The Penny Thief

by Christophe Paul

  “I’m going to have breakfast, do you want to join me?”

  “OK. I was thinking I wouldn’t tell your father anything. I’ll stick to yesterday’s version, with a cold and fever.”

  “You’ll have to tell him eventually, I doubt that bruise will disappear for a few weeks,” said Tash, thinking about Henri’s bruise, still there after a week and a half: a yellowish-blue going down to his forehead, as if it were dissolving.

  “We’ll see tomorrow.”

  48

  Jean-Philippe Maillard looked down at the esplanade of La Défense through his office window, always his favorite spot to think, relax, or devise a strategy. He could stand there for hours without moving, his gaze fixed on the busy little ants coming and going from one end to the other, while his mind thought up complex schemes with the patience and tactics of a spider building its web.

  He had been there for almost two hours that morning when the strident ring of his intercom brought him back to reality with irritating abruptness.

  “Yes?”

  “The superintendent of the criminal brigade, Olivier Loiseau, wishes to see you, monsieur.”

  That name rang a bell—or was it Lemerle? It awoke an avalanche of distant memories.

  “Tell him I’ll see him in a minute; I just need to finish what I’m doing,” Maillard said in a clear voice.

  He returned to the window, but this time he wasn’t looking at the esplanade, he was trying to look at Paris—but his city view was eclipsed by a black skyscraper to the left, the former Fiat tower where he began his career. He looked toward Montmartre, guessing what his eyes couldn’t see: the place where his childhood friend Maurice Lambert had died years ago, leaving behind a widow and a doubly orphaned Henri Pichon, who was already grown up and held a secure place in the company.

  It was the second time that Maillard had remembered Lambert in the past few days. Lambert had all but disappeared from his memories a few years ago, relegated to that benevolent closet of trinkets in the subconscious that stores all the unwanted and annoying things. Then some small event opens the door again and everything bursts out, splashing the present with traces of the past.

  Like the suicide of his sister Marguerite, a fragile girl—complicated, sensitive, and depressed—who had spent her childhood in specialized boarding schools, returning home on special occasions such as Christmas and birthdays, always on complex medication.

  Maurice Lambert, his old friend, spent long stretches at home and had been captivated from a very early age by the pale beauty and melancholy of Marguerite, with whom he had long conversations, unanimously boring the rest of the people present. They all tacitly saw a future and a desperate match for the unhappy girl, despite some scenes in which Marguerite exposed her illness and all her inner despair came bubbling out.

  Then came the years of study and separation. The two friends went away, each on his own path, to sow the seeds of extraordinary careers. Maillard, brilliant and hardworking, was the first to return, with an imposing track record that allowed him to ascend quickly to the highest ranks of programming at one of the most important French banks. As soon as he was able, he brought Lambert back to their homeland, offering him a future as good as their friendship. Lambert had never been ambitious, and he didn’t feel drawn to power—he was simple and complacent.

  Once his very tight agenda allowed, Maillard organized a dinner party at his parents’ home to celebrate old times. One of the guests was Natasha Kuznetsova, his girlfriend and future wife, whom he’d met at a charity cocktail party organized by the renowned American university where she was studying.

  Maurice attended the event arm in arm with a delightful young lady who worked in kitchen appliances at one of the famous Parisian department stores. Maurice perceived a certain awkwardness in the atmosphere and in the general treatment he received from Maillard’s family. He attributed it to five years of separation until Marguerite made her appearance—she was more beautiful, pale, and melancholy than ever. Lambert got up to hug his childhood friend, with whom he shared so many memories and interesting conversations, and he brought her over to his companion, whom he introduced as his girlfriend. Marguerite became even paler—her face seemed almost transparent—and she excused herself, saying simply that she was indisposed but retiring on the verge of a crisis.

  The next morning, they found her completely naked on the unmade bed, clutching some letters to her chest. They were letters Maurice had written to the Maillard family for Christmas, in which he recalled how much he missed the pleasant gatherings at their home and his long conversations with Marguerite.

  A few days later, Jean-Philippe begged him, on behalf of the entire Maillard family, not to come to the funeral. Poor Maurice was shocked when he heard the reason, trying to understand at what point her ill mind, locked in a pale and miserable pod, had crystallized their friendship into love.

  After that event, the two men became distant. Maurice tried repeatedly to talk to Maillard, who was always too busy. Their paths seldom crossed, and when they weren’t able to avoid it, they greeted each other briefly. When Lambert fell ill, Maillard didn’t acknowledge it and didn’t attend the funeral.

  Pichon was the only reminder left in Montmartre. Little Henri Pichon, who had to be . . . forty-two, Jean-Philippe calculated quickly. How time flew! He remembered when Maurice and Odette, the department store worker, had decided to adopt Henri. He remembered the morbid event that had shaken French public opinion: an eight-year-old child found bathed in blood with his family, who had been brutally murdered. Nobody knew what had happened, and the child, suffering from amnesia due to the shock, was unable to remember any of the facts.

