The shortest way back to the police station would take Gorski past Le Pot. It was perfectly possible to take an alternative route, but were he to take a detour, would that not constitute an admission that he had some kind of problem: that he was incapable of walking past a bar without entering it? On the other hand, what would be more natural than to stop off for a quick beer to mull over his conversation with Corbeil? It was not that he had a craving for a drink. It was simply that it would be more agreeable than returning to his office. Even so, had he not, only that morning, resolved to spend no more time in Le Pot? He did not enjoy sitting alone drinking, and he was well aware of the effect that the presence of a cop had on the atmosphere of the bar. It had simply become a way of avoiding spending his evenings in the house on Rue de Village-Neuf.
He turned into the street in which Le Pot was located. The act of resisting the temptation to enter the bar would have little value unless he actually passed it. He even crossed to the opposite pavement so that he would have to walk right past the door. A few metres from the entrance, Gorski glanced at his watch and adopted an expression intended to suggest to anyone who might be observing him that he was suddenly surprised to find that he had more time on his hands than he thought.
Three men in work clothes were standing by the counter, a newspaper open between them. Gorski slid onto the ripped vinyl banquette and mimed the motion of pulling a beer. Only when Yves had wordlessly placed his drink on the table did he stand up and remove his raincoat. He let the beer sit for a few moments. Now that it was here, he was in no hurry. He watched the bubbles rise and settle on the underside of the foam, which the bartender had adeptly skimmed with a palette knife he kept by the tap for this purpose. The men at the bar exchanged some lewd remarks about the victim of the Strasbourg murder. At this point, Yves gave an almost imperceptible nod to alert them to Gorski’s presence and the conversation fizzled out.
Gorski was intrigued by his exchange with Corbeil. The greater part of his work as a cop was entirely mundane. It is a misconception that detectives spend their time unravelling dark mysteries. They do not. In the vast majority of cases, the perpetrator of a crime is either known from the outset, or, in the cases of petty theft or burglary, unlikely ever to be apprehended. The police go through the motions of investigating crimes not primarily in the hope of finding the culprit, but simply to assure the citizens whose taxes pay their salaries that they are protected from the villains the press encourages them to believe are ready to rob, rape or murder them. In the rare event of an investigation resulting in an arrest, it is more likely the result of days of tedious legwork than some moment of intuition. So it is, at least in a town like Saint-Louis, which—a few habitual thieves aside—is blessed neither with a proper criminal class nor with any great tendency towards violence. It is a peaceful place, mostly untroubled by drama. At social gatherings, Gorski was invariably expected to entertain the company with anecdotes about the baffling cases he had solved, but when, instead, he tried to explain the real nature of police work, the conversation would swiftly move on to another topic.
So Gorski was intrigued simply because he had found something out that he didn’t know before; something that ran contrary to the previously accepted version of events. Truth be told, it was not much. A man had lied to his wife. On the night he died, Barthelme had not been where he said he would be. But more than that, he had not been where he said he was every Tuesday evening for the duration of his married life. The most likely explanation was perfectly obvious, but it was curious nevertheless. Bertrand Barthelme did not seem the type to keep a mistress. Moreover, Corbeil’s obstructive attitude suggested that he knew his colleague had something to hide. The solicitor’s unhelpfulness could be plausibly explained by a desire to protect the dead man’s reputation—and, by extension, that of the firm—but it also suggested that there might be something lurking behind the stuffy bourgeois image Barthelme had projected to the world.
Gorski sipped his beer. He reminded himself that the unaccounted hours in Barthelme’s life were of no feasible interest to the police. No crime had been committed. He had made his enquiries only out of a silly desire to please Lucette Barthelme. It was quite improper, as Corbeil had been all too aware. He should report his findings, such as they were, to the widow and leave it at that. But, if only to spite Corbeil, he did not want to leave it at that. He had been drawn in. He imagined Ribéry sitting next to him with his lunchtime pichet. As a cop he was Gorski’s opposite: all instinct and hunches. If his gut did not offer up an instant solution to a case, he would most likely shrug and blame the gypsies (a group he regarded as outside his jurisdiction). Not for him the wearing out of shoe leather, knocking on doors, or poring over cuttings and criminal records.
Gorski got up and asked Yves for a jeton for the telephone booth in the corner of the bar. He called Lucette Barthelme. Perhaps she had simply been mistaken about whom her husband dined with. There was probably a perfectly innocent explanation. When the housekeeper put the widow on the line, she sounded disoriented, as if she had just woken up. Gorski apologised for disturbing her and explained that he had been unable to see Maître Corbeil. He asked if she could think of anyone else her husband might have spent the evening with.
‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘You referred to a club of some sort,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s right. What a good memory you have, Inspector.’
Gorski gently pressed her for some names.
