The weather had been stifling all day. At the end of the afternoon, as the temperature went down, a light wind had risen out to sea, stirring the air as gently as a fan.
De Palma was leaning on his balcony rail and sipping a beer. He had spent the morning at the emergency admissions of the La Timone hospital, waiting for a houseman to sew up his shoulder. Nine stitches.
The doctor had been skillful and hadn’t asked too many questions. De Palma had simply told him that he had torn his shoulder on a car-park fence while getting out of his vehicle.
The telephone rang. It was Jean-Louis Maistre reminding him that they had arranged to meet at the yachting harbor of Pointe-Rouge.
De Palma put on a light jacket, slipped his Bodyguard into its holster and also took the .45 that he kept hidden behind a pile of C.D.s. He checked the clip and slipped the automatic behind his back. Then he changed his mind and replaced it, telling himself that he would not let paranoia get to him yet.
In any case, the Bodyguard with its six .38 special rounds was good enough to deal with the most desperate situations.
Half an hour later, Maistre and de Palma were strolling along the quays of Pointe-Rouge.
In the shipyard of Plaisance Plus, a whole row of hulls stood on a set of huge shelves, waiting for a lick of paint. There were also small speedboats and a fishing vessel half corroded by the sea. A workman in blue overalls started up a sander. Maistre had to shout:
“I think it’s here, Michel. He said the fourth ring after the electricity meter. I think he must have meant that one.”
A dilapidated boat was bobbing up and down on the sluggish swell. Maistre gave it a long affectionate look, then walked slowly toward it, like a child encountering his wildest dreams made real.
“Yes, this is the one, Michel. There’s a bit of wood missing from its bow.”
De Palma stared blankly in the opposite direction.
“Hey, Michel, are you listening to me or daydreaming? Don’t forget that we’re here to look at a boat, not just for a stroll on the quays.”
“Sorry, I was miles away.”
Maistre pulled on the mooring rope to bring the boat nearer, then clumsily clambered aboard.
“You coming, Michel?”
The manager of Rouge Plaisance, a ship chandler, came out at once, wiping his hands on an oily rag.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. But do you know this boat’s owner?”
De Palma gave him a chilly look.
“We’ve got an appointment with him. He’s late.”
“And why do you want to see him?”
“We want to buy his boat.”
“What, is it for sale?”
De Palma remained silent. The man from Rouge Plaisance turned on his heel and went back into his store.
“O.K., Jean-Louis, is your comedian going to show up or isn’t he?”
Maistre came back onto the quay, still staring at the object of his dreams.
“I don’t get it, Michel. We’ve talked about buying a boat a hundred times. You agreed to it and now you’ve got cold feet.”
“I’ve not got cold feet.”
“If you could only see yourself, you’d scare away a sea snake. Just think about the boat and going sailing in her.”
“We haven’t bought it yet.”
“And if our man doesn’t show, we certainly won’t be able to.”
Maistre’s mobile rang. It was the boat’s owner to cancel the meeting. He had decided to keep the boat for his son.
“Fuck him,” Maistre said as he hung up. “The bugger’s called it off.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jean-Louis. We’ll find another one.”
“Sure, but I could just picture myself in this one already. Behind Maïre making soup, just like two and two make four.”
“That’s for later.”
“Yeah … but when I think of all these boats that just stand here idle, it really gets me down …”
“I’m deep in shit, Jean-Louis.”
Maistre looked his friend up and down, while searching for something in his pockets.
“What’s going on?”
“A nasty business. Something serious happened to me yesterday evening. I mean, last night.”
Maistre opened a packet of cigarettes, removed one, lit it and dragged on it nervously, swaying on his feet.
“What happened is that someone shot me …”
Maistre closed his eyes, exhaled loudly and stared at the boats that were rocking gently in the port. After a long silence, de Palma added in a flat voice:
“I was coming out of Steinert’s office, and someone took a shot at me. I’ve got a fine scar on my left shoulder. I had it stitched up this morning.”
In a fury, Maistre threw his barely started cigarette onto the ground and stamped on it.
“Nothing serious, just a scratch. But … I was scared out of my wits, Jean-Louis …”
Maistre sniffed and looked his friend straight in the eye.
“And can I ask what the fuck you were doing in the middle of the night in Steinert’s office? I thought I heard he was dead!”
“I wanted to …”
Maistre wanted to shout, but he spoke quietly, through clenched teeth.
“Don’t tell me you broke in, then the landlord or someone took you for a burglar in the heat of the moment!”
“Something like that.”
“Jesus, I was sure of it. Now, out with it all.”
“I got into Steinert’s office through the window, and when I came out someone was waiting for me on the pavement opposite and tried to whack me. Now you know everything.”
“And that’s all? And you tell me this, just like that? In Pointe-Rouge! You should have called me at once!”
“I must admit that didn’t occur to me.”
“And all because of this investigation you’re undertaking into this sodding billionaire, even though everyone says he drowned in twenty centimeters of stinking water!”
“You’ve got it, Le Gros.”
Maistre produced a second cigarette and stuck it in his mouth without lighting it.
“And don’t tell me that all this proves you’re right, Baron. I don’t want to hear it.”
The sun disappeared behind the harbor wall of Pointe-Rouge, so that the sea turned violet and tinged with pink on the surf around the rocks. At the end of the jetty, a boy was playing with a puppy. Maistre stopped and finally lit his cigarette.
