Then Pichon snapped back to reality. A couple of agents knocked on his door at four in the morning and took him away in handcuffs with no prior warning. They didn’t go to the police station in the eighteenth precinct, instead going directly to the one in the thirty-sixth precinct, Quai des Orfèvres, the central office of the Paris police department.
Then they left him to rot in a gray office that smelled rancid, mainly because of the old leather jacket hanging on a wooden hanger in a corner by the door. Henri was sitting on a metal chair with a cushioned seat, his hands tied behind his back.
It was almost ten in the morning when a puny man came in wearing a World War II–era raincoat that was shiny at the elbows and a pair of enormous, unpolished English shoes. He had the swagger of a character from a bad TV series.
“Superintendent Olivier Loiseau from the criminal brigade,” he specified, seeing Pichon’s blank stare. “The same man who took care of your case thirty-four years ago. I saw with my own eyes how you held the knife you used to end the life of your entire family. You’re a psychopath, Pichon. You were born a psychopath. They didn’t allow me to prove it back then, but I can assure you that you won’t get away this time.”
Henri looked at the superintendent. Yes, it was him, the man who’d made his life impossible during the entire duration of the trial, who would approach him and whisper, “Confess, Pichon. Confess, or we’re going to catch you. You’re a murderer, now say it once and for all.” Pichon had never spoken about that with anybody, nor about what really happened in his home that day. It was his secret, the secret of a happy family broken by external forces. This man was obsessively paranoid.
Henri tried to change the subject. “Listen, I’ve been locked in here for six hours. I haven’t had any breakfast, and I’ve been holding my bladder for an uncomfortably long time. You barge in here without so much as a hello or an explanation.”
“It’s not my job to give you explanations.”
That said, the little man went out to the corridor and yelled, “Pierre, do me a favor and take the detainee for a wizz, then bring him back to me. Let’s see if we can pull anything clean out of all this shit.”
A corpulent agent with a plump, frowning face helped Pichon stand up and took him away.
“How will I manage with my hands cuffed behind my back? Are you going to hold it for me?” snapped Henri, amped up by the situation and the thuggish mentality.
“Shut your mouth and keep walking, or you’re going to have to pee in your pants,” said the fatso, pushing him ahead.
Back in the interrogation room, feeling much lighter and more comfortable, Henri noticed right away that something had changed in the atmosphere. The puny man was beside himself, and another person was standing on the right side of the room with a stern look on his face. He was a middle-aged man, well dressed, with a hint of fifties style.
Pichon immediately recognized him as the man who’d saved him by switching the IV bags that night in La Pitié-Salpêtrière. It was detective Herbert Lenoir.
“Good morning, Henri, did you have a good night?”
“Splendid. They made sure nobody disturbed me for six long hours, very thoughtful of them, if it weren’t for . . .” he said, gesturing at the cuffs.
“Loiseau, is there any particular reason why you’re keeping him handcuffed?”
In a huff, the puny man gestured with his head at the burly Pierre, who removed the handcuffs immediately.
“What’s going on?” Henri asked Lenoir.
Loiseau spoke before the answer came. “Lenoir, you are not his lawyer and you have no authority here, so—”
“I can settle that in less than thirty seconds,” said Lenoir, taking out his phone and looking through his contacts. “That way you can explain to his lawyer why Pichon has been locked in here, handcuffed to a disgusting chair, with no formal accusation and without being able to make a single phone call or even use the bathroom.”
The tubby Pierre retreated, closing the door as a sign that he wished to know nothing of the whole situation, and the superintendent was left alone, stumped, until he decided to speak. “All right, all right. He’ll be able to leave as soon as he answers a few questions.”
“Perfect, I see we’re starting to understand each other.” Lenoir put the phone away. “Henri, yesterday, after you parted with Maillard, he was violently attacked. A stranger found him lying on the stairs of Passage des Abbesses, a few feet away from the restaurant. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary, anything that could give us a clue?”
“How is he? Is it serious?”
“Answer the question!” yelled Loiseau, exasperated and humiliated.
Lenoir took no notice and replied, “He’s in critical condition. They attacked him with a stun gun and showed him no mercy, then finished off the job by knocking his head in with a tile. He’s suffering from cranioencephalic trauma with a very severe prognosis. The bones on his left temporal and lower parietal regions are sunken, and his brain is damaged. He still has tetanized muscles. He’s lost a lot of blood. If he makes it, it’s likely to be with severe disabilities.”
“Is Tash—”
“We’ll talk later about all the rest. Right now, just answer the superintendent’s questions. Then we can go.”
58
It had stopped raining, and a heavy, overcast sky enveloped the city, blending into the zinc rooftops, transmitting that Parisian sensation of dusk at only eleven in the morning.
Henri and Herbert left the station in silence after Superintendent Loiseau completed his miserable interrogation, which was more akin to a preschool exercise, thanks to the intimidating presence of Lenoir.
