“I thought I’d find you here.”
Sharko let himself be surprised by the lilting female voice behind him. Sitting in an armchair in the hotel bar, he was quietly sipping a whiskey in the dim light while reading over his list of SIGN participants. The place was elegant without going overboard: light-colored carpet, thick red cushions on the seats, walls lined in black velvet. As she came up, Lucie noticed the glass of mint soda sitting on the table.
“Oh, are you waiting for someone?”
“No, no one. The glass was there already.”
He didn’t say any more. Lucie remained standing and spread her arms in a sign of resignation.
“Apologies for the outfit. Jeans aren’t very dressy, but I really hadn’t been planning to go out at night.”
Sharko gave her a weary smile.
“I thought you were going to get some sleep.”
“I thought so too.”
Lucie walked over to one of the empty chairs facing him and moved to sit down.
“No, not that one!”
She straightened up, startled.
“You liar—you are waiting for someone! I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Don’t be silly. That chair wobbles. What can I get you?”
“A screwdriver. Heavy on the vodka, light on the OJ. I could stand to decompress.”
Sharko emptied his glass and headed to the bar. Lucie watched him go. He’d changed his clothes, rubbed a dab of gel in his salt-and-pepper brush cut, and put on aftershave. He walked with style. Lucie looked over the papers he’d left in his chair. Last names, first names, birth dates, job titles. Some had been crossed out. With his devil-may-care facade, Sharko gave an impression of indifference, but in fact he never quit.
The inspector returned with two glasses and handed one to Lucie, who had slid her chair closer to his. She nodded toward the lists.
“Those are the scientists who were in Cairo at the time of the murders, right?”
“Two hundred and seventeen of them, to be precise. Between the ages of twenty-two and seventy-three at the time. If the killers in Cairo are the same as in Gravenchon, we have to add sixteen years. That eliminates a number of them right off the bat.”
He stacked up the sheets, folded them, and slid them in his pocket.
“I’ve got some fresh bad news, which in fact is good news. Shall we get it over with?”
“Yes, please. You once told me there was a time for everything. And right now, I really, really need to relax.”
“Here it is. Colonel Bernard Chastel was found at his home today. He ate his service revolver this morning.”
Lucie took a moment to absorb the development.
“Are they certain it’s suicide?”
“The ME and the detectives had no doubts. I’ll spare you the details. And another bit of news: according to the airline, the guy sitting next to you was named Julien Manoeuvre. Career military, assigned to DCILE, the communication and information branch of the Foreign Legion. The department that makes films for the army.”
“Our filmmaking killer…The man with the combat boots…”
“The same. As if by chance, Manoeuvre happened to be on leave at the start of our case. Leave personally authorized by Chastel. Later, when Chastel saw that things were starting to go south, especially with my visit to his office and what happened here, he killed himself. No doubt he took precautions and got rid of anything that could compromise him.”
“So he was involved up to his neck. He knew about the murders.”
“Most likely. And one more thing—hold on tight for this one.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“A search of Manoeuvre’s place turned up a number of lists of films being transferred among the world’s major cinema archives. You remember the FIAF Web site your chief told us about? That’s how he found out about the reel two years ago. He must have gone immediately to FIAF to ask for films from 1955, except that someone had already stolen the one he was looking for. A collector we know well.”
“Szpilman.”
“That’s right, Szpilman. So Manoeuvre, after getting this close, lost the scent, but he didn’t give up. He must have continued asking around, keeping an eye on film exchanges and want ads, especially from Belgium. And that’s how he finally ended up at Szpilman Junior’s house after the old man died.”
“But it’s crazy—all this effort just to get hold of a film.”
“As long as copies existed, Chastel and the others behind this whole mess were fucked. Manoeuvre was just a pawn, an operative. So was Chastel, probably, but at a higher level.”
“This time, tell me there’s going to be an official investigation into the Legion.”
“Yes. And with luck, it will loosen some tongues, and all those warrants will lead somewhere. Let’s not forget that there are probably two killers. Manoeuvre was one, but the other one, the one who removes the brains, is probably here on this list. And he probably acted alone in Egypt, since Manoeuvre was much too young.”
