Displaying a hopeless lack of judgement, the Crime Squad pursue their enquiries and at Chardon’s home they discover a stash of Lebanese heroin that has come via French-speaking sub-Saharan Africa. Well, well, private preserve, private hunting ground, here we go again.
But that’s not the end of the story: Chardon doesn’t work for himself, he’s in the pay of the Intelligence Service and the Paris Préfecture, who use his reports and his photos for their own ends. But the murdered prostitute worked for Mado, the madam whose clientele is made up of the rich and the powerful and has been for over a decade: politicians, businessmen, high-profile visiting dignitaries. And Mado … as you’ve guessed, is on the payroll of the Paris Intelligence Service. Is this internal gang warfare within this venerable institution?
The Crime Squad would very much like to question Chardon more closely. Only the problem is, his bosses confess they have no idea where to find him. And Mado’s lips are sealed.
Exit the Crime Squad, Intelligence is leading the dance.
Political police, corrupt police, a society has the police force it deserves.
Macquart swears twice, pays his bill and jumps into a taxi to get to the office as fast as possible.
There, he finds messages from Levert and Laurencin: the investigation is following its course, nothing special to report. And another from Patriat, the chief of the Crime Squad section in charge of the Fatima Rashed murder: ‘Get yourself over here as soon as possible.’
Just the time to set up a meeting with the big shots from the political police in Intelligence at ten o’clock, with only one item on the agenda: the article in the Bavard Impénitent, and Macquart drops into his neighbours at police HQ, at 36 quai des Orfèvres.
Patriat receives him with two men from his team. Their expressions are weary and drawn.
‘It’s been a tough night. Cecchi was killed at around half past midnight, outside the Perroquet Bleu …’
Macquart doesn’t need to feign surprise.
‘… my team was very grateful for your assistance over Chardon.’ Patriat pauses. ‘Mado accuses you of being behind the murder. Apparently you summoned her to your office yesterday and allegedly threatened her by saying she wouldn’t last a month if Cecchi were killed.’
‘Likely story.’
The first meeting of the day in Macquart’s office is somewhat gloomy. The general feeling is that Bestégui’s article is remotecontrolled by Bornand; everyone knows of the connection between the two men.
‘It’s Bornand’s declaration of war on the Intelligence Service.’
‘It looks like it.’
‘And do you have any idea why, over and above his visceral hatred for all the official police departments?’
‘No, not really. The fact that Chardon’s on our payroll doesn’t seem a strong enough reason. And we weren’t the ones to open hostilities …’
‘An attack on Mado in the same article is a first in this kind of paper, which has always gone easy on her … After all, the journalists use the same sources as we do …’
‘The same day as her man gets a bullet through the brain. Does that seem like a coincidence?’
‘Who shot him?’
‘No idea.’
‘Something to do with taking control of the Bois de Boulogne gambling club maybe?’
‘It’s always possible, but we haven’t heard a thing.’
‘In any case, we didn’t put a bullet in his brain, but the accusations against Mado … that’s a very crafty move. If it’s war, it’s possible that Bornand’s hand is behind them in an attempt to drive her out. And that is going to make our case massively harder going.’
‘And it’s also possible that Bornand’s behind Cecchi’s murder too, why not? He’s capable of it. Could Fernandez be involved?’
Macquart responds to the barrage of questions. ‘I’ve got people out looking for him, I still think he’s our best bet. But no sign of him. He appears to have vanished into thin air, like Chardon. That’s a lot of disappearances.’ A silence. ‘Right, I need to take a step back and try and fathom this out. I’m waiting for news from my team. No need to give up hope, or to rush into things. Shall we go and have a sauerkraut at L’Alsace à Paris, along with a decent bottle of wine?’
Françoise Michel comes down at 09.17, still accompanied by the same man. Photo. (This time it’s Levert who has the camera.) They pay for their rooms, then leave on foot, taking the lakeside road. She’s carrying her big shoulder bag. She takes his arm and they walk fast. The weather is sunny and cold, with Mont Blanc clearly visible above the lake.