After some thought, she provided two: one an agent immobilier, the second the owner of a factory on the outskirts of the town. Gorski thanked her and said that he would keep her informed of any developments.
Henri Martin’s offices were set back from the main thoroughfares of Saint-Louis, on the ground floor of a residential property on Rue des Vosges. There was no window displaying properties for sale or rent. Next to the bell was a sign: Consultation by appointment only.
One of the first lessons Gorski had learned from Ribéry was never to call ahead. Don’t give a witness the chance to get their story straight in advance. Still, Henri Martin did not seem at all surprised by Gorski’s visit. He was a small man, neatly dressed in a dark three-piece suit. Without asking whether he wanted it, he poured Gorski a whisky from a decanter, before inviting him to take the seat opposite his desk.
‘I don’t imagine you’ve come to enquire about a piece of real estate,’ he said, as Gorski settled himself.
‘No? Why not?’ said Gorski. ‘As a matter of fact, I am thinking of moving.’
Martin looked embarrassed. He smiled apologetically.
‘The service we offer is quite exclusive,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘We are brokers rather than dealers. Our clientele is rather’—he searched for the correct word—‘rather well heeled. I would be happy to recommend the services of one of the other firms in town.’
Gorski creased his mouth into a smile to indicate that he was not offended, but he postponed explaining the purpose of his visit. Martin had put himself on the back foot, and when people were on the back foot, they found silence uncomfortable. Martin sat down behind the desk and placed his own drink carefully on a coaster. He was playing for time. Gorski was convinced that Corbeil had already called him. He sipped his drink. He knew little about whisky, but he could tell that it was not the workaday stuff one drowns in soda.
‘So,’ Martin began, ‘if you are not here for a consultation, can I assume your visit is in connection with the death of Maître Barthelme?’
‘Why would you assume that?’ said Gorski.
Martin made a gesture with his hand. ‘What else would it be about?’
The purpose of Gorski’s visit was quite mundane: to confirm that Martin had not had dinner with Barthelme on the night of his death. It could be accomplished with one simple question, but Gorski determined to make the most of his visit. ‘Go fishing,’ Ribéry would have told him.
‘I wanted to ask about this club of yours.’ He kept his statement deliberately vague.
‘What club would that be?’ said Martin with a little shake of his head.
‘The club which yourself, Maîtres Corbeil, Barthelme and’—Gorski took his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket to remind himself of the name—‘Monsieur Tarrou are members.’
He was pleased with the effect of his question. Martin became suddenly concerned that the cuffs of his shirt were not properly shot. He wore gold cufflinks inscribed with his initials. The pupils of his eyes darted upwards as though he was trying to access a forgotten recess of his memory, an involuntary reaction Gorski had observed numerous times. He swirled his whisky beneath his nose then took a sip.
‘I’m afraid, Inspector,’ he said eventually, ‘you have me at a disadvantage.’
‘How so?’
‘I know of no such club.’
‘But you know these gentlemen?’
‘Well, yes, but there is no “club”, as you call it.’
‘The word is Maître Barthelme’s, not mine,’ said Gorski.
‘Nevertheless.’
Gorski knew the answer to his next question before he asked it. ‘So may I ask when you last saw him?’
Martin shook his head in response. ‘If I didn’t see him last night, I hardly see why it matters.’
‘Perhaps you could indulge me.’
Martin blew out his cheeks. He was becoming exasperated, just as Gorski intended.
‘I couldn’t say exactly, two or three weeks ago.’
‘And the nature of your relationship? How would you characterise it?’
M. Martin drew his shoulders back and tucked his chin towards his narrow chest, but he kept his tone affable.
‘Do you mind if I ask what necessitates such an enquiry? As I understand it, Maître Barthelme’s death was nothing more than an accident.’ It was precisely the phrase Corbeil had used.
‘Have I suggested otherwise?’ said Gorski innocently.
‘That being the case, I don’t see what the nature of our relationship has got to do with anything.’
Gorski decided on a different tack. He leant forward in his chair. ‘If I can count on your discretion, Monsieur Martin, there are certain circumstances surrounding Maître Barthelme’s death that oblige me to look into his affairs.’
Martin looked at him sceptically. ‘May I ask what you are referring to?’
Gorski smiled apologetically. He made a gesture with his hand intended to suggest that he was not at liberty to share such information.
‘Now, as to your relationship?’
Martin looked uncomfortable. ‘I suppose you could say we were associates,’ he said. ‘Business associates.’
‘Business associates,’ Gorski repeated gravely, as if committing the phrase to memory. He drained the remains of the whisky then abruptly stood up. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time.’ He held out his hand. ‘I hope I can rely on your discretion. You know how people like to talk.’
‘Of course,’ said Martin solemnly.
Outside, Gorski strode off down the street. Then after a safe distance, he doubled back and peered through the window of Martin’s office. He was already making a telephone call.