by Michel Bussi
Nicole Vitral leaned over the counter and stared at Mathilde de Carville. “What do you mean by help? You mean seeing her?”
“No… I think it’s better if she doesn’t know about me. I don’t know if you intend to tell Emilie about this business at some point, but I believe it would be better for her if she remained unaware of it for as long as possible. I have no desire to watch her as she comes out of school in the afternoons. To see her grow up through a windshield, hoping to spot some resemblance to my son. That is not my style. I couldn’t bear it.”
Mathilde gave a strange, uncharacteristic laugh.
“No, Nicole, the rich have more radical ways of easing their conscience.”
“Money, you mean?”
“Yes, money. Don’t get on your high horse, Nicole. I’m not trying to buy the child, like my husband did. This is not a bribe or a negotiation. It is simply a gift, to her. I ask for nothing in exchange.”
Nicole was about to reply but Mathilde did not give her time.
“Don’t refuse, Nicole. You have Emilie—you’ve won. I am not trying to buy you. I am not buying anything. Just think about it: why refuse Emilie this money, this windfall?”
“I haven’t refused it,” Nicole said coldly. “Nor have I accepted it.” She spoke more quietly: “What you are proposing is… complicated.”
“Open a bank account in Emilie’s name. That’s all you have to do…”
Nicole Vitral’s lips trembled.
“And afterward?”
“Emilie will receive one hundred thousand francs per year, paid into that account. Until she is eighteen years old. This money will be for her use only: for her education, her hobbies, to give her the best possible chance in life. Of course, it will be up to you to manage that money during those eighteen years. You may do as you like. I am simply giving you the means…”
For several seconds, Nicole Vitral was silent. She felt herself being rocked by the sound of the shingle, swept endlessly back and forth by the ebb and flow of the waves.
Ebb and flow. For and against.
Finally, she said: “I will open the account, Mrs. de Carville. For Emilie. Because if I didn’t do that, I might feel guilty. She might reproach me for it afterward. Pour your money into it if you want…”
“Thank you.”
“… but we will not touch it!” Nicole almost screamed. “Emilie will be educated exactly like her brother, Marc, and we will pay for it ourselves. We will make sacrifices if we have to, but we will do it. When she is eighteen, Emilie can do what she wants with that money. It will be up to her. You understand?”
Mathilde de Carville gave a faint, wry smile. “You are cruel, Nicole. But I thank you, all the same.” After a second’s hesitation, she continued: “May I ask you a second favor?”
Nicole Vitral gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know. Make it quick. I’m about to close.”
Mathilde took out a royal-blue jewelry box from the pocket of her long coat. She opened it, took a step forward, and placed it on the counter. Nicole stared helplessly at the pale sapphire in the ring.
“It is a very old tradition,” said Mathilde calmly. “For their eighteenth birthday, the girls in our family always receive a ring set with a stone the color of their eyes. It has been like that for generations. I am wearing a ring given to me by my mother more than thirty years ago. Sadly, I will never have the chance to do the same for Lyse-Rose.”
Nicole Vitral finally looked up. “I’m probably being stupid, but I don’t understand…”
“I am leaving this ring with you. Take care of it. Perhaps in three years, or in ten years, simply by spending time with Emilie, you will guess. You will know instinctively if she is your granddaughter or not. If that happens, and if, deep in your heart, you are certain that the granddaughter you have brought up is not of your own blood, I think you will keep that secret to yourself…”
She took a breath, her eyes glistening. “And it will probably be better that way, for the girl at least. But if that does happen—if, through the years, you find evidence or simply come to feel certain that she is not your granddaughter—then please, on her eighteenth birthday, give her this ring. No one but the two of us will know what it means. But that way, for you and for me, justice will be served.”
Nicole Vitral was going to refuse, to give back the ring, to tell this woman that her idea was ludicrous, sick, but Mathilde de Carville did not give her the chance. Without even waiting for a reply, she turned around and walked away, her long dark coat melting into the twilight.
The royal-blue jewelry box remained where it was, on the counter.
16
October 2, 1998, 11:08 a.m.
Malvina closed the window behind her. Then she unrolled the dish towel, which she had used to wipe every surface in the house, from her hand and shoved it into her jacket pocket. Surely no one would notice that a dish towel from Grand-Duc’s kitchen drawer was missing.
Proud of herself, she crept slowly through the small garden, so that no one on the street would see her. She waited for two cars to pass, hidden behind a corner of the house, then—when the coast was clear—she stepped over the low stone wall and out into the street. It was fine: no one would ever know that she had entered Grand-Duc’s house. She wasn’t stupid, in spite of what people might think. She turned around. One last detail was bothering her. From the pavement, if you looked carefully, you could see the broken pane in the lower right-hand window. She had smashed it in order to open the window and let herself in. She shrugged. It wasn’t important.
She walked quickly down Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. She could not stay out in the open. The Vitral boy might arrive at any moment.
She took a car key from her pocket and pressed the red button that unlocked the vehicle’s doors remotely. Her car was so small, she could find a parking space almost anywhere in Paris—in this case about fifty feet from Grand-Duc’s house. It was not the most discreet of cars, but Vitral had no way of knowing it was hers.
