Jacquot had been about to turn away, but now he paused.
‘Kind?’
She gave him another look, more curious than suspicious.
‘What I mean is … Old Philo … he was always interested, you know? How things were going. And if you ever needed a few francs to see you through, he was the first with his hand in his pocket.’
‘Just a few francs?’
She shrugged, waved her potato and peeler. ‘Alors, maybe some of them took more. Me, he covered the rent a few times, I’ll admit. Always paid back, mind you. No debts, me.’
‘What was the most he gave that you ever heard about?’
She gave the question some thought. ‘Cotillon, I’d say. Old boy the other side of the port. Long gone now, but a good sort. Wanted a van for his son, to get the fish into town. Times were hard back then … ten, twelve years now. Old Philo gave him the money. No questions asked.’
‘Gave or lent?’
‘He never lent money. He gave it. Anyone in trouble; some not. But he never ever asked for any of it back. Just sort of, “Here-you-are-take-this.” My opinion, if you paid it back it was a loan, right? If you didn’t, it was a gift. Whichever you felt comfortable with. Compris?’
‘So where do you suppose the money came from? The money he gave away. He was just a fisherman.’
‘Cards … the gee-gees out at Parc Borély. “Never play him at cards or backgammon, he always wins.” That’s what Cotillon used to say. And that old coot would have known. Gambler to his holed socks.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Madame. Enjoy your bouillabaisse.’
‘Come back tonight, why don’t you? It’ll be the best you ever had.’ She gave him a wink. ‘And the bouillabaisse is pretty good too.’
65
THE OLD LADY was still cackling as Jacquot crossed the yard and started down the path. Up ahead he heard the click of a lock and saw the gate swing open. Given the length of the passageway, and the fact that it was a tight squeeze for one person, he took a few steps back to the corner of the yard and waited.
Jacquot knew gorilles when he saw them and the two men who came through the gate – black jeans, blue jeans, white T-shirts, black leather jackets – could only have been ‘family’ men. Runners or hitters, whichever they were, hard boys both, doing whatever they’d been asked to do by the boss – whoever he might be. Falling in one behind the other, angling their shoulders to fit the space, they came down the passage towards him. The first man, chewing gum and carrying a knapsack over his shoulder – dark-haired, flat-faced, with a scar through his left eyebrow – passed without even a nod of thanks, as though Jacquot hadn’t even been there, but his companion, with the matchstick in his mouth and the thin moustache, gave him a good once-over as he stepped past.
Jacquot was glad he was wearing his shorts and T-shirt. He looked like a fisherman on his way to the port, not worth a second glance.
‘Messieurs,’ he muttered, but there was no response as the two men crossed the yard and jogged up the flight of steps. Heading into the passageway, Jacquot looked back and saw them reach the top balcony, stop at Philo’s door. Pausing in the shadow, he leaned out to watch the door open, the men go in, and the door close.
Letting himself out onto the street, Jacquot stooped down and checked the lock. He couldn’t see any scratches on the lock itself, but there was a wedge-shaped indentation, probably made by the blade of a knife or a screwdriver, in the door’s wooden frame. Easy enough to force a lock on such a weathered, splintered gate, thought Jacquot, turning to look along the street, the parked cars. Nothing stood out, nothing caught his eye, so he crossed the road and took an outside table at the café on the corner. He ordered a coffee, picked up a newspaper left on the other chair, and settled down to wait. Whoever they were, and for whatever reason, they were clearly interested in Philo. And Jacquot intended to find out why.
He didn’t have long to wait. A double espresso, a cigarette, and the gate was opening, the two men out on the street again, job done, whatever it was. Jacquot watched them turn right and head up Tibido, turning into Pélanne where he had parked his own car. Leaving the café, he started up the street and a few metres from Pélanne heard a car engine start and catch. There was a clash of gears, a squeal of tyres and Jacquot reached the corner in time to see a dark red Mercedes brake at the bottom of the street and swing left.