“I appreciate your coming to rescue me from that psycho. He’s obsessed with—”
“I know. Thirty-four years ago he was my colleague, and we were both inspectors on the criminal brigade. I remember very well how obsessed he was about resolving the Pichon case by blaming a poor eight-year-old who had just lost his entire family. When I realized the harassment he was subjecting you to, I gave him a piece of my mind, but it wasn’t enough. The judge refused to take sides, saying it was all in my imagination. A few days later, with that fortuitous support, Loiseau told me arrogantly that he was going to hunt down the child until he gave in and confessed. We got in a fight right there in the headquarters, in front of everyone, and I beat him to such a pulp that he was in bed for a month. They relegated me to traffic duty, which in the end was what saved me, because that’s how I met Maillard and started my own private investigator business.”
Henri remained pensive for a while as they walked past Sainte-Chapelle.
“I thank you doubly.”
“My pleasure. I was a policeman by vocation, and now I’m a detective, also by vocation.”
They kept walking for a while around the island without talking, each man lost in thought.
When they arrived at the flower market, Henri broke the silence. “How is Tash?”
“At the hospital, overcome with grief. They called her as soon as they found Maillard’s body. She’s been there since four in the morning.”
“I think I’ll go and see her.”
“Don’t—she’s very upset and confused. When I found out the news this morning from Maillard’s secretary, I went straight to the hospital and crossed paths with Loiseau, who was smiling like a smug vulture. He’d been stirring things up, causing all manner of confusion.”
“What do you mean?”
Loiseau had told Tash his theory about the Pichon case, which went back decades. “And now you’re a serial killer who’s taken out two people, one of them her father. She doesn’t want to believe it, but she’s confused.”
“It would be easy to refute Loiseau’s accusation. Tash told me that two nights ago, Pierre-Gabriel took an old stun gun they had at home, and yesterday morning he woke up with a gigantic bruise on hi
s face. The doctors probably found signs from the stun gun on Maillard’s body as well.”
“Be patient and let events take their natural course. Send Tash an affectionate message and wait for the outcome. Remember, we still have to retrieve your program and Garibaldi’s computer.”
“By the way, where is Pierre-Gabriel? You’ve tracked him down.”
“Yesterday he gave us the slip and snuck out of his home by the back door—he knows we’re watching him. I feel guilty for what happened to Maillard. I should have known that evil man would play this game. Pierre-Gabriel hobbled home at one in the morning. He was barely able to walk and was holding his head. He was either drunk or the baseball bat was taking its toll. Now I have two men watching him, two more in the hospital, and another with you.” He smiled and turned around to make a sign at a woman smelling a flower bouquet in a nearby stall, and she reciprocated discreetly.
“I don’t want to run any risks. He’s dangerous, and he’s proven it twice. We don’t know what his sick mind is planning, but I have a feeling it’s your turn next.”
“No guesswork needed here. I have the key to the pennies, and he knows it.”
“We’ll protect you.”
“Don’t worry: I’m on the lookout, and he seems to be debilitated. He uses only a stun gun as a weapon.”
“We don’t know whether the woman intervened in the attack on Maillard last night,” said the detective.
“You’re talking about the short-haired brunette who participated in Garibaldi’s murder, right? Do you know who she is?”
“Not yet,” said Lenoir.
Another silence. Pichon had checked Maillard’s cell phone, and he knew that Lenoir had communicated the name of the mystery woman in an email: it was Morgane Duchène. Why did he want to keep it a secret?
“Can I ask you something?” said Lenoir.
“Sure.”
“Where is the money?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Or should we say ‘millions’?”
Henri smiled before replying. “It’s distributed to hundreds of private accounts in forty-two tax havens.”
“That many?”
“Or maybe more.”
“What do you do with it?”
“Nothing, until now. It’s just there, waiting. I’ve never touched it.”
They continued to walk in silence. Henri could tell what the detective was leading up to, and he decided to wait for Lenoir to attack.
“You know, you’re in a very bad position. Everything implicates you. One false step would be enough for a moron like Loiseau to lock you up for the rest of your life. Pierre-Gabriel would come out unharmed, and Tash would see the man of her dreams with different eyes if she found out that he killed her father. She’d probably go back to her dimwit husband.”
Pichon smiled again.
“Just give me part of the money, and I promise I’ll get you out of it. Think of it as protection.”
Pichon smiled once more but didn’t answer. Then he crossed the street suddenly and went down to Pont d’Arcole and toward Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, the home of Paris’s city council.
“You have twenty-four hours to answer,” yelled Lenoir.
Henri did not answer and continued to walk. He had to end this once and for all. Three people, all of them with the same motive—to separate him from Tash. They knew they couldn’t do anything else to him because there was no evidence, otherwise Loiseau would have him behind bars. Henri couldn’t stand the thought of their harming Tash.
He crossed the enormous square and went into the subway. Then he returned home, knowing he had a lot of things to set straight. The detective followed close behind, a bouquet of flowers in her hand.
59
“You’re completely out of your mind!” yelled Morgane into her cell phone, clenching her teeth. She had finally managed to get through to Pierre-Gabriel. She hadn’t heard any news from him all night, and every time she dialed, she got the same message: “The number you have called is not available at this time.” She hadn’t managed to sleep a wink.