At 09.37, they enter the Occidentale des Banques Suisses building. They come out again at 10.25 with two suitcases. Photo. At 10.32, barely five minutes’ further on, they walk into the Banque Commerciale de Genève. Photo. A wait. Then they come out again at 11.40, without the suitcases. He’s carrying a leather briefcase. Photo. Two taxis are waiting for them. The cops follow that of Françoise Michel to Cornavin Station where she boards the TGV for Paris at 12.15.
On arrival at the Gare de Lyon, and while Noria watches Françoise Michel in the taxi queue, Levert telephones Macquart.
‘Drop it for now, we know where to find her. Come back to my office straight away, with your photos.’
‘Move it, Ghozali. We’re letting her go, Macquart’s waiting for us, no time even for a sandwich.’
In Macquart’s office, Levert, Noria and the three superintendents study the photos spread out in front of them. The ones taken by Noria first. Clumsily framed and a bit fuzzy. ‘You’ll have to learn,’ was Macquart’s only terse comment. Then the others, taken by Levert, that morning, in the street outside the banks. These are unarguably clear.
‘Without a shadow of a doubt, that’s Moricet. Well known to the police, as they say.’
‘Formerly of the Élysée special unit and the secret services.’
‘A security mercenary who works for the Saudis.’
‘I’ve heard that he’s also closely linked to the Syrians.’
‘Yes, them too. He’s not proud.’
‘A killer. Wanted for murder in several countries.’
‘But not in France.’
‘In any case, a big fish,’ concludes Macquart. ‘With a man of his ilk in the picture, as well as the suitcase probably stuffed with dosh, and the Tribune article, this clearly puts matters in a different league from Chardon’s little schemes.’
Everyone sits up. Macquart seems mentally elsewhere.
‘It all comes back to arms trafficking. And that’s not necessarily good news for us. We’re not in charge of that side of things.’
After accompanying his companion of the previous night to the municipal archive Laurencin, clearly not sorry to part company, heads for rue de Belfort, in a working-class district. Naturally, at number 29, there’s no trace of the Michel family, and the current owners have no recollection of them. Laurencin sets off on a tour of the shops. Bakery-cum-patisserie, a cheese seller, a butcher, but none of them had been there during the war years. He grabs a sandwich and a beer.
At the end of the street is a hardware shop. Laurencin pushes open the door, setting off an irritatingly shrill bell. The shop is long and narrow, dark, apparently containing a workshop at the back, from which comes the sound of a hacksaw and the smell of burnt iron. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, massive counters propped across chests of drawers in the middle of the room, and just about everything everywhere. Tins of nails, screws, nuts, washers, spanners, tools, taps, watering cans, casserole dishes, stepladders, planters. Hanging from the ceiling, amid the brooms, are feather dusters, real ones, with real feathers, and a bunch of leather straps. Laurencin wants to touch everything, he feels as though he’s stepped into the dream childhood he never had. An old man makes his way towards him from the back of the shop, all smiles, wearing a grey dust-jacket, a beret and safety boots. Laurencin bangs his right hand on a corner of the counter to make sure he’s not dreaming.
They exchange formalities,
then Laurencin says:
‘I’m trying to find out what happened to a certain Michel who lived at number 29 during the war, and his daughter Antoinette.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, but you know, I was a prisoner of war for five years, and then, in ’45, I left for Australia …’
Laurencin glances around: ‘Australia …’
‘Oh yes, I was a cowboy for several years, then I came and settled here, with my wife, who’s Australian. Does that surprise you?’
‘Depress me, you mean. If you can’t tell me about the Michels, who in this neighbourhood can?’
‘Doctor Méchin, at number 35. He took over his father’s practice, years ago now, and he’s never left rue de Belfort. If anyone remembers your Michel, it’ll be him.’
