Madame Thiraud agreed to see me late the following afternoon. I used the time I had until this meeting to stroll around the city. I reached the boulevards ahead of time and, almost without thinking, I retraced the steps of the CRS man twenty years earlier, as filmed by the Belgian crew. Little had changed since then, apart from the poster at the Rex, now advertising a Walt Disney cartoon, and the cafeteria at l’Humanité, which had become a Burger King.
I crossed the boulevard opposite the Madeleine-Bastille, whose tables took up most of the pavement. A group of Japanese tourists all in white shirts and blouses were getting off a doubledecker Paris-Vision bus, and pointing at the Gymnase Theatre whose frontage announced Guy Bedos’s new show. I was even more surprised when they all followed the guide right into the foyer. I went up in the direction of Porte Saint-Denis, passing rue de la Ville Neuve and rue Thorel. Rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle sloped upwards and didn’t run straight on to the boulevard. On this side it ended at two flights of steps; one wide and slightly curved, the other narrow and straight. Once you’d climbed one or other of these stairways, you entered a district that was altogether different from the boulevards. The flashy shop signs and neon-lit cafés gave way to the busy muddle of the rag trade. From rue Beauregard onwards the sewing machine reigned, a hardworking world of dressmakers and cutters, seamstresses and embroiderers who often had the tall, sturdy looks of new arrivals from the Anatolian plain or the Nile valley, or else tiny Asian refugees from Indo-China. Pakistani or Bengali storekeepers, their turbaned heads a flash of whiteness, wheeled along gigantic rolls of cloth, their carts dodging dogs, cars and passers-by, as they moved between the pavement and the roadway.
Tucked between the boulevards and rue Beauregard, rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle was an island of calm; the towering presence of the church that gave it its name had a lot to do with this. I took my place at the bar of the Fifteen Steps and ordered a beer that was served to me by a waiter who had only one hand. For the next few minutes I didn’t take my eyes off him; I was amazed by his dexterity at squeezing lemons, making hot dogs, spreading sandwiches with paté, while he balanced glasses, bread or salami with his stump. The owner came and leant in front of me. He looked quickly over at the barman and back to me.
You can’t believe it, eh! Your first time here?
I told him it was.
— It makes an impression on the customers, but like everything else you get used to it.
He jerked his chin in the barman’s direction.
— He’s an old armaments worker, like me. We worked together in explosives, nitroglycerine. I got out in one piece! He wasn’t so lucky. I threw my hand in and he left his behind … You have to see the funny side.
— How did it happen? An accident?
— Yes, but to begin with no one knew why. He’d been working with nitroglycol day in day out for years, like me, without a hitch. Then one day, when he’d just started work after the holidays, he goes and drops a flask. Instead of taking cover and protecting himself, he tried to catch it. You see the result …
— Yes, the hazards of the job.
— Yes, Monsieur, that’s what everybody said. But the guys doing scientific research noticed from their statistics that this kind of accident happened most often on Mondays or after holidays. When they looked into it a bit more they realised that nitroglycol had an effect on the heart. A bit like a drug! When you were working you really did feel well. On weekends and holidays it was quite the opposite: we were deprived of the nitro fumes. Since then they’ve developed a nitroglycerine-based medication for people with heart complaints; it dilates the coronaries …
— In other words your barman wasn’t the victim of an industrial accident, his hand came off as the result of an occupational disease!
— I never saw it that way …
I paid for my beer and left the Fifteen Steps. On the locksmith’s booth that backed on to the side of the stairs, a notice promised keys made while you wait, while a hand-written note stuck on the glass announced: Back in 15 minutes.
Number five rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle turned out to be an old Paris building in good repair, with fretwork blinds at the windows. On the wall to the left of the street door a white marble plaque announced in gold letters: National Union of Crane Operators. I crossed a tiny garden to get to the door. I was now in the entrance hall which was embellished with an absurd neo-Greek relief whose figures played a flute and pan pipes. Pinned to the glass of the caretaker’s door was a list of tenants with their floor and apartment number. The waxed steps of the wooden staircase squeaked as I trod on them. The first floor was adorned with a wide gilt-edged mirror and a rustic painting in shades of brown. I reached the third a little out of breath and knocked hard several times before Madame Thiraud answered. Three locks were undone in succession, then the door opened a few centimetres, with the safety chain on.
— Madame, I am Inspector Cadin, I spoke to you this morning.
The door slammed shut again while the chain was undone. At last I made my way into the apartment.
