Autumn, All the Cats Return

by Philippe Georget

  Sebag had hardly finished his sentence before his cell phone vibrated. He took it out of his pocket.

  “Here we go,” he said, taking the call. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Lieutenant Sebag. This is Jean-Pierre Mercier.”

  “Hello, Monsieur Mercier. Have things been going well for you since we met at the prefecture?”

  “I have to admit that they were going better yesterday.”

  Mercier sounded worried. His voice was trembling slightly:

  “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you because this morning I found a letter in my mailbox. A threatening letter. If you could come to my home right away, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  Sebag immediately stood up and signaled to Llach to do the same.

  “Don’t touch the letter again, Monsieur Mercier, just leave it where it is. I’ll be there right away with one of my colleagues.”

  Llach parked the car on the Place de l’Europe in the Moulin-à-Vent quarter. As he got out of the vehicle, he said to Sebag:

  “We’ve got a few seconds, let me show you something.”

  He led Sebag to the middle of the traffic circle, which had been made into a public garden, and pointed to a block of concrete set up between two benches. They went over to it. Sebag saw that it was a panoramic table. He looked for the known reference points and was disoriented for a few seconds. There was no mention of Spain, Le Canigou, or any of the peaks of the Pyrenees. There were only the names of cities more distant in space and time: Algiers, Oran, Bône . . .

  “Did I tell you these people don’t want to let bygones be bygones?” Joan sighed. “They still need to locate themselves in relation to places they left long ago. As if they hoped to go back there someday. I really don’t understand it . . . ”

  They rapidly walked back and rang the bell at Jean-Pierre Mercier’s apartment. He opened the door to the building’s lobby.

  “It’s on the third floor,” Mercier explained on the intercom.

  The two inspectors didn’t wait for the elevator and climbed the steps two at a time. Jean-Pierre Mercier met them on the landing.

  “Thanks for coming so fast.”

  He led them down a little hallway to reach the living room. A warm, generous autumn sun was coming in through a French door that opened onto a balcony. Mercier showed them the letter, which lay on a writing desk right next to the opened envelope.

  The message read: “We’re going to get you, too. You can be scared now.”

  “As I said on the telephone, I found it this morning, along with the mail in my box.”

  Sebag took plastic gloves out of his jacket pocket to pick up the letter. It was a simple, white, normal-sized piece of paper. There was nothing written on the back. It had been folded in three lengthwise so that it would fit in the envelope. Like the one left by Albouker’s attackers, the message consisted of letters cut out of the local newspaper. This method seemed to him very archaic. He put the letter down and examined the envelope. There was no address on it, only Mercier’s name. That was what worried him the most.

  “They came themselves to put it in the box.”

  Sebag agreed but said nothing.

  “I have coffee ready, would you like some?”

  The inspectors gladly accepted his offer, and Mercier went into the kitchen. Shortly afterward he returned with a colored tray on which he had arranged a full coffee pot, three cups, three spoons, and a little bowl of sugar. He put the tray on the hexagonal coffee table covered with terra cotta tiles. Llach and Sebag sat down on a tawny leather sofa with rounded armrests while Mercier filled their cups.

  “What time did you find the letter this morning?” Sebag asked.

  “Around ten o’clock. That’s when the postman comes. He had just been here.”

  “And the last time you opened your mailbox was when?”

  “Yesterday, at about the same time.”

  “You didn’t check it again in the meantime?”

  “No, why would I do that?”

  “Sometimes people put flyers in the box.”

  “I put a notice on my box: ‘No advertising please.’”

  “Have people other than you touched this letter?” Llach asked while Sebag was noting down the first information Mercier had given them.

  “No.”

  “Your wife, maybe?”

  “I’m a widower.”

  “Ah! I’m sorry,” Joan said with embarrassment.

  “It’s all right. It will be ten years next month. Cancer.”

  Sebag continued:

  “Is this the first time you’ve received threats?”

  “Personally, yes. But we’ve received quite a few at the Circle office.”

  “But at your home, you’ve never received threatening letters or phone calls?”

  “No. But I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be more vigilant now. After what happened to Guy, I think I shouldn’t take these threats lightly.”

  “No, and it would even be preferable to be careful and never go out alone. Do you have children who live in Perpignan?”

  “My daughter lives in Cerdagne, but my son is here.”

  “Could you stay with him for a while?”

  “I don’t think my daughter-in-law would much like that . . . ”

  “If you explain the seriousness of the threats, she’ll understand.”

  Mercier didn’t seem convinced.

  “The more serious she thinks it is, the more she’ll think that I should stay away from her children. I’m going to call my brother Gérard instead. He’s been promising forever to come visit me . . . If he’s not too busy working for you.”

  “I don’t think he can do much more for us. We got some valuable information from him even if he didn’t give it to us.”

  Sebag grinned, and his mouth hinted at a faint smile of complicity.

  “Yes, I know, he kept me informed. I told him that he could trust you but that wasn’t enough. The old habits of secrecy . . . ”

  Sebag touched his lips to the coffee and struggled to keep from grimacing. The beverage was hardly stronger than flavored water.