Laurencin thanks him and goes back up the street, finds number 35 and Doctor Méchin’s surgery. The waiting room’s crowded, he has a spot of bother with the practice secretary. The doctor won’t be free until early evening. ‘Let’s say at around seven o’clock, at the Café de Belfort just down the road.’ Several hours to kill. Laurencin goes back to the hardware store for a chat with the veteran cowboy.
At Security headquarters, Macquart is given a warm reception by Superintendent Lanteri, who is very interested in the photos of Moricet and the names of the banks visited by Françoise Michel. He reveals a few nuggets of information in exchange. They’d found papers on Cecchi implicating Bornand directly in the Iranian arms deal, an operation for which the SEA was seemingly merely a cover. (Any connection with the suitcases full of notes? Possible, but not obvious, it still remained to be proved.) Bornand, who was at the Perroquet Bleu at the time of the murder, had been questioned in this office, that very morning. For the moment, it is officially recognised that those papers were false, and that Cecchi had been planning to use them to blackmail Bornand. Cecchi’s stool pigeon, a certain Beauchamp, head of security at the SEA, has been arrested. He’s a friend of Chardon’s. It’s possible that he’s mixed up in Cecchi’s murder.
‘It’s a very complicated case, involving a great many people − potential dynamite.’ Lanteri taps the table with his fingertips. ‘And we’re in sole charge of it.’
Macquart nods and waits. Lanteri goes on: ‘For reasons that escape me, Bornand seriously has it in for the Paris Intelligence department.’
‘I read the article in the Bavard Impénitent.’
‘So did I, but that’s not all. After leaving here, Bornand went to the Interior Ministry where he used all his influence to push for the disbanding of the Intelligence Service again.’ Another pause. ‘If the Iranian arms case is closed, if he recovers his full freedom to manoeuvre, he can cause you real damage.’
‘And will he recover it?’
‘It certainly looks that way. The plane vanished in thin air, Flandin dead of a heart attack, Cecchi murdered. What about Beauchamp, do you know him?’ Macquart nods. ‘He’s ready to bargain anything for his freedom and a new start in life … He was associated with Bornand in the past, and probably holds quite a few trumps.’ Lanteri sighs. Bornand’s one of those people who are indestructible. Always ready to bounce back.
Macquart goes back to Intelligence headquarters, to get on with some dreary routine paperwork. In a corner, Levert and Noria are writing their reports and filing the photos. Still no news from Laurencin. Macquart gets a coffee from the machine and eats two chocolates. Got to nab Bornand as quickly as possible, it’s him or us. What do I have left? Fernandez, if he’s still alive, if I can find him. Chancy. And the names of the Swiss banks. Given the Security department’s position, for the time being, the only way to use this information is an anonymous letter. But who to send it to? Not to the Bavard. Too close to Bornand and they wouldn’t publish it, or not soon enough. To the magistrate investigating Cecchi’s killing? It depends who’s in charge of the case, and besides, the prosecutor may well refuse to delay the hearing. No obvious link with Cecchi’s murder. And no other investigations running. Switzerland? That might be a good idea, Switzerland …
The pair of them are sitting at a small round table. Laurencin has ordered a coffee and the waiter brings the doctor half a bottle of Beaujolais without being asked.
‘Why are you interested in the Michel family?’
He knows them. Think carefully.
‘I’m a historian. I specialise in the war years and the Liberation in Lyon. I’ve found some unsigned personal documents on this period, and I’m having trouble seeing how they fit in. They contain quite a lot of references to Michel and his daughter Antoinette, and I’m trying to cross-reference …’
It’ll have to do, for a hasty explanation …
‘Do you know if Antoinette’s still alive, doctor?’
‘I have no idea. I haven’t seen a death certificate with her name on it in Lyon, but she could have moved away, abroad, perhaps.’
Laurencin looks at the doctor. I’m on the right track, he wants to talk. Mustn’t rush him. He allows a long silence to set in, then Méchin speaks:
‘It is a painful memory for me.’ He breaks off. ‘Michel was a brute who used to beat his wife. According to my father, he beat her to death. But that was during the war, he was in the Militia and nobody asked any questions. He also used to beat his daughter, Antoinette. She got pregnant, she was very young. I don’t remember the date …’
‘Her daughter was born in October ’43.’