Malvina hid as well as she could, hunching down in the driver’s seat of her Rover Mini. There wasn’t much space, but if she kept her head low, a passerby might think the car unoccupied. Malvina, on the other hand, commanded a clear view of the entire street—through the windshield and in the rearview mirror. Assuming Vitral came from the Corvisart metro station, he would walk up from the end of the road without passing the Mini, but she would be able to see him. Perfect.
She wriggled around until she was able to get her hand on the Mauser L110. She put it under the driver’s seat, within easy reach.
Only one thing still bothered Malvina: there were too many people about, particularly in that bakery about fifty yards away. Too many witnesses, although most of them were not close by. She remembered her grandmother’s words: “Watch him, follow him. But don’t do anything else. Telephone me as soon as you see him.” Malvina’s hand crept under the seat and touched the Mauser, as if to check that it was still there. The feel of the cold metal reassured her. Given that she was twenty-four years old, was she still obliged to obey her grandmother?
Marc walked on autopilot through the endless corridors of Montparnasse station, his eyes seeking out signs for Line 6.
Lylie had been wearing that ring, with the pale sapphire, the color of her eyes. So Nicole must have given it to her for her eighteenth birthday, two days ago. His grandmother had respected the terms of the agreement with Mathilde de Carville. She had not mentioned it to anyone. Not once. Not even to Lylie.
But she had given her the ring.
Marc now knew what that meant, what a terrible confession it represented for his grandmother.
He had to call her, talk to her. Right now, though, finding Lylie was his priority. With his free hand, he typed out a short text: Lylie, call me back FFS!
He decided he would send her another text in an hour if she didn’t reply, that he would keep pestering her until she gave in.
Where could she be? He thought again of the miniature
airplane in his bag. Was she being serious about going far away? It was possible… Now that she was eighteen, Lylie had the financial means to go anywhere she liked. She could even stay there for years.
Weaving between his fellow travelers, Marc went over in his mind the last words he had read in Crédule Grand-Duc’s notebook. Lylie’s bank account. Mathilde de Carville’s gift. The old woman had known what she was doing. As the years passed, Marc had become convinced that it was simply the money that had created that gulf between him and Lylie, giving rise to those abnormal feelings, the unnatural attraction that could not possibly exist between a boy and a girl who shared the same blood.
The money explained it all. And yet, deep within him, a voice had always whispered that, ultimately, the money made no difference.
The voice was right. Because now he had the proof that his grandmother felt the same way he did, even if she had never said anything about it.
Lylie was wearing the de Carvilles’ ring.
His grandmother had confessed the truth when she gave it to her. Lylie was not his sister. They were free.
Marc felt uplifted by a kind of euphoria. He hopped onto the train heading toward Nation. Five stations until Corvisart, and then a short walk to Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, where Grand-Duc lived.
Time to read a few more pages…
Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal
This is the point where I make my entrance. At last!
Crédule Grand-Duc, private detective.
I took my time, didn’t I? And undoubtedly missed all the action. In fact, therein lay my problem.
Mathilde de Carville entered my office, in Belleville, on Rue des Amandiers, the day after her meeting with Nicole Vitral. She wore nothing but black, as if she had poured all of her sadness into her clothing. I think that meeting with Nicole Vitral took a lot out of her. She had made the decision herself, without consulting her husband. Mathilde felt humiliated by her trip to the seafront at Dieppe, but she had understood that it was a necessary sacrifice if she was to have any hope of persuading Nicole Vitral to give way. Nicole Vitral had to feel more powerful than her rival, otherwise she would never have agreed to open a bank account in Lylie’s name.
Never again, Mathilde must have sworn after that meeting; never again would she humiliate herself in such a way. She had eased her conscience, but it had cost her dearly: much more than a check for one hundred thousand francs per year. So, after that meeting in Dieppe, Mathilde’s heart had frozen. By the time she entered my office, she was not much more than a polite, well-dressed ice cube.
She walked toward me.
“I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Grand-Duc…”
She introduced herself. Vaguely, I made the connection with the case that had dominated the television and radio coverage for several weeks.
“I have been told, Mr. Grand-Duc, that you are discreet, tenacious, patient, and meticulous. Those are the very qualities I am seeking. My proposition is very simple: I want you to go over every minute detail in the Mont Terri case file, one by one. And to find more information, if there is any.”
Back then, although I was only one of many private detectives in Paris, I was beginning to earn something of a reputation for myself. Over time, I had solved every case that had been given to me: the casino affair on the coast, plus a few others. Like a boxer who has fought only nobodies and therefore won every match, I had never tasted failure, and thus I believed myself invincible. I had no idea why this woman had chosen me. But, after all, why shouldn’t she? It didn’t really matter: I was not going to let this opportunity slip away.
Mathilde de Carville came closer. I remained seated. I am not a big man. At a rough guess, I would say she was nearly two inches taller than I. I sat up straight in my chair and put on a serious expression.