  “Are you still convinced that these threats have nothing to do with the murders of Bernard and André Roman?” Mercier asked.

  Sebag hesitated and his eyes met Llach’s. Joan replied in his stead and with more assurance than he could have mustered.

  “We don’t see how all these facts are connected, unless we suppose that the more the murderer killed, the more frightened he became. He killed two people first, slightly wounded a third, and then limited himself to threatening a fourth. Do you find that logical?”

  “I don’t know. You’re probably right. Moreover, that’s what I told Guy last night when he stopped by here after our meeting at the prefecture. But he still thinks there’s a kind of conspiracy against us.”

  “Your president’s a little paranoid, isn’t he?” Sebag joked.

  “A little, yes. He was already that way before, and being attacked hasn’t made it any better. He’s very upset, and as a result he’s a great cause of concern for the future.”

  “Come now!”

  “He thinks that we’re wrong to try to assimilate and that we have to remain a strong community, tightly knit and militant. Rather like the Jewish community. He actually drew an elaborate parallel with the history of the Jews in France, who, according to him, have never been as persecuted as when they sought to integrate themselves into the French nation.”

  “You astonish me; I hadn’t thought he was so extremist.”

  “‘Extremist’ isn’t the right word for him. He’s even rather moderate regarding most of our financial demands, and he has no liking for the old activists of the OAS. Besides, I’ve always taken care not to introduce Gérard to him when he comes to visit me. It’s only on questions of cultural
identity that Albouker can prove more intransigent: our history, our culture, our roots. But ‘intransigent’ isn’t the right word either: I should rather say ‘passionate.’ Yes, that’s it: Guy is a passionate man!”

  Not very interested by their conversation, Llach stood up, intending to bring it to an end. He walked over to the desk with a plastic bag in his hand. He pointed to the letter and the envelope.

  “Can I take these documents?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Mercier answered. “Do you think you can do something with them?”

  Joan shrugged.

  “We’re not likely to be able to find fingerprints other than yours, but we’ll have to try anyway. And then they’re better off in our file than in one of your drawers.”

  “A file that must be getting pretty thick.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Mercier’s landline resounded in the living room.

  “It’s a little loud,” the Circle’s treasurer said apologetically, “but I can’t seem to adjust it.”

  He got up to answer it:

  “Hello. Ah, it’s you, you got my message. Yes, I’m fine, everything’s O.K. I’m trying not to worry too much. The police are here, including Inspector Sebag, whom you know . . . ”

  He turned to Sebag:

  “It’s my brother.”

  Then he went over to the bay window. Llach came and sat down next to Gilles. He noticed that Gilles’s coffee cup was still full.

  “Aren’t you going to drink it?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s revolting.”

  “Yeah, it’s aïguette, as they say here, plain water. But that doesn’t bother me. May I?”

  He seized the cup without waiting for a reply and drank it dry.

  Sebag went over to Jean-Pierre Mercier and whispered in his ear:

  “Could you let me talk to him when you’re done, please?”

  The treasurer nodded. He was talking with his brother about the train schedules late in the day. Sebag opened the French door and went out onto the balcony. He leaned on the railing. The wind was still blowing hard. In the street down below, an old man was riding his city bike with his head down like Bernard Hinault in the last stretch of a race against the clock. Nonetheless, he was being passed by two boys running along the sidewalk.

  Jean-Pierre Mercier came up behind Sebag and handed him his phone. Sebag took it and began to talk.

  “Hello, Monsieur Mercier.”

  “Hello.”

  The former OAS man seemed wary. He must have feared that the policeman was trying to make him say what he’d tried to keep to himself the day before. But Sebag had moved on since then and told him so at the outset:

  “Did you succeed in contacting Georges Lloret?”

  Silence at the other end of the line. Sebag tried to imagine Mercier’s crestfallen face before realizing that he’d only talked to him on the telephone and had no idea what he looked like.

  “Are you still there, Monsieur Mercier?” he asked. “We haven’t yet been able to reach Babelo. I wanted to know if you’d been able to speak with him.”

  The silence continued for another few seconds and then Mercier decided to reply.

  “Very good, Lieutenant Sebag, you’re really very good. Bravo. May I ask how you managed to find Lloret?”

  Sebag savored the compliments and especially the implicit confirmation that accompanied them: If he’d still had any doubts about Babelo’s true identity, Mercier, without realizing what he was doing, would have just dissipated them.

  “We all have our secrets, you know. I think the main thing is that one of us be able to alert our man to the danger he’s running at the moment. You haven’t been able to contact him then?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “It’s really not easy to get in touch with this man. Not more for his former companions in arms than for the French police. Too bad. Especially for him.”

  “I’m doing all I can. I’ve reached out to several people close to him.”

  “We’re doing everything we can, too. All that remains is to cross our fingers.”

  “Insha’Allah.”

  “Insha’Allah, yes, you’re right.”

  A silence followed: Sebag was letting Mercier digest his little defeat. The former OAS member was the first to speak again.

  “I hope you’re going to protect my brother. I don’t much like this business of threats.”

