“Excuse me?”
“There’s a copy of Arsène’s office keys here . . . excuse me, Professor Boisregard.”
Drancey told himself he had more smarts than his colleagues gave him credit for.
“It’s always there, usually. I’m the only one who knows where the little key to the cabinet is. Professor Boisregard was slow to agree to having a copy, and he wanted to be certain only he and I knew where it was hidden.”
The policeman sighed. What a circus just for duplicate keys!
“Is it possible he took them before leaving yesterday, or that he came to get them during the evening?”
“Yes, it’s not impossible. But why would he have done that?”
“I don’t know. Okay, playtime’s over.”
He went up to the curator’s office door. He pushed aside the curtain that covered it. The door was massive and ornately carved, but the lock was ancient and held at only one point. He turned back to one of his colleagues.
“Nicolas, can you open this for me?”
Nicolas Diozzo, a colossus at six feet six inches and two hundred and forty pounds, came up and looked at the lock.
“Yes, Lieutenant. But I don’t have my tools with me. It’ll take me a good twenty minutes to go get them.”
“Ah, shit . . . fine, go on!”
“But given the urgency of the situation, there’s a faster method, albeit less conventional,” he added, gesturing to the combat boots he was wearing.
“Very good. Go to it.”
Diozzo motioned to his colleagues and the secretary to move away from the door. He backed up to the opposite wall, concentrated, and launched himself at the door. The ensuing crack seemed deafening to them, totally out of place in this temple of history. The impact of the former rugby player’s kick had torn out the lock. Boisregard’s office awaited them.
Chapter 59: The Manuscript
“Gentlemen, gather up everything you find. We’ll analyze it back at the station.”
They entered Boisregard’s lair, followed tentatively by Géraldine Borteau. The drawers were closed but gave up their secrets less than a minute later.
“So?” Drancey questioned.
“Nothing, Lieutenant. Basically history books.”
“Take ’em. If we have to look into them, I’m sure Nadia or Rivera will find us a translator. A notebook, a diary, handwritten notes . . . ?”
“Nothing, Lieutenant, as if that guy didn’t have a life. There isn’t even a computer on the desk.”
“Professor Boisregard has a laptop he always takes with him when he leaves at the end of the day,” commented the secretary.
“Well, shit! Not only do we not know where he is, but there’s nothing lying around in this fucking office.”
“Lieutenant, come look!” called Renoir.
The four men and Borteau went over to the policeman. He’d lifted up a reproduction of a Rembrandt painting hanging on the wall. The front of a safe appeared before their eyes.
Drancey shot a questioning look at the secretary.
“I didn’t know that safe existed! Professor Boisregard had the office renovated when he took up his post. He must have had it put in—it’s his right!”
“It is indeed his right. But since you’re in the business, could you explain to me what a private safe is used for in the office of a museum curator?”
The woman didn’t answer him right away. She’d asked herself the same question upon discovering it behind the painting. She was torn between her loyalty to Arsène, her superior and occasional lover, and the crude, troubling facts brought to her by this policeman with a direct, uncouth manner.
“So, any idea?”
“No, I have none. There’s no professional reason for this type of equipment. The valuable documents are kept and protected in the archives. Maybe he wanted to keep documents he borrowed safe, while he studied them in the calm of his office?”
“Do you believe in the theory you’ve just advanced?”
Borteau lowered her head. Ideas were swirling in her mind and clashing with each other, creating a chaos that would only grow.
“No. Everything you just told me bothers me greatly, even if I don’t want to believe it.”
“I can understand you don’t want to accept it, but the bundle of facts that link him to the murderer is very tight. I assume no one knows the combination, aside from its owner?”
She shrugged her shoulders in assent.
“I want to know what’s in there!” Drancey exclaimed.
One of the policemen, a lanky man with features sharp as a knife blade, came forward. He looked carefully at the safe, touched it, then turned back to Drancey.
“So, what do you say?” Drancey asked.
“It’s an old one, boss. It looks sturdier than it actually is. The guy may dissect cadavers, but I can dissect his hunk of junk in less than three minutes. I don’t know who recommended this model to him. In any case, he got ripped off.”
“Thank you, Esteban, we’ll ask him when we nab him.”
The lieutenant pondered for a quarter of a second.
“All right, we’re going to open this safe. Esteban, go get the tools. You have fifteen minutes!”
“We’re about to gain fifteen minutes in our schedule, boss.”
“Lieutenant, Esteban, not boss. I already told you we’re not a gang of underworld thugs.”
Esteban Muller, impassive, pulled the bag he was carrying off his shoulder. He set it on the wide, Empire-style desk, opened it, and took out a box of tools. He laid the box carefully on the leather blotter, then pulled a miniature drill out of the bottom of his bag.
“Do you always have your kit on you?”
“Not always. Start the clock, boss, I promise you it’ll be open in three minutes, max.”