“This is a complex case, madame. A case that cannot be rushed. It will take time…”
“I have not come here to bargain with you, Mr. Grand-Duc. You can take or leave my offer. I do not think I will have much trouble finding another detective, but I also believe you will accept my terms. Beginning today, you will receive one hundred thousand francs per year, for eighteen years, until Lyse-Rose, my granddaughter, if she is still alive, becomes an adult. The end of September, 1998, in other words. The thirtieth, not the twenty-seventh, as that is what the judge decided.”
One hundred thousand francs a year! Multiplied by eighteen! There were so many zeroes, I couldn’t even count them. They lined up in my mind like pearls on a necklace. Eighteen years of guaranteed salary. It truly was an offer I could not refuse…
Except that… Even if my stupid first name, Crédule, means “naive” or “gullible,” I still needed more details.
“What exactly do you require of me, madame, in return for such a handsome salary? Would I have to pay you back if I hadn’t found anything after eighteen years?”
“Mr. Grand-Duc, you are not under any obligation to get results. However, I do demand that you do everything you can to solve the mystery. I want no stone left unturned: every clue, every theory, must be thoroughly investigated. I am offering you enough time and money to ensure that is the case. If any evidence exists proving the identity of the survivor of the Mont Terri crash, I want you to find it. And let me be perfectly clear, Mr. Grand-Duc: I want to know the truth, whether or not it is to my liking.”
I felt as though I were standing on the edge of a cliff.
“And you think that such an investigation will take… eighteen years?”
“You will be paid for eighteen years. Consequently, you have eighteen years to discover the truth. I do not expect you to devote yourself exclusively to this case during that time. I am simply providing you with the necessary means to solve it: time and money.”
“What happens if I discover the truth after five months?”
“Do you really not understand, Mr. Grand-Duc? Have I not been sufficiently clear? You will be paid for eighteen years, no matter what. This will be a gentlemen’s agreement. All I demand is that you do everything in your power to discover the identity of the survivor. That is all that matters to me.”
She leaned down toward me, the wooden cross hanging from her neck suspended in the air just above my nose.
“Of course I reserve the right to break our agreement at any moment, if I have the feeling that you are not upholding your end of the bargain. If I sense you are taking advantage of the situation. But that won’t happen, will it? I have heard you are a man of honor…”
No contract… Can you imagine? I seemed to be dealing with a mad old woman who didn’t know how to spend her vast fortune. It was a miracle. But how far was she prepared to go?
“I’ll have to go to Turkey,” I said. “Perhaps for a long time.”
“In addition to your salary, all your expenses will be paid…”
Dare I risk asking for more?
“I… I don’t speak Turkish. It will be difficult on my own…”
“If it is necessary to the investigation, you may hire employees. Their expenses will also be paid.”
I had my own reasons for asking the question. Already, I was planning—at least to begin with—to work with a guy I knew from a couple of months I’d spent in Central Asia. Nazim Ozan was the only person in France I knew who spoke Turkish, and whom I trusted, more or less.
Mathilde de Carville wrote me a check—for the then vast sum of one hundred thousand francs—and left my office looking as gloomy as she had when she arrived. I felt as if I had won the jackpot, without even having bought a ticket.
For the first time, my names seemed to fit. I was credulous to believe that this investigation would be my springboard to fame and fortune. And, for three days, I celebrated my good luck like a Grand Duke, spending as much as I liked, safe in the knowledge that my extravagance would not cost me a centime, because I could claim it all as expenses.
How could I possibly have imagined, in that moment, that I had fallen into a bottomless pit? That the light that h
ad attracted me was leading me toward the void?
17
October 2, 1998, 11:13 a.m.
Rue Jean-Marie-Jégo climbed steeply, rising by about a hundred and fifty feet, until it reached Butte-aux-Cailles: a picture-postcard little street that made you feel you were walking up to a village square, with its church, its town hall, its bar, and its boules pitch shaded by plane trees. All this in the middle of Paris. Marc knew vaguely that Butte-aux-Cailles was supposed to be one of the few remaining Parisian “quartiers”; he had come here one evening for a drink at the Temps des Cerises. A bourgeois faux-hippie student—the kind that Marc loathed: probably the son of a diplomat—had explained to him that this hill was protected from the property developers because the underground limestone quarries made the construction of tall buildings impossible. The one thing Marc had retained from that conversation was that it cost an absolute fortune to buy a house here.
Marc climbed one last set of steps and came out on top of the hill. Still holding tight to the handrail, he picked up his phone and sent another text to Lylie.
The same as before: Lylie. Call me back FFS!
Afterward, he checked his messages. Nothing.
There weren’t many people around on Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, with the exception of customers at the bakery, which was apparently the only place open on the street. The restaurants still appeared to be empty. Marc walked past the houses until he reached number 21. There, he found a small, one-story building, set in the middle of a pretty little garden, about sixty square feet in area. It was the kind of tiny house that would have looked ridiculous in the French countryside, but here, in the center of Paris, it was the pinnacle of luxury. A detached house, a bungalow, with a little garden of its own. Even bearing in mind the one hundred thousand francs per year he had been paid by Mathilde de Carville, such a house seemed beyond Grand-Duc’s means.