Roger Thiraud’s widow couldn’t have been more than forty-five, but her self-imposed seclusion had turned her into an old woman. She preceded me along the corridor, stooping, with knees bent and feet dragging. She seemed to slide along the floor noiselessly. The smallest movement appeared to require a painful effort. With a heavy sigh she sank into an armchair with a crocheted woollen cover. She stared at me vacantly.
The room was in darkness. All the shutters had been closed; she had left one window open just enough to let some air in. A few rays of sunlight filtered through the latticework. I pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.
— As I told you this morning, I’m investigating your son Bernard’s death. So far this murder is a total mystery; we have very little to go on. We know of no enemies, his love life seemed quite straightforward … To be quite honest, though, there’s an event that does interest me, before your son’s time: his father’s death …
I watched her reactions, but there was no response at the mention of her husband’s death.
— In the course of my inquiry I’ve learned something of the circumstances in which your husband died. I’ve got no proof at all, but it is possible that your son was murdered for the same reasons as his father. Don’t you think?
I might as well have been talking to a brick wall, a corpse. Madame Thiraud kept her eyes trained on me, but never quite focusing, as if she was looking past me far into the distance. I went on.
— I also know that there was no inquiry in 1961 and that your husband featured as an official victim of the Algerian demonstration. Whose victim? There’s room for doubt. It isn’t too late to remedy this. I want to do my bit.
For the first time she stirred; she got up and came towards me, leaning on a dresser for support.
— Inspector, this is all in the past. It’s futile to go back over everything that happened and start analysing who’s to blame …
Every word was followed by a long pause and she punctuated her speech with deep breaths.
— My husband is dead, my son is dead. You won’t bring them back. I am resigned; I hope to join them as soon as possible.
— Why, what do you have to hide? Roger Thiraud was shot while taking part in a demonstration. Did you know that he was involved in an FLN aid network?
— You’re wrong. My husband had no inclination for politics. He was interested in his work, in history. His time was entirely taken up with it, at school and at home. On the evening of his death he was coming home after his last lesson, as usual …
She moved about the room like an old woman, carefully avoiding the area near the windows that overlooked the street. Curious, I went over to them, but this drove her into a real panic. She pressed herself back against the facing wall, panting. The surface surrounding the window was a kind of no man’s land covered in layers of dust. No one ever came near this spot. With one quick movement I caught hold of the curtains and pulled them back. The bolt was stiff. It took a bit of effort to get the window open. I raised the latch on the shutters. Daylight invaded the apartment; a shaft of sunlight shone across the wall where Madame Thiraud stood. I leaned out. Ten metres down people were bustling past the locksmith’s booth whose curved roof was all that was visible. A group of young boys were climbing the steps of rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle.
Madame Thiraud had fled to the kitchen, in a fit of hysterics. She was in tears, her body shuddering and twitching. I put my arm round her.
— I wish you no harm, Madame. I’m here to help you. Don’t be afraid …
I held her by the wrists and pulled her gently towards the dreaded spot, talking to her and comforting her with every step. The closer she got to the window the more intense her distress became. She protested but let herself be led, giving up all resistance. I stood her next to me with her arms supported by the sill.
— Open your eyes, I beg you. It’s twenty-one years now, you have no more to fear.
She relaxed and her crying and whimpering stopped. Her eyes flickered open, barely at all at first, then closed again. The lashes moved again. She made up her mind all at once to look at the street.
— You were here, weren’t you? You were waiting for him when he was killed? Tell me … Did no one ever ask you to give evidence?
She moved quietly away from the window and sat in the armchair again. The ordeal had changed her; she seemed stronger, younger, as if returned to her real age. She turned towards me.
— Yes, I was by the window. Roger finished his last lesson at five. He should have been back a good two hours earlier. It was a period when I was very anxious. I was pregnant with Bernard, a very difficult pregnancy that kept me from going out. I’d been told I had to stay at home or I’d risk a premature birth. Roger hadn’t told me he’d be late. And then, out of the blue, the demonstration started. Shouting, pushing, explosions of teargas, gunshot. I was crazy with worry. I kept rushing to the window to look for my husband, or to the door the moment I heard steps on the stairs. Then I saw him in the street, making his way home. I remember it as if I were seeing it all over again. He was walking along with a bouquet of mimosa and a box of cakes. He climbed some of the steps then stopped to look down at what was happening, the truncheon beatings. I shouted to him to come up, not to linger, but my voice couldn’t be heard above the noise of the demonstration.
— Was he alone?