Borteau watched the policeman attack the safe without turning a hair. Her passivity frightened her. Ten minutes earlier, she would have fought tooth and nail to defend her lover’s privacy. But she’d broken down at once, as if the policemen’s sudden arrival had brought to light an invisible rift that was already hiding within her.
“Is what you’re doing actually allowed?” she asked Drancey, who had just come up to her.
The man scrutinized her insistently. He was almost moved by the secretary’s lost look, by her vulnerability, which was surfacing and breaking down her defenses. He thought of his wife again and replied, “What I just ordered is totally illegal. If Boisregard wants to complain, he’ll totally have the right. But I believe in my superior’s intuition.”
“You believe in intuition?”
“Don’t I look like it?”
“Honestly, not really. But over the last few minutes, everything I was certain of is getting shattered. May I ask you another question?”
“Sure.”
“A guy built like a tank who breaks down doors with his feet, and a safecracking specialist who goes around with his tool kit on his back. Where do you recruit your colleagues? In bars in the city’s seedy areas?”
The policeman smiled in spite of himself.
“I’m going to answer you. Nicolas played rugby and is the son of a cop. A serious injury he received during a match prevented him from going pro—he joined us. As for Esteban, he worked for a safe dealer for a long time and—”
“Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I told you, boss—it’s a piece of crap!”
The safe door was half open, revealing a cardboard folder on one of the two interior shelves.
Drancey immediately regained his concentration. “Nobody touch anything!”
He took out a pair of latex gloves from a jacket pocket and slipped them on. He delicately seized the document slumbering on the shelf, took it over to the desk, and laid it down. He called the secretary to his side. “Know anything about history?”
“If I have this job, then I know the basics. I have a master’s degree with a specialty in the late Middle Ages.”
“Good, we’ll see if that can help us.”
He undid the cord keeping the cardboard folder closed. About thirty sheets of paper appeared before their eyes.
“Do you have any idea what this could be?” Drancey asked her.
“Could you hand me a pair of gloves, Lieutenant? I’d have to look at those sheets more closely.”
Jean Renoir got them for her, and the woman spent several long minutes poring over the pages covered in even handwriting, sometimes decorated with kabbalistic diagrams or pictorial representations the policemen couldn’t decipher.
No longer able to stand it, Drancey inquired, “So, what was he hiding?”
“It’s very strange, gentlemen. It would seem this is a copy of an ancient manuscript, written by someone called Fra Bartolomeo.”
“Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Absolutely nothing, but many monks wrote during the sixteenth century.”
“This thing is more than four hundred years old?”
“It’s possible! The text is written in Latin, which was still the official language for writings at the time. The date appears on the second page: 1562.”
“And what is this document about?”
“The title is esoteric, to say the least: The Book of the Sun. To be precise, I would have to read it, and it’s been a long time since I worked on Latin translation. But considering the few diagrams you can see here and there, as well as some chapter headings, Fra Bartolomeo’s work likely covers Aztec customs and their belief in life after death. Look, just on this page alone you can find the word letum, which means demise, and nex, which alludes to a violent death.”
“Is Boisregard a specialist in that time period?”
“He has a good working knowledge, even if he doesn’t rank among what I would call specialists. But how is it he’s never presented this book? It must be priceless . . . I’m understanding less and less.”
Drancey gently took back the document from her hands and placed it in a waterproof bag.
“Don’t try to understand, and if I may give you some advice, do all you can to avoid Boisregard in the coming days. I don’t think he’ll forgive you for letting us discover his secret.”
Chapter 60: Meeting at the Church
3:20 p.m. Julien threw his phone angrily onto the table. It bounced and fell on the floor. The bar patrons looked at him strangely. Mishandling an iPhone like that seemed to them to be an indication of mental derangement, the extent of which they didn’t dare imagine.
The young man didn’t even glance at them. He picked up his phone and put it back on the table, more calmly.
What an absolute ass he’d been that morning! What had possessed him to throw a fit with Sophie? Sure, he had excellent reasons to be disturbed, but why take it out on his friend? He’d been trying to call her back for more than an hour, and his messages were growing more and more elaborate. He’d very nearly asked for her hand in marriage over voice mail and then via text message. He smiled inwardly for a moment, telling himself he’d soon be verging on bipolar disorder.
He couldn’t let a girl like Sophie slip away. Funny, intelligent . . . and so lovable. He would have fled a few months earlier, but now he felt like living with her. And all he’d managed to do was blow her off that morning and remain indifferent to her proposals. He really was an absolutely enormous ass! He’d just complicated things for himself, but he knew he’d do everything in his power to prove to her there was only one man for her: him, Julien Lombard!
He picked his phone up again and noticed the screen was cracked. Oh well, it still worked. He called Sophie for the thirteenth time. After three rings, the same message: “Hello, this is Sophie. You’ve just realized I’m not available, or I forgot to recharge my phone. So leave a brief message, and I’ll call you back. Later.”
“Sophie, it’s Julien . . . again! I love you!”
He’d already made his excuses in the eight previous messages. He’d decided to go for simplicity in the next ones.
