the stun gun charger. By the end of their drive, it would be charged enough to fight against any giant, no matter how fiery he was.

  “We haven’t spoken yet about how we’ll proceed,” said Morgane, glancing sideways at the threatening stun gun.

  “We’ll figure it out on the fly. There are many millions at stake here, and I don’t want them to end up in the hands of that son of a bitch Maillard. He’s found something, and that’s why he’s so calm. Or he’s made a deal with Pichon.”