  Supposed leaks from the police investigation had allowed the press to make conjectures in their rapacious search for headlines. Some proclaimed in large print that it was a settling of scores by the Parisian Pègre, a brutal secret society, and others said it was a robbery that got out of hand. The more fanciful ones said it had been the child himself who was found with the weapon in hand after slaughtering his entire family in a fit of madness.

  A social worker, accompanied by a young police inspector—Olivier Lemerle or something like that, Jean-Philippe seemed to remember—had visited his office to inquire about Maurice’s professional behavior and evaluate whether young Henri would be in good hands.

  Maillard abandoned the slightly curved window, hunched under the weight of the memories.

  He approached his desk, breathing deeply and feeling himself shudder, trying to shake off the phantoms of the past. He pushed the intercom button, wondering what a superintendent of the criminal brigade could want at that time in the morning.

  “Please let the superintendent in.”

  He remained behind his desk, as if looking for some kind of shield.

  49

  “Olivier Loiseau, superintendent of the criminal brigade,” said the officer, quickly crossing the ocean of pearl-gray carpet that separated him from the large desk.

  Maillard was speechless for a few seconds. This was an interesting quirk of fate. Here they were, thirty-four years later.

  “I see that we’re both still active,” remarked Loiseau, smiling pleasantly and giving Maillard a vigorous handshake as he eyed him. Seeing that Maillard still didn’t react, he added in a confiding tone, “Little Pichon again! Although this time he isn’t as little. Many years have gone by.”

  “Thirty-four, to be precise,” said Maillard, breaking his silence.

  He looked at his visitor: slim, small—or puny, rather, he thought. Loiseau had thinning white hair, clipper-cut, and he was wearing a pair of wide, badly polished black leather English shoes, gray flannel pants from another era, an out-of-fashion black-and-white herringbone tweed jacket over a white shirt (which was probably short-sleeved, with epaulettes on the shoulders), and a pretentious bow tie. Plus the same old trench coat.

  “Time doe
s not forgive,” insisted the police officer, noticing Maillard’s scrutinizing gaze.

  “You’re right,” Maillard said, thinking that was true more for some than others. And he added, inviting the superintendent to take a seat with him at the conference table, “You mentioned Pichon, Superintendent. Henri Pichon, I suppose?”

  “The exact same Henri Pichon as thirty-four years ago.”

  “And what crime is he accused of this time?” said Maillard, smiling ironically as he recalled the perverse headlines of the past.

  “I’m afraid this case is more complex. I’ve taken the liberty of coming to see you, shall we say, unofficially. Last night in Poitiers, a crime was committed that could be considered barbaric at the very least. It seems our dear Henri Pichon is involved.”

  “I don’t see how Pichon—”

  “I seem to recall that you and I were talking about the Pichon case, the first Pichon case, back when the press published all that garbage. I remember you were well acquainted with the gentleman who had been his caretaker, a man called Lambert, your childhood friend.”

  Maillard nodded. Olivier Loiseau continued.

  “As I mentioned before, I’m here unofficially, which is to say this doesn’t come into any official line of investigation. For now. Should you accept, I shall need to ask you for your utmost discretion.”

  The superintendent waited for Maillard’s reply. Maillard remembered how astute Loiseau was and answered affirmatively, knowing that he was going to have to weigh his words carefully. “You can count on my absolute discretion.”

  Loiseau got up and took off his trench coat, which was shiny at the elbows and neck, left it on a nearby chair, and opened a battered leather briefcase that Maillard hadn’t noticed before. He pulled out a large brown envelope and deposited it on the table.

  “Good images are worth more than a thousand words. They’re not very pleasant, and they are explicit.”

  A new silence, waiting for approval.

  “Go ahead,” said Maillard.

  Loiseau extracted a stack of photographs and dealt them out to Maillard in order. His order. Without saying a word, he surveyed Maillard’s features.

  First the exterior of a prefab chalet, which could have been located in any suburb of any large French city. Then a series taken inside of a completely devastated room, the office of a programmer—or its remnants. The last series showed a body lying in an awkward position on the landing of a wooden staircase, the face mangled, the hair bloody, a large glass ashtray near the head, surely the weapon used in the crime. It reminded him of someone, but he preferred to reject that option. Then a close-up showing the victim’s face.

  Maillard was astounded. He looked more closely, and there was no doubt that it was the red giant—it was Silvano Garibaldi.

  Loiseau took advantage of Maillard’s state to present him with the last photograph. A shot of the wall near Garibaldi’s left hand showed, written in something red, probably blood, the name PICHON, the N unfinished.

  Maillard sat back in his seat, looking the superintendent straight in the eye, waiting for an explanation.

  “You know this man, don’t you?”

  “Yes, he’s an IT expert. We use his services from time to time at the bank.”

  “What for?”

  “Mainly audits,” answered Maillard, knowing he had to bide his time. Sooner or later, they would discover the work commissioned to Garibaldi—everything was reflected in his notebook, and Pichon’s programs were still on his laptop.

  “He was here recently, it seems.”

  “The day before yesterday. He’s working on an important project for the bank.”

  “Important enough that it could justify such a savage crime?”

  “I doubt it, apart from the fact that it’s a confidential issue and only two people are aware of it: Silvano Garibaldi and myself.”