It took him less than a minute to reach his own car and start after them. Down Pélanne, into Moulin and up to the Mont Rose crossroads on the edge of town. They were already a good way ahead, slowing now to make a left turn along the coast. Since there was only the one road out of Madrague, Jacquot resisted the temptation to catch them up. Instead, he kept his distance, turned into Mont Rose and saw the Mercedes a hundred metres ahead. With no traffic between them, Jacquot held back – along Montredon, past the marina at Pointe Rouge. He decided they were heading for Marseilles, but changed his mind when the car took a right at the first Prado roundabout. Other traffic, coming towards them from the city, also made the turn and by the time Jacquot swung into Boulevard Jourdan-Berry he was three cars back from the Mercedes. By Jacquot’s reckoning the two heavies were either heading for the north of the city, up towards Allauch or Aubagne. Or they were going to hit the D559 and take a right on Tassigny, out towards Cassis and La Ciotat.
A right it was and ten minutes later the line of cars was heading up into the Col de la Gineste, twisting up into the chalky highlands before dropping down towards Cassis. By-passing the town, the Mercedes headed on, staying close to the speed limit, now just a single van between them, both vehicles indicating for the autoroute and the fast way to Bandol and Toulon. Jacquot checked his gas. Just so long as they didn’t go any further than Toulon; stopping for petrol was no way to handle a chase.
Thankfully, they didn’t. Instead the Merc came off the autoroute in the north of Toulon and took the coast road to Cap Brun.
And that was where, much to his irritation, Jacquot lost the Mercedes, somewhere between Le Morillon and the Cap. One minute they were just three cars ahead, and then a lorry started out from a side road. The first two cars got by, but the one in front of him slowed, gave way, let the lorry out. By the time it had reversed a couple of times after making a bad hash of the tight turn, and pulled out ahead of him, the Mercedes had vanished.
And thanks to its skirt of mud and dust, he hadn’t been able to read the registration.
66
AS HE DROVE out of Toulon, back the way he had come, it was now abundantly clear to Jacquot that he wasn’t the only person interested in Philo.
But why? And why now? At exactly the same time that Jacquot was following his leads and making his enquiries?
If the two gorilles in the red Mercedes had hoped to speak to Philo, for whatever reason, or to find something in his poor lodgings, then they would have been disappointed. The old man had been buried at sea weeks before and, as Jacquot had already discovered, his lodgings had been effectively stripped in preparation for the next tenant, as bare and chaste as a monk’s cell. But the fact that these two heavies had made the effort to track him down and pay a visit suggested that Philo was of interest, that he had something, or had done something, that required them to come calling. Either on their own account, or because they had been told to.
In Jacquot’s opinion, given what he’d found out about Philo, there could only be one reason for the visit. Money. And the money in question was undoubtedly the money that had underwritten the old fisherman’s double life, the money that he had invested in his precious book collection and the money that had bought the house in Roucas Blanc, the last of which, as the lawyer Cluzot had confirmed, had now been dispersed among a number of worthy causes.
Someone was not going to be pleased.
But what Jacquot wanted to know was, where had the money come from in the first place? It was a fair guess that the heavies probably knew, but he didn’t. At that moment it was their only advantage.
Given
what Jacquot knew of Philo it didn’t seem likely that the old fisherman had robbed a bank, or been part of a gang. If he had had any shady friends or associates, or indulged in any form of criminal activity, then Salette would surely have known about it. Which meant that whatever money had come Philo’s way – a great deal of it, as Jacquot had established – had come to him in some other way. He certainly hadn’t earned it as a fisherman, or a pleasure-cruise skipper, or over a gaming table or at the horses. But he had got hold of it somehow, concealed it and succcessfully run a double life to disguise it.
Or maybe it came from the woman. Eddie. Edina. The woman he’d lived with for so many years, the woman no one knew about except his neighbours in Roucas Blanc.
Had Eddie been the wife of someone important, as Madame Nallet had hinted? Someone Philo had taken her away from?
But Eddie had come from Nice, that’s what Madame Nallet had said, not Toulon.
Maybe it was she who had provided the money? Stolen or otherwise.
Were the gorilles searching for Eddie and not Philo?
