Set back from Place Maubert and hidden by a row of local shops, the police headquarters of the 5th arrondissement occupies a large city block bounded by Boulevard Saint-Germain, Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, Rue des Carmes, and Rue Basse-des-Carmes. Intentionally or not, its architecture seems to have been inspired by a military esthetic exemplified by the bunkers, blockhouses, and submarine bases built by the Germans along the French coasts during the Occupation. In short, it’s pretty ugly.
Crossing the lobby, their clenched fists clammy with perspiration, Viviane and her daughter arouse no interest among the officers in confab around the security gate. The clerk at the information counter, however, studies this mother with a touch of suspicion upon learning that she has been summoned by Inspector Philippot of the Criminal Investigation Division. Well of course she has no idea what he wants, shut up Viviane, you’re getting confused, digging yourself in deeper, shut up. Go to the fourth floor, replies the clerk, and wait there until you’re called.
Stepping out of the elevator, she sees plastic chairs lined up in front of offices with blue-tinted glazed partitions and Venetian blinds. It all looks exactly like the cop shows on television. Upon closer inspection, though, police housekeeping leaves much to be desired and the walls could use a lick of paint.
An officer signals to Viviane to sit down and she sits down. Watching the comings and goings in the corridor, she can easily tell the plainclothes police, moving casually around the offices, from the real civilians tiptoeing in or dashing for the exit. After fifteen minutes the baby begins to fuss, cry, and finally scream outrageously. Everyone looks at Viviane, who blushingly rises to pace the corridor. She whispers comforting words to her daughter but so unconvincingly, since she herself has little reason to feel reassured, that the child only wails even louder.
A door opens to reveal a very tall, very handsome man. He towers over the mother by a good head and slips a sidelong glance at the infant, who clams up. Come in, says Inspector Philippot, let’s end this agony. They enter an office with a table piled high with files, a chair on either side, an old computer in a corner, and no charm whatsoever.
So, my dear lady, you are a patient of Dr. Jacques Sergent. How did you learn about his death? Then he stares piercingly at Viviane who has gone completely mindless. The policeman’s head is perfectly smooth and he has full lips, like a pale-eyed Yul Brynner. His sky-blue shirt matches his eyes, his sandy jacket matches his skin. He’s about fifty-three, fifty-four. She likes him a lot. She likes him a lot and he’s going to nab her because he doesn’t seem like an idiot.
He’s dead? she asks innocently but without much hope. How could he be dead? I saw him the other day, he was fine, and who’s going to take care of me now?
Funny, that’s what they all say, notes the inspector ironically. When was your last appointment?
I was there Friday. Yes, Friday, I had a noon appointment. That’s been my schedule for the last two months, with the Wednesday one at ten a.m. Before that I was pregnant, she explains, indicating her daughter with a tiny jut of her chin, the way one points to vegetables at the market or change lying on a counter.
I’m not going to lie to you, says Viviane after a pause during which she thinks I’d be better off lying, then no, I’m a lousy liar, he’ll never believe me, and finally, let’s be frank, maybe I can buy myself some credit. So Viviane says, I’m not going to lie to you, it never goes very well.
Yes?
Yes what? she shoots back. Sorry, he used to say that. He would keep saying yes instead of answering my questions, it was very irritating.
You’re nervous.
Correct, I’m nervous, that’s why I consult a specialist.
But he gets on your nerves.
So what are you trying to make me say, that I have problems? Because I can confess to that right now. Yes, I have plenty of problems and I’m worn out, my husband has left me, and she starts to cry.
Okay okay okay, the inspector says, because although he’s relentless in his search for the truth, he doesn’t seem too comfortable with personal secrets. And what were you doing last night between five and midnight?
I was home with my daughter, says Viviane, sniffling but without worrying because that’s hardly a lie: at five she was there, at home with her daughter, and at midnight as well. Then she adds too quickly, if you don’t believe me, you can ask my mother. She called me around eight, she’ll tell you, now excuse me, I’m going to take a tablet to calm down.
You’re on medication?
The doctor had me take some now and then. But they’re completely ordinary prescriptions, see, I’ve got one with me.
Yul glances at the paper, jots down a few words, probably the name of the drugs, and hands back the prescription. Viviane’s stomach is heaving. It’s the prescription the doctor wrote her yesterday, with the date in the upper right-hand corner. Her fingers are shaking as she puts it back in her purse, but Yul’s mind is elsewhere. She doesn’t seem to interest him very much and how can she resent him for that? She can tell that this interrogation makes her seem like a soon-to-be divorcée, garden variety, and such dry soil isn’t fertile terrain for murderous germs and deadly herbs.
But tell me, dear lady, why did you call the doctor at ten thirty-eight yesterday morning?
Think fast, Viviane, think, say something, anything to break this guilty silence. Well, yes, she finally replies, I was feeling faint. He gave me an emergency appointment at six thirty but I couldn’t make it, I didn’t find anyone to look after my daughter, just ask my mother.
And you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?
I thought, pleads Viviane as she begins crying again, that it would look suspicious even though you can see I had nothing to do with it, and the inspector doesn’t bother to disagree, he finds her so lackluster as a suspect.
Then the telephone interrupts them and Philippot spends a few minutes paying close attention to the caller, saying little while fresh evidence appears to be on offer at the other end of the line. At last he hangs up and says fine, that’s enough for today.
I’m free to go? asks Viviane in surprise.
Right, you’re free, replies Yul as he escorts her to the exit, limiting contact with the grateful eyes of the mother and the more cautiously circumspect gaze of the child. You really could have found someone to take care of her, you know, he says a bit more pleasantly.