At these last words from the inspector, Lucie sipped her drink, eyes shining with fatigue. In the subdued light, Sharko’s features softened. The sound of music, low and simple, faded into the background. Everything in this place fostered a sense of calm and seduction. Lucie took a photo from her wallet and laid it on the table.
“I haven’t introduced you to my two little treasures. Who I miss terribly. Today more than ever, I realize I’m just not ready to be so far away from them.”
Sharko picked up the photo with a tenderness Lucie had never seen in him before.
“Juliette on the right and Clara on the left?”
“Other way around. If you look closely, you’ll see that Clara has a slight defect in her iris, a black spot that looks like a tiny vase.”
The inspector handed back the picture.
“What about their father?”
“He ran out a long time ago.”
Lucie sighed, her hands around her glass.
“This case is very hard, Inspector, because it’s not Clara or Juliette I see when I look at this photo, but Alice Tonquin, Lydia Hocquart, and all those other frightened little girls. I can see their faces, their terror. I hear their screams when they attacked those poor animals.”
“We all have our ghosts. They’ll go away when we crack this case. When all the doors have finally closed, they’ll leave you in peace.”
A silence. Lucie nodded, staring into space.
“And how about you, Inspector? Have you left any doors open in your life?”
Sharko twisted his wedding ring.
“Yes…There’s a very, very big door I’d like to close. But I can’t seem to do it. Maybe because deep down, I don’t really want to.”
Lucie put down her glass and leaned forward. Her lips were just inches away from those of the man she was dying to kiss.
“I know what door you mean. And I might be able to help you close it.”
Sharko didn’t answer immediately. Part of him felt like pulling back, getting up, disappearing, but the other part struggled to keep him there.
“You really think so?”
She leaned farther forward and kissed him on the mouth. Sharko’s eyelids had lowered; his senses went numb, as if everything inside him had suddenly shut down.
He opened his eyes.
“You do know there’s probably no future in what’s maybe about to happen?”
“Personally, I think there is. But for now, let’s at least give the present a chance.”
He hadn’t seen a woman naked since the death of Suzanne, and it almost made him feel ashamed. The slim, scented body glided through the shadows and came to press against his. The greedy, delicate hands finished unbuttoning his shirt, while fire roiled deep in his belly. He let her take the lead, but Lucie could feel a tension, an impalpable hold that prevented the man in front of her from letting go completely.
“Is something wrong?” she whispered into his ear.
“It’s just that…”
Sharko pulled out of her embrace and slipped nimbly toward the center of the room. He turned over the chair near the bed and put away the O-gauge Ova Hornby locomotive, with its black car for wood and coal, in the drawer of the bedside table. He also put away the box of candied chestnuts. Then he went back to his partner and kissed her passionately. A bit too roughly, he pushed her back onto the bed. Lucie let out a little laugh.
“That train was too much. You really are an odd—”
Their mouths found each other again, their moist bodies slammed together. Sharko deftly turned off the lights as their hips rolled in the sheets. Despite the drawn curtains, light from outside spread over the bed, suggesting the forms that pleasure combined. A landscape of flesh, hollows, valleys, gave the impression of sinking beneath the fury of an earthquake. Lucie bit the pillow, in the grip of her orgasm; Sharko turned her over, with the tender violence of a she-wolf lifting her young, and plunged onto her, breathing hard. The tears, the screams, the faces of the dead, the Lydias and Alices became blurred, submerged by their sensuality. The seconds pulsed like electrical charges on the skin. In the tension of his burning muscles, Sharko stiffened, the veins in his neck bulging. And as his teeth clenched, as his movements took fire, he stared at the center of the room.
She was still standing there, feet together, hands hanging down at her sides.
And for the first time in his life, Sharko saw Eugenie cry.
The instant seemed an eternity. The inspector’s eyes clouded up as well, while the woman beneath him moaned.
And in the magic of his senses in ecstasy, the little girl smiled at him.
She raised her small hand and gave him a friendly wave.
On the verge of tears, Sharko answered with the same gesture.
The next moment, Eugenie walked out without looking back. The door closed silently behind her.
And Sharko finally let himself feel pleasure.