  “And Henri Pichon?”

  “Henri Pichon works in our IT department and has been in a coma for four or five days due to an unfortunate accident that nearly cost him his life. That’s the reason why we had to hire an expert. They discharged Henri from the hospital yesterday at noon, and I doubt he had the strength to drive to Poitiers and commit such a barbaric act.”

  “There’s another possibility, that Garibaldi would have written the name Pichon, pointing him out as the person who knew the key to the end of the story.”

  “Or that Pichon’s name does not refer to Henri Pichon, from what I’ve seen. The N isn’t finished, and it could mean anything.”

  For Maillard, Loiseau had already said enough, and something was amiss in the superintendent’s questions. It was more and more evident that he was looking for answers to his suspicions. Their investigating was starting from a few pieces of routine data—the victim’s final calls, his work agenda, and clues leading back to the bank where Maillard worked. When they arrived to the Parisian police department, the superintendent had recognized Pichon’s name, together with the bank and Maillard’s phone extension. But they were missing the key piece of information.

  “I think that the police have sufficient laboratories and experts to investigate the information in Garibaldi’s computers and documents,” said Maillard.

  “The problem is that someone has taken everything, absolutely everything, that could contain any information, including the video game console and the DVD player.”

  They have nothing, thought Maillard, trying very hard not to smile. “I hope I’ve been of some use,” said Maillard seriously, standing up to make it clear that the conversation was over.

  The superintendent followed, a little disappointed. Maillard showed him to the door of the ground floor hall to say good-bye.

  “If you need me, don’t hesitate to call—I’m fully at your disposal.”

  Olivier Loiseau looked him in the eye. “I almost forgot one detail. Garibaldi defended himself violently with a baseball bat, which contains traces of blood, hair, and crystals.” Anticipating Maillard’s reply, he added, “It’s not the victim’s blood.”

  “I doubt that a person just out of a coma would be capable of cornering a giant armed with a bat.”

  “There were two of them: he had an accomplice, a woman with short dark hair.”

  Maillard took the blow as best he could. There were too many coincidences. Tash and Pichon? No! He refused to believe it. There had to be another explanation. And anyway, how could they have found out about Garibaldi? Only he and Garibaldi knew about it. And Morgane, too, but Morgane was blond.

  The wily Loiseau was a master, a bloodhound with a good nose. Despite Maillard’s efforts to avoid any leaks, he knew that the clue was good. He wasn’t sure in what sense, but he’d find out.

  Loiseau made his final attempt. “They brought him down with a stun gun, and he has a multitude of marks—they showed him no mercy before giving him the final blow.”

  Maillard suddenly grew ten years older. Tash had a stun gun that Pierre-Gabriel had bought for her years ago.

  The superintendent thanked him for his time and smugly joined the rest of the ants on the esplanade.

  50

  “Put me in touch with Herbert Lenoir immediately,” said Maillard, sounding worried as he walked past his secretary.

  He entered his office, closed the door carefully, and started to meditate on what had happened. He stood in his ideal place, right in front of the window. Down there, among the ants of the esplanade, was the puny vulture who had just confused him. Loiseau was smart, very smart, but Maillard was a hawk watching from his nest, always one step ahead. Loiseau, on tasting the satisfaction of seeing Maillard falter, had not resisted the temptation to spill all the beans, a common mistake made by people in his profession. They need to demonstrate that they know more, that they are better, even though they’re scraggly gray foxes in the monotony of their own lives.

  Maillar
d was no police inspector, but many things didn’t make sense. How was Garibaldi able to write Pichon’s name on the wall if he was completely paralyzed? If it hadn’t been him, who would write that? Why did the attackers take the video game console and the DVD player? If the police had biological samples on the baseball bat, why didn’t they just compare the DNA with Pichon’s?

  The telephone jolted him out of his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Inspector Lenoir is finishing a meeting. He’ll call you in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you. Please do me a favor: track down my son-in-law and tell him to come see me immediately. I need to talk to him.”

  He needed to take it out on someone, and that snooty prick still hadn’t brought back Pichon’s programs to destroy them. He was going to put Pierre-Gabriel out on the fucking street. Who did he think he was? Did he really believe that because he was going to inherit a castle and four cows, other people had to put up with his impertinence? Now that his daughter was with Pichon and they had a safe economic future, Pierre-Gabriel could go make a living somewhere else. There was no place at Maillard’s bank for undisciplined people. Who was in charge here?

  The telephone pulled him out of his thoughts again.

  “Detective Lenoir,” said his secretary.

  “Thank you. What about my son-in-law?”

  “He hasn’t been here for two days—he’s at home with a fever and a cold.”

  “Fine. Give me Lenoir.”

  There was a brief silence, then the private detective’s voice came through cheerfully on the phone.

  “Jean-Philippe! From your secretary’s tone, it sounds urgent.”

  “I need to take stock of your surveillance this week, especially last night. I think I have a big problem.”

  Lenoir took a few seconds to reply. “Don’t hang up. I’ll go and get the reports from this morning, and we’ll look at everything from the beginning.”