“I’m sorry, Le Gros.”
“What’s there to be sorry about? Some fucker is out to whack you. The problem is that he won’t let it drop. Have you got that into your sorry head?”
“I…”
“And if that’s so, he’s there ahead of us. Have you got a description?”
“No. Just an automatic with a silencer.”
“Classic. But not with a silencer. I don’t want to give you the wind up, but this sounds like a contract.”
“I don’t think so. If it had been, he would have waited for me to reach the street. That would have been easy.”
“Get your car and come back and stay at my place. Then we’ll see.”
“Not this evening.”
“Drop it, Michel.”
“Not this evening, I’ve got an appointment.”
“Go fuck yourself, Baron. One day, you’ll be beyond anyone’s help.”
He tried to make his words sound as forceful as possible, but the Baron had already taken out his car keys. He was no longer listening. His face was set.
The Majestic was at the corner of boulevard Banon and traverse Casse, in the quartier Montolivet. It was a shabby bar that had seen its moments of glory in the days of the French Connection: it was there, over a formica table, that the smuggler, Constant Ribellu, and the greatest chemist of them all, Jo Cesari, had discussed the next shipments of heroin to New York and Italy. All under the observant eyes of the boys from the drug squad.
From behind the bar, Paul Brissonne was staring at the Baron. A worried furrow formed an S shape between his pale gray eyes.
“You should lay low for a while, boss. Otherwise they’ll end up nailing you once and for all.”
“Don’t worry, Paulo. If he’d wanted to get me …”
Brissonne blinked several times, which for him was a sign that he felt nervous. Suddenly, he slammed his fat hand down on the counter, palm turned upward.
“Don’t talk shit, Michel. Some guy tails you without you noticing, then takes a potshot at you using a silencer … so this guy had really thought out what he was doing, no question.”
De Palma took a swallow of his beer and drew imaginary forms in the condensation on the cold glass.
“But what I don’t get is that he could have taken me down in the street!”
“Maybe he missed you on purpose! I mean, sorry to put it this way, but it’s one of our guys. I’ve no idea who, but someone from our side of the fence. And if I ask around, I’ll find out.”
De Palma had known Paul Brissonne for ages. He had arrested him during a police round-up after a settling of old scores, one more in a long series of killings between rival clans. Brissonne was not part of any team or family, just a good fellow, half gypsy and half Italian, as dangerous as a big cat and at home in any kind of water, even the filthiest.
He was almost sixty but still very much alive. In Marseille it was said that he feared no one. His record was perfect: the social services, borstal, the attempted murder of his own father, a good thirty holdups, Poissy prison and a few other stretches inside before coming back to the old port.
Brissonne had become de Palma’s friendly informer during a spell in police custody. The gangster had been beaten up all day, and been passed to the Baron for questioning at around eight p.m. He was like a beast chained to the wall and had been thirsty for the past twenty-four hours. De Palma had ordered a crate of beer and the two of them had talked for several hours. The crook then laid out his life story like a bad poker hand, full of fishy runs and busted flushes. He described beatings and more beatings until the day when he had decided to stop taking it and punch before being punched.
That day, he had grabbed the man who claimed to be his father by the neck and squeezed with an iron grip. He would have killed him if the neighbor had not come by.
“I’m vicious, chief. If you only knew how vicious I am,” he added in tears.
At the end of the night, the Baron had torn up his statement and typed out another, which Brissonne dictated to him. And at eight in the morning, Brissonne had left police headquarters with a debt of honor to the Baron.
“I’ll ask around, Michel. By the way, if I find out who did it, do I ice him or not?”
“Don’t touch him, Paulo. I want him for myself.”
“Any ideas?”
“There’s some real estate deal which is going to be signed around Eygalières and Maussane, down in Provence. Serious dosh … for an amusement park with all the trimmings. And maybe someone got in the way, a man called William Steinert. For now, that’s all I know. They’re burying Steinert tomorrow, and I’m going to be there.”
“Do you want me to come with you, or send someone along?”
“No thanks, Paulo, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
Brissonne clicked his signet rink on the zinc of the counter.
“It’s only the boys from Aix who could take on a score like that … I know them. Last year Morini, Le Grand, wanted me to open a bar with him. It was going to be Lulu, the Chink and Paulo. Not forgetting Le Grand, of course. If it’s them who’ve taken out the contract, I’ll know by tomorrow. But it’ll be bad news if it is. They’re crazies up there.”
“What about S.O.D.E.G.I.M., ever heard of it?”
“Fuck it, yes! You’ve hit the nail on the head. It’s one of Morini’s covers. He’s got a guy called Philippe Borland to run it. They’re involved in the buildings going up in the new suburbs around the port.”
“Morini controls all that?”
“Yeah, I’m telling you, Le Grand is no slouch.”
“What about this Borland?”
“Don’t know him. He’s never much in view. But that’s normal for a figurehead.”
With the back of his thumb, the thug massaged the white scar on his lower lip.
“No later than tomorrow. I’ll call you around four.”
“Thanks, Paulo.”
“My pleasure.”
“Come on, let’s get some pizza.”
“Have you seen the time? Are you mad, Baron?”
“There’s Vincent’s place. He’s open late.”
Brissonne took his .45 from under the bar and they went out into the night.