— He was at first, but then a man in a police uniform, a CRS I think, came up next to him. There was something odd about him, he had his leather coat folded over his arm, even though it was cold and wet. Then he slipped behind my husband, catching his head in an armlock. He had a revolver in his other hand. I shouted, shouted out as loud as I could, but it made no difference. I wanted to go down there but I could hardly cross this room, because of Bernard … I mean because of my belly. Poor Bernard!
— Forgive me for making you stir up such terrible memories, but there was no other way. A Belgian filmmaker shot part of this scene. He was on the other side of the boulevard, near the Gymnase Theatre. I have a still photograph taken from his film. It shows your husband just before he died. His murderer’s face is half-concealed but it gives us plenty to go on. Will you take a look at it?
She agreed to. I took out the print made the night before in Brussels.
— Do you recognise him?
She shook her head.
— No, Inspector, I’ve never met this man. I never saw my husband with any policeman and I don’t understand why they killed him …
— One last thing, Madame, and I’ll have finished. You told me a moment ago that your husband finished teaching at five o’clock. How do you account for him only getting here some two hours later? It’s less than a ten-minute walk from the lycée to the boulevard …
— I have no explanation.
— Was he often late?
— Once a week, sometimes twice … Listen, Inspector, my pregnancy ruled out any physical intimacy. It’s a hard thing to have to say but it’s the truth. I acknowledge that Roger needed to be with another woman. What’s wrong with that?
— Nothing. I’m sorry, but there’s no place for discretion in my job. I asked you this question because the inventory of what they found in Roger Thiraud’s pockets mentions a cinema ticket. From the Midi-Minuit to be precise. I think we have the answer there! Twenty years ago a respectable history teacher would have been reluctant to confess his taste for horror films. Even to his wife. I have the ticket number: I’ll get one of my subordinates to check the date it was issued with the National Cinema Centre.
She gave me a smile; it hurt me to realize that this was her first smile for twenty-two years.
— Your husband wasn’t killed by accident. It’s clear that his murderer was following a definite plan, that he knew exactly who he was looking for. The Belgian film makes this clear. The CRS man, or let’s say the man in CRS guise, came into the open and made straight for rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle. His methods demonstrate that we’re dealing with a professional, as with your son’s murder in Toulouse. Or, which is unlikely, your husband was another target’s double. No, I think he was the killer’s intended target. Your husband was in someone’s way, so much so that he became the victim of an execution. Are you sure that he wasn’t involved in politics, or any trade union or even human rights activities?
— No, I’ve already told you. Apart from that lateness, those outings to the cinema, if I’m to take your word for it, I see no mysteries in my husband’s life. Roger never brought these things up at home. He talked about history or literature. He was passionately interested in the Middle Ages and in his spare time he was writing a kind of monograph on Drancy, where he was born. He was really fond of his parents — they still live there in rue du Bois-de-l’Amour. I still think it might have been that house that got him interested in history …
— To begin with the building was part of a farm that became a restaurant at the turn of the century. For a few years it was known mostly as a house of ill repute. After the Marthe Richard Law against brothels was passed, it was three-quarters demolished to build a maternity clinic. My husband was born there. He spent his entire childhood just round the corner, in a house that had survived the renovation of that quarter. This can’t be of much interest to you, I realise. To get to the point, this monograph is with my son. That’s to say with his fiancée, Claudine. Do you know her?
— Yes, I met her in Toulouse. I’d like to take a look at that piece of work. I was planning to talk with her before leaving tomorrow evening. Did they get along well?
— To be honest I have no idea. It was difficult for her coming here: Bernard always had to persuade her. I knew she was ill at ease in my company, but I just wasn’t up to it. I’m not easy to be with. They seemed as if they were happy together, that’s all I can remember.
I left her then and made my way down the waxed stairs gingerly, keeping my hand on the banister. I turned left towards the boulevards. When I got halfway down the steps of rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle, I turned and looked up towards Madame Thiraud’s apartment. She was leaning at the window-sill. She gave me a friendly wave. I watched her for a moment before returning her greeting, then I went down into the metro. At Auber I transferred on to the suburban line. Dalbois had told me to go as far as the last stop at Marne la Vallée.
A pedestrian passage, under domed plexiglass, led from the station to the forecourt where the town’s bus routes converged. One glance was enough to show me that this was the sum total of local transport!