He looked around him. The afternoon sun was crushing the courthouse square. The bars had lowered their blinds, and a few misters had been installed on restaurant terraces. Several lingering patrons were finishing their meals. The oppressive heat limited the number of strolling badauds. A shape arriving on the other side of the square via the Rue Hector-Berlioz caught his eye. He recognized her instantly: Sophie! So there was a god for idiots like him! He felt himself quiver like a teenager on his first date.
He looked for a waiter to pay for his coffee. He didn’t see anyone on the terrace—the staff was probably staying in the protection of the air-conditioned room. Sophie hadn’t seen him yet, but she was coming in his direction. He searched his pockets feverishly, found a five-euro bill, and put it under the saucer. It was quite a bit for a cup of coffee, but he didn’t have any time to lose.
As he left the café, Sophie turned right toward the Church of Saint-André. Julien knew she was a believer; maybe she was looking for a moment of meditation. He was hurrying when a detail, more than a detail, stopped him in his tracks. Sophie was wearing a light summer dress . . . a white one! She was headed for a sacred place, and she was wearing a white dress! No, that had to be just a coincidence! Why would Sophie have . . . ?
A cold sweat immediately replaced the excitement he’d felt a tenth of a second earlier. No, it just wasn’t possible! He called out to her and started running. The few passersby looked at him, surprised. Sophie didn’t turn around. He was about ten yards away when she entered the church. Three seconds later, he in turn passed under the portico. He pulled off his sunglasses, adjusting rapidly to the building’s dimness. A wave of panic rushed over him. He didn’t see her anymore.
“Sophie, Sophie, answer me, dammit!”
His shouts bounced around the gothic vaults, then faded. He went over to the entrance and spoke to a worker who was restoring the massive door.
“Did you happen to see a young woman wearing a white dress go by just a minute ago?”
The man looked at him in surprise. Julien’s desperate look likely inspired enough compassion in him to respond to this surprising question.
“No, besides you, no one has come through this door for two or three minutes.”
Julien dragged himself to a bench and dropped onto it. He put his head in his hands and breathed heavily.
“It’s still happening . . . and now Sophie! If only I’d stayed with her this morning!”
A lead weight settled on his shoulders. He couldn’t move or think anymore and could barely breathe. He stayed motionless and sank into despair.
A hand tapped him on the arm. In an effort that seemed superhuman to him, he turned his head toward the intruder. A young child was looking at him and smiling.
“Are you sad?”
With a muffled sob, Julien nodded.
“Why are you sad?”
Without wondering about the point of this conversation, Julien answered, “I’m sad because a person I love very much has disappeared.”
“When you’re sad, you shouldn’t sit and cry without doing anything.”
The man looked at this child who was speaking to him so naturally.
“What do you do when you’re sad?”
“When I’m sad, I think about my papa who disappeared, too. He’s in heaven, and he talks to me.”
“And what does he tell you?” asked Julien, astonished by this dialogue.
“He tells me to be strong so I can enjoy the good things in life.”
“And that works?”
The boy looked at him, surprised, then burst out laughing.
“Well, yeah, it works, if not I wouldn’t have told you!”
A feminine voice called to him from the nave. The chil
d smiled once again at Julien.
“And also the one you love isn’t dead, so you have to go look for her . . .”
Then he ran away toward a woman pushing a baby in a carriage. He took his mother’s hand and vanished into the brightness outside.
Julien was bewildered. A six-year-old kid had just given him a life lesson. Instead of mourning, he had to do everything he could to find Sophie. Notify the police first! He stood up, then hesitated. He said a prayer for Sophie and left the church.
Chapter 61: Antoine Dupas
3:20 p.m. Professor Antoine Dupas entered Nadia Barka’s office. He hung his hat on one of the hooks provided by the shiny new coat stand set in a corner of the room. He took off his Hugo Boss jacket, smoothed it distractedly, and put it on a hanger handed to him by the young woman. He’d abandoned his archaeologist outfit.
The police officer gestured him into a chair and started to talk.
“Thank you for coming to see me so quickly, Monsieur Dupas.”
“The urgency in your voice required a quick response. I didn’t hesitate. However, could I ask you a favor?”
“Of course,” agreed Nadia, surprised.
“I came on foot from the university, and I’m on the verge of dehydration. If I could have something to drink?”
“Well, of course, I should have offered you something before.” She called over an officer on duty and whispered a few words to him.
“Make yourself comfortable. We are indeed in a state of emergency. What I’m going to tell you must remain confidential. Is that clear?”
“More than clear, you can be sure. I’ll be as quiet as the grave, and the Howard Carter who will try to pillage my secrets hasn’t been born yet.”
Nadia couldn’t keep herself from smiling at Antoine Dupas’s verbal emphasis. He said it without malice or pedantry.
“I’m not asking you for such a pharaonic enterprise, Professor.” She was interrupted by the policeman coming back with two small bottles of cold Perrier. She handed one to the historian.
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