  “Neither do I. But I don’t think your brother is in any very great danger.”

  “He told me that you thought the writer or writers of the anonymous letters had nothing to do with the murderer.”

  Sebag tried to seem convinced:

  “Yes, that’s what we think. They just want to scare people.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Sebag refrained from saying, “Me too.”

  “Are you going to give Jean-Pierre police protection?”

  “We don’t have the means to do that. And then, if we really had to take threat seriously, we’d have to provide protection for all the Pieds-Noirs in Perpignan. The best thing would be for your brother never to be alone. Are you planning to come down here?”

  “I’m currently arranging to do that.”

  “Good.”

  Sebag hesitated. He didn’t think he’d managed to establish a climate that encouraged Mercier to spill his guts, but he nevertheless hoped to take advantage of the opportunity to obtain new information. He gave it a try.

  “Now that we all know who Babelo is . . . maybe you could tell me more about his career? I know only its broad outlines.”

  This time the silence didn’t last.

  “I think you’ve earned that,” Mercier replied, a smile in his voice. “But I’m far from knowing everything. He’s a very private man. What I know is that he was born in Algiers in 1933 and that his parents ran a bakery in the Bab-El-Oued quarter. He joined the ranks of the partisans of French Algeria very early on. In particular, he was in the forefront of the fighting during the week of the barricades.”

  “The what?”

  “Excuse me, I was forgetting that you’re not a specialist in history . . . The week of the barricades was an insurrection that took place in Algiers at the end of January and the beginning of February 1960.”

  Then Gérard Mercier gave Sebag an account of Lloret’s involvement with the OAS and his escape to Spain after the end of the war. Sebag learned one thing new: that during the first years of his Spanish exile Georges Lloret had lived under a false name. He’d taken back his real name only after the amnesty laws were passed in 1966.

  “I was also able to gather new information regarding our fourth member of the commando . . . Does that interest you?”

  Sebag didn’t want to annoy his precious informant.

  “Of course, go ahead.”

  “Sigma, alias Jean Servant, was only nineteen when he became a member of the OAS. According to a guy who knew him at the time, he was a real hardliner, a genuine idealist despite his young age—or maybe ultimately because of it. He was the last to join the Babelo commando and the only one who got killed. Anyway . . . I mean . . . the only one who was killed during the war. Are you also interested in the circumstances of his death?”

  “Yesterday you mentioned the bombing of a bar.”

  “That’s right, yes. But what I’ve learned since is that it was Sigma himself who blew up the bar. He’d been surrounded by French gendarmes who were trying to arrest him.”

  “I thought I understood that at that time the police force wasn’t really trying to track down the members of the OAS.”

  “It’s true that we had many sympathizers among the police. But the antiriot police waged an implacable war on us, especially after the ceasefire of March 1962. Once France had put an end to the struggle against the FLN, the army focused all i
ts attention on us. You’ve heard of Mission C?”

  “Never.”

  “It was a team of about a hundred security police and anti-riot police specially assigned to fight the partisans of French Algeria. They arrived in Algeria in the wake of the barbouzes and carried out more secret and especially more effective missions against us. In the case that concerns us, they obtained information to the effect that our four commando members were supposed to meet in a cafe to plan their future actions. The information came, I’m told, from the FLN . . . Apparently it didn’t bother them, those Mission C guys, to arrest Frenchmen on the basis of information provided by the enemy! Anyway, we’re not going to rewrite history! But the fact remains that they maintained surveillance on the cafe, a surveillance that paid off, but not as much as they’d hoped because there were also leaks on their side: it was possible to warn Babelo, Omega, and Bizerte in time. Sigma, however, came to the rendezvous as planned. The back room of the bar also served as a depot for explosives. He blew everything up so that he wouldn’t be taken alive. I told you, he was an idealist. May he rest in peace.”

  Sebag gave Mercier three seconds to honor the memory of his hero.

  “And then what happened to the commando? Did it continue its actions?”

  “June 1962 was already three months after the signature of the ceasefire accords in Évian. The French army was completing its withdrawal and the exodus of the French was beginning. French Algeria was dead. Lloret, Martinez, and Roman took the boat in early July. They landed at Port-Vendres. Lloret took off for Spain; that was more prudent because the French police knew his identity. Martinez and Roman took up residence in Perpignan. There, now you know everything. Everything I know, anyway. It remains only for us to do everything we can to protect Lloret from the murderer.”

  “That’s all that remains . . . Yes!”

  Sebag went back into the living room and put the telephone back on its base.

  “Would you like another cup of coffee?” Jean-Pierre Mercier asked kindly.

  “I’d love to,” Sebag lied. “But we have to go now. We’ve got work to do.”

  Llach stood up, smiling. He was still holding the plastic bag with the letter and its envelope in it.

  “Don’t hope too much that we’ll find the writers of this letter,” Sebag warned. “That’s virtually mission impossible. Our priority remains the identification of our murderer and preventing him from doing any further harm. When we’ve caught him, I think everything else will immediately stop and the situation will calm down.”