The square was set at the centre of a valley with overhanging hills. Its western side was bounded by a huge shopping mall. The only fancy touch was a pink building, some twenty storeys high, perched on top of one of the hills. In fact the bus I was sitting in went right past this building so I was able to get a good look at it. The outside was a fair imitation of the façade of a Spanish bullring, a kind of long circular wall honeycombed with cavities. Every twenty metres a semi-circular column hugged the whole height of the building. Openings cut into these towers revealed lift cabins. A wide arcade showed off a vast courtyard planted with trees and flowers. A business sign listed the names and addresses of the contractors with the information: ‘The Arena. Six hundred and thirty luxury apartments overlooking the Marne. One and two bedrooms. Loans available.’
The driver called out the stop for Pyramid. Dalbois had told me to go past an office block, then turn left towards the water tower. He was living on a housing estate, a new concept, halfway between apartments and individual houses. The dwelling ‘modules’ took the form of cubes stacked together in what seemed to be no particular order. The roof of the lower section was also the terrace of the upper one. I rang the bell of 73. Dalbois opened the door.
— Good evening, Cadin, I was wondering whether you were going to show up.
I started back in surprise to make the point that the idea hadn’t even occurred to me.
— Listen, I’m very happy to accept your invitation.
I was introduced to Giselle, who was busy preparing dinner. She closed the electronic oven and turned to me, pointing at her apron.
— I’m sorry, but I haven’t had time to change yet.
Dalbois showed me round every nook and cranny of his apartment, then took me into the sitting room. He switched on the television, carefully turning down the sound.
— Well, making progress?
I told him about my Brussels trip and my interview with Bernard Thiraud’s mother. He got interested when I mentioned the print the Belgian television technicians had made from the video tape.
— Have you got this picture on you?
I put it down on the low table among the aperitif tidbits and bottles of spirits.
— Your story is just amazing …
He peered at the print.
— Your CRS guy looks genuine enough. Apart from having no insignia. By rights he should have been wearing his company and district numbers. Don’t you think?
— Under normal circumstances, yes. But not that night. I found out that regulations were suspended. All units were using reserve weapons, including firearms. It would make sense that the men had been given orders to cover their identification codes.
— You’ve got mixed up in a strange old business. I’ve already given you this advice but I don’t mind repeating it. Drop it. Dig around in Toulouse to your heart’s content. Nobody expects any more from you. It’ll end with a file classified Case Closed. What have you got to lose? Nothing! You’ll easily find yourself another murder case that stinks less. A pastis?
— No thanks. I can’t drink in this heat.
— Well, let’s eat. I chose the menu, in memory of our years of hard labour in Strasbourg.
Giselle Dalbois simpered in with a terracotta dish piled high with choucroute au boudin blanc, and set it between two bottles of Gewürztraminer.
— Tuck in, Cadin, don’t be shy. You’ll see she’s pretty good. It’s a Strasbourg choucroute for special occasions. Giselle cooks it the way they do in Colmar: she adds a glass of kirsch an hour before serving it. What do you think?
— Excellent. My congratulations, Madame.
We’d finished the lot, generously helped by the Alsace wine. Giselle served our coffee on the terrace, where it was cool. Dalbois leaned towards me, wearing a serious expression, as if to impart a confidence.
— You know, Cadin, we’re a minority …
Then he dropped his conspiratorial air.
— In the morning eight out of ten French people drink coffee. Only four of them indulge at lunchtime. Only two in the afternoon and only one after dinner! Well, we three are that one!
He looked at his watch, feigning surprise.
— You’ll have to hurry, your last train leaves in twenty minutes. I’d have asked you to stay the night, but the kids’ beds are on the short side.
I made sure not to insist … Family life, even other people’s, doesn’t suit me. They took me to the station. On the way I gave the film still to Dalbois.
— Do me one last favour; try to get something on this guy. It won’t be easy to track him down, especially since he’s bound to have been retired by now. If you don’t come up with anything I’ll think about your advice.
He tucked the picture in the inside pocket of his jacket. The train came in. I took a seat by the window and rolled it down, despite all the pericoloso sporgersi warnings. On the platform Dalbois was on tiptoe so as to keep his voice down.
— I’m promising nothing, Cadin. Give me three or four days. If I’m going to come up with something that’s all I’ll need. No messing, your CRS guy is more dangerous than a stick of dynamite; all I want is to get shot of his ugly mug as quickly as I can. I’ll call you in Toulouse when I’ve got some news. Ciao.