As soon as she arrived at the office, she heard the rumor that Maillard had suffered an attack that nearly cost him his life. She immediately called his secretary, who confirmed the news, telling Morgane everything she knew and warning her that if he came out of this alive, it would be with very severe aftereffects.
She’d been to the bathroom four times already for the stress and anxiety gripping her.
“Don’t yell at me; I have a huge headache. I’ve been taking pills every four hours,” said Pierre-Gabriel, exhausted.
“You should have been to the doctor. Tell Tash to go with you.”
“She didn’t come home last night. I don’t know where she is, and she hasn’t picked up the phone since yesterday, the slut.”
“You’re in serious trouble. Maillard is in a coma, and it seems that the person who notified them saw a man at the scene. Lenoir is looking for the name of the woman—”
“They’ve found you already. I saw it on Maillard’s phone last night, so don’t say I’m in big trouble. We both are, Morgane, we both are. We’re in this together, and if I fall, you fall. We fall, Morgane—we fall together.”
She gave a nervous chuckle. “I don’t want to end my days in jail because a lunatic like you is going around killing people at random. How am I going to get out of this now?”
“We have to go all the way. Tonight I’m going to pay a surprise visit to our friend Pichon.”
“Stop it, Pierre-Gabriel! Things are bad enough as they are, so don’t make it worse, please.”
“What difference does it make now? Now it’s like a game of poker, all or nothing.”
“You’re alone on this one—I’m skipping this round. I’m out of the game. Don’t count on me anymore.”
Morgane hung up, trying to hold back her tears. Her world was falling apart. Twenty years of effort and work down the drain. Damn money. She’d lost her head for a mirage—hundreds of millions, mind you, but a mirage. Now she was involved in a murder and an attack, which in reality was a failed murder attempt. And tonight, a rerun of the same show.
Seeing the state that Pierre-Gabriel was in both physically and mentally, she was sure he would fall, and she would go down with him.
She’d been analyzing the situation for two hours. She’d never bought a house, only a car that was already eight years old. She preferred to rent and move apartments from time to time so as not to give in to daily routine, which made her sick. Tomorrow she had an appointment with the branch director she was sleeping with. She’d also opened a special account for nonresidents at a Mexican bank where she planned to transfer all her savings, some four hundred thousand euros. In two days, the money would be in Mexico. It wasn’t an especially legal procedure but it was fairly customary, and the bank took care of finding a client who wanted to have money in Europe and agreed to a change of ownership, with all the guarantees of a bank.
Morgane spoke English and Spanish fluently, so it wouldn’t be a problem to start a new life in a Latin American country. Once there, she’d quickly find a way to change her identity. She’d chosen Mexico because she knew the terrain. As risks director, she traveled to Latin American countries several times a year to evaluate the viability of investments and test the borders of legality. She knew what doors she’d have to knock on.
She went back to her computer—she had to find a direct flight to Mexico City. Tomorrow afternoon, if possible.
60
11:10 p.m.
“The suspect just exited the building through the main door.”
“What is he doing?”
“He seems to be waiting for someone.”
“Anything unusual?”
“With this rain, it’s impossible to see—and if I put the windshield wipers on, t
hey’ll see us. He’s still unstable and keeps holding his forehead. It seems he hasn’t recovered from the thwack. Just a minute, he glanced toward me. He’s put a bandage on the bruise. He’s wearing glasses.”
“Fine, keep watching. Maybe Morgane Duchène will come and pick him up.”
Lenoir had decided to mount an operation: he didn’t want to discover another catastrophe when it was too late, as he had the two previous days. He wanted to know Pierre-Gabriel’s and Henri Pichon’s every move. He was bound and determined to seize the opportunity of a lifetime.
“A taxi just arrived to pick him up. The suspect has boarded, and the taxi is pulling out. Initiating tracking.”
The detective maintained a prudent distance, and the taxi abandoned the secondary streets of the well-to-do district of Neuilly-sur-Seine and went down Avenue Charles de Gaulle toward the center of Paris. They crossed Porte Maillot to take Avenue de la Grande Armée until Place de l’Étoile, which they went around without a problem. When they arrived at the Champs-Élysées, there was a small traffic jam near Avenue George V due to all the movie theaters. A bus to the right of the taxi braked inexplicably, honking its horn. Probably there was a pedestrian jaywalking. The taxi moved along and soon arrived at Place de la Concorde. From there, it went down the expressway that skirts the Seine and crossed the rest of Paris in a few minutes. The driver took a shortcut down the A3 and was on the A1 twenty minutes later.
“It seems like he’s going toward the airport,” said the detective.
“I have him,” said the hoarse voice of one of the men watching the door to Pichon’s home. The man was hidden in the shadows at Place Émile Goudeau under a black umbrella. At that moment, Pierre-Gabriel was going up the stairs in front of Relais de la Butte. “He played a dirty trick on us. He’s crossing the square. He’s entering the portal. He’s in.”
The Penny Thief Page 17