Or for Philo as well?
And did they know that the two of them were now dead?
Whatever else, Jacquot decided, as he parked in rue Pélanne and walked back to Philo’s lodgings, this was all getting very interesting. And the more he found out, the more determined he was to get to the bottom of it all.
It was only late afternoon but it was already dark when he stepped out of the passageway and into the courtyard once more. The sun hadn’t set, the sky was still a jigsaw piece of deep rich blue between the rooftops, but Jacquot could already feel a chill in the shadows, a soft dampness in the air.
And the place was still deserted. The same closed doors and curtained windows, a sense of residents still to come home from work – to have supper, watch TV, go to bed. Even the fishwife’s door was closed. Certainly there were no families here, with children, thought Jacquot. School was long over; by now any kids would surely have been playing here in the yard.
Crossing the sunless courtyard, Jacquot climbed to the second floor and walked down to Philo’s door.
He wasn’t surprised to find what he did. There were splinters of wood on the ground and the door was ajar. Another forced lock, less tidy up here, out of sight, than on the street.
What did surprise him was the interior.
In each of the four rooms, the lino floor covering had been stripped off the floorboards, and every fourth one wrenched off its joists, tossed aside on to the folds of crumpled lino, or left at a gaping angle, to expose the space beneath. The two sofas and bedroom mattress had been sliced into foam-rubber shreds, the stove and fridge heaved out from their recesses, cupboard doors thrown open and drawers strewn in a jumble across the floor. They’d even set to work on the ceiling, opening up gaps in the plaster and lathe.
It must have been a noisy job, but with no one nearby to hear them, no near neighbours at home, they’d had nothing to worry about.
As he stepped through this mess of destruction, plaster crunching underfoot, it struck Jacquot that so far he was ahead of the game. He’d got here before the two gorilles, he’d watched them and followed them without being spotted, and he knew there’d have been nothing here for them to find, that they’d have left empty-handed.
And given that neither Madame Nallet nor Jeanne Vaillant had mentioned anyone else asking the same questions that he had asked, he also knew that they, or their employer, had not yet found out about rue Savry.
But he was only ahead by a narrow margin.
And possibly a narrowing margin.
67
BACK IN THE courtyard there was now some sign of life. The old fishwife was at her front door, with her back to him, bending over to water her plants, pouring what looked like dishwater from a bucket into the various pots.
When she’d emptied the bucket, she heaved herself up and was turning towards her door when she noticed Jacquot coming towards her.
‘Back for my pot, chéri? Or is it the fish stew you’re after?’
‘I’ll take a bowl, if you’re offering,’ he replied, and reached out a hand. ‘My name’s Jacquot. Daniel Jacquot.’
The old lady looked at the hand and then at Jacquot. For a moment she seemed surprised that he should have accepted her offer, and a little uncertain too. Then she reached out and took his hand, her own hard and wet and strong.
‘If you’re going to eat at my table, Monsieur, let’s get one thing straight. You’re not Philo’s nephew are you?’
‘No, I’m a cop.’
‘I’ll give you one thing,’ she said, finally releasing his hand after a good wringing, ‘you don’t look like any flic I’ve ever seen. And seems you’re an honest one, too. Marvels will never cease.’ She gave him another look over. ‘Well, you’d better come in then. The name’s Clem. Clémentine, if you must know.’
The apartment was low and dark, with exactly the same layout as Philo’s two floors above, except the kitchen was at the back and not the front, looking over a small slope of bare ground, an unused back garden in the next street. The only thing that made the view bearable was an old olive tree, bent and gnarled with the years but laden with leaves and berries, as healthy a tree as Jacquot had ever seen. And in such an unlikely spot.
Pointing him to a kitchen chair, Clem went to the range. She lifted a lid from a large stockpot and a cloud of fishy steam billowed up through the strings of onions, woven strands of garlic, white-husked loops of sausage and tied bunches of herbs strung out from wall to wall. The scent of it, in that low dark kitchen, was almost overwhelming, enough for Jacquot to know that what he was about to eat would be, just as she’d boasted, among the best he’d ever tasted. This was clearly a woman who liked her food, and knew how to cook.