‘Sounds possible. It was my father who told Michel the news, and who took the girl into our house for a while, to protect her from being beaten. And then, on the Liberation, Michel was killed in his apartment, nobody was sorry, but it happened in front of his daughter, it wasn’t a pretty business, and afterwards her head was shorn and she was paraded around the whole city.’ He stops. ‘And this is the really painful part. My father took care of Antoinette, he knew the child’s father, but he hadn’t really been part of the Resistance, he was afraid, and he didn’t lift a finger to defend her, and neither did I. And she was never seen again. Forty years on, and it’s still something I’m not exactly proud of.’
‘Who was the father? Wasn’t he around either?’
‘A young militiaman who spent a lot of time with Michel. His name was Bornand.’ Laurencin found it hard not to show his surprise. ‘He disappeared during Antoinette’s pregnancy and we never saw him again. He must have been killed. You know, a lot of people got killed during those years.’
‘Well, that answers my question. The author of my documents must be this person, Bornand.’
Macquart takes Laurencin’s call at eight p.m. Françoise Michel is Bornand’s daughter.
‘Come back to Paris right away, Laurencin.’ A silence. ‘And thank you.’
Noria and Levert look up from their work. Macquart looks back at them and smiles. Incredible. A broad, jubilant smile through set lips, not exactly reassuring.
‘You see, these are rare moments of triumph. We were mistaken, not completely, but almost completely, and we’re going to win all the same. I don’t know what comes closer than this to pure happiness.’
The phone rings. Macquart picks up the receiver. ‘It’s Fernandez on the line,’ says the switchboard operator. Fernandez … well, well, good things always come in threes.
‘Can you trace the call?’
‘We’re already onto it, superintendent.’
‘Good. Put him through … Hello, Fernandez.’
‘Superintendent, I’d like to talk to you, can I come in and see you?’
‘Spot of trouble, young man?’
‘Yes, superintendent, big trouble.’
Bornand’s envoy? I don’t think so, not now, when Bornand thinks he’s holding all the aces, and not after having gone underground for forty-eight hours. But I’ve got a better card. I’ll keep it back for now. Just in case … I’ve got Bornand in a stranglehold, and it won’t take him long to realise it.
‘I’m up to my ears, Fernandez. Come and see me on Friday, does that suit you?’
‘Perfect, thank you, superintendent.’
Macquart hangs up. The switchboard calls back: Hôtel de la République, in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Where he’s been staying since last Monday.
Macquart addresses Noria and Levert:
‘You’re off to Saint-Germain. It’s close to Paris, and rather a pleasant place. You’re going to find out what Fernandez wants to tell us, since he doesn’t appear to have taken any precautions to stop us tracing his call. And be back here as soon as you can. Tomorrow morning, I’m the one who’ll have the duty and honour of informing the President of the delicate situation in which his advisor finds himself …’
Thursday 12 December
At the Intelligence Service headquarters there was tension in the air as the day dragged by following Macquart’s return from the Élysée. Eyes and ears had been positioned everywhere they possibly could. Reports came in regularly: nothing’s happening. Bornand is at home, he’s not moving, not telephoning, not receiving any visitors. Françoise Michel is having dinner with a girlfriend at the Champs Élysées Drugstore as if it were the most normal thing in the world. They’re going to the cinema to see The Year of the Dragon. Macquart wagers she has no idea of what’s going on.
Fernandez arrived at the Hôtel de la République, in Saint-Germain-en-Laye at around midnight on Monday evening. He parked his car in a paying car park, and hasn’t moved it since. He goes for walks in the forest, reads the newspaper, bets on the horses and plays table football at the nearest bar-cum-tobacconist and betting shop, eats at the hotel and drinks whisky in his room.
Affairs of State Page 16