The compartment was empty. I was alone as far as Vincennes. Then a gang of louts took over. A big pimply guy came over to me. He sat down heavily on the seat opposite and stretched his legs across with his shoes less than a centimetre from my thigh. My response was to push back the right flap of my jacket to display the black butt of my revolver and its holster. Immediately the two feet came into contact with the floor. The fellow got up, rather nervously. I heard a few snatches of conversation: It’s a cop, he’s got a gun. They decided to get off at the next station, Nation, and I was left in peace again.
It didn’t knock me out. No … but a little flutter of the heart all the same, when I recognised Claudine Chenet’s voice on the phone the next morning. I’d been keen to see her though I’d been in two minds. I’d think up one opening gambit, then change it … Her call put an end to all this dithering.
— Inspector, I just want to thank you. Bernard’s mother got in touch with me last night to tell me how things had gone with you. I don’t know if this meeting was of any use to your enquiry. I hope so, but the very fact that you are trying to find out why Bernard was killed makes a difference to us.
I could only mumble pitiably, so I let her take over again.
— Are you going back to Toulouse tonight? Is that right?
I thought I detected a trace of displeasure, almost regret, in the way she spoke.
— Yes, I’m taking the four o’clock train. Could we see one another before then? I won’t go into it, but I still have some questions to ask you. What are you doing for lunch?
— I’m working on my thesis.
— And I thought students were always on holiday!
My remark was rather thoughtless. Her reply had no anger in it.
— In that case they’re very sad holidays … I’m happier working, it takes my mind off things. Anyway, what I’m working on is pleasant enough. But lunch time would be fine. I’m doing some field work, between Porte d’Italie and Porte de Gentilly. There’s a little café on boulevard Kellerman, just after the entrance to the Charlety stadium. We could meet there around one. It’s called the Stadium.
I okayed the time and place, then hung up. I spent a few minutes packing, then went down to the hotel lounge where two guests with nothing better to do were watching the TV news on Channel One. Yann Morousi was announcing the death in tragic circumstances of one of the founding fathers of video. His fulsome panegyric ended with the announcement:
— So on the occasion of the death of this illustrious precursor of our profession, we are happy to present this interview of less than a week ago …
The studio technicians must have signalled to him that this happiness was inappropriate to the nature of the event, for Marousi’s face changed. He went on.
— Here then is the interview that our editors have the sad privilege of dedicating to the memory of this pioneer of new techniques.
I could stand no more. I paid my bill, carefully pocketed the receipt, for expenses, and made for the nearest metro station. I got off at Maison Blanche, which meant I came out on boulevard Kellerman by the Republican Guard barracks.
Claudine was waiting for me at the back of the café. The bar was besieged by rugby supporters who were celebrating in advance their team’s victory in the afternoon match.
I’d had a substantial breakfast so a glass of mineral water was all I wanted.
— Well, I’m ready for your questions, Inspector.
She had spoken in a voice filled with emotion, as if somehow this conversation had become important to her. As far as I was concerned, nothing had changed since our silent journey, with me left high and dry at a taxi rank. Things were going too fast for my liking, even though it was the right direction!
I immediately assumed an expression of professional blandness.
— Do I seem so insensitive? There are only a few details I want to know. We have no new information that could explain your fiancé’s execution. Nothing, except what happened to his father. Which makes it all the more complicated …
She interrupted:
— But you have a lead, my mother-in-law told me about the photograph …
— Yes, I’m hoping to get to this CRS guy. He’s certainly the one who shot Roger Thiraud in 1961. I’m not counting on it; the odds of tracking him down are one in a hundred. The only hypothesis worth considering is a link between the two murders. Yet that doesn’t fit with what happened in Toulouse. Why would the murderer have taken so many risks?
I took Claudine’s hand when she put it on the table to lift her cup. Rather than withdrawing it she turned her palm against mine and our fingers touched. I forced myself to speak, but it was no longer questions and answers we needed. These had to give way to a new way of talking.
— Have you thought of all this since you came back? Try … Did Bernard ever mention the events of the Algerian war, especially towards the end?
— No, I’ve already told you so. Bernard never told me about his problems. We talked mostly about our studies, what we planned to do later. When it came to other things we got by … which wasn’t easy … his mother, as you’ve seen, was in a terrible state. She practically never set foot outside. Fortunately, he kept closely in touch with his grandparents. It was a relief to spend the day with them. They live in the suburbs, an old house at Drancy … it’s Seine-Saint-Denis, but you’d think you were hundreds of kilometres from Paris, in the real countryside. They have a garden with an orchard. From what I could see Bernard’s mother was very shocked by her husband’s death, so much that she refused to bring up her son. It was the grandparents who took care of him … You ought to