‘Seems les flics aren’t the only ones interested in old Philo,’ she began. ‘First you, then those other two came right after. You must have passed them in the alley.’ A bowl was fetched from a cupboard, a ladle lifted from a drawer. Dipping the ladle into the pot, she drew out a bowlful of the steaming sea-scented broth.
‘You saw them?’
‘Difficult not to. After they’d been up to Philo’s they came knocking, just like you. Except not so politely.’
‘You know that’s where they went? To his apartment?’
‘I didn’t see them go up. But I heard the racket.’
‘Have you seen what they’ve done up there?’
Clem shook her head as she put down the ladle and brought the bowl to the table.
‘None of my business. Stayed where I was, me,’ she said. ‘Et voilà, Monsieur Daniel Jacquot, et bon appétit … Ah, you’ll need a spoon.’ One was brought, then a dish of grated cheese, some croutons warm from the oven and a second, smaller bowl of rouille, rust-red and reeking of garlic and pepper, thick enough for a teaspoon to stand up in it. Having set them around his bowl with red chubby fingers, she sat herself down with an ‘Oufff … alors.’
‘What did they want?’ Jacquot asked, breathing in the sweet, salty scent of the soup and the stronger rouille.
‘They were looking for Philo. Wanted to know where they could find him …’ She stopped, frowned at him. ‘Don’t sniff it, man, eat it. There’s nothing wrong with it.’
‘And?’ he asked, picking up the spoon. The broth was a creamy yellow, puddled with darker globs of oil, broken with thick flakes of fish, like icebergs, and the more treacherous blackened tips of mussels. He took the broth first, a spoonful of the liquor, blew on it and then tipped it into his mouth. The ocean, that’s what it tasted like. Fresh and hot and sweet, the flavour filling his cheeks.
‘Told ’em he’d moved out. Up to Aubagne. A couple of months back.’
‘Did they say why they wanted him?’ he asked, reaching now for the rouille, dropping a spoonful into the soup along with some croutons and cheese.
She shook her head.
‘And they were happy with that?’
‘As happy as two men like that ever get
,’ she replied, helping herself to a crouton and dipping it into the rouille. ‘A pair of low-life Mokos and no mistake.’
Jacquot noted the old slang for someone from Toulon.
‘Did you recognise them? Had you seen them around?’ He knew it was unlikely, having followed them all the way to Toulon, but it was worth a try.
She shook her head. ‘Like I said, not from around here. Never seen ’em before. And never want to again. While they were standing there, out in the hall, it was like they wanted to hit me, you know? Beat me up, just for being me, for being here, answering the door to them. I don’t know how they stopped themselves. It was nervy, I’ll tell you.’
Jacquot understood. She, like him, had recognised what kind of men these were, what they could do – and without a thought.
He fell silent for a moment as he worked on his bouillabaisse: a firm, pearly-white wedge of rockfish, then a mussel sucked free from its shell, more rouille, more croutons, cheese – with Clem watching every move.
‘So how’s the broth?’ she asked.
He waved an empty spoon at the bowl, spoke with a full mouth. ‘You were right, Madame … Clem, I mean. This really is very good indeed.’ He swallowed the mouthful and gave a little chuckle, at his good fortune, at the improbability of it. ‘Like you said, forget Fonfon and the others.’
‘Cheaper, too.’
He tipped the bowl for the last of the broth.
‘Tell me, do you live alone?’
‘By necessity,’ she replied, folding her arms across a voluminous chest. ‘Never married, chéri. Not the sort. Preferred the girls, I did, and back then you couldn’t do that.’ She jabbed a finger into his arm. ‘Just in case you had any ideas.’
When he put down the spoon, wiping his lips with the backs of his fingers and thumb, she took the bowl from him, got to her feet and went back to the stove. No need to ask. Another ladleful was poured into it. She rattled the lid back on to the pot and returned to the table. But Jacquot could see that her expression had changed. There was something on her mind.
The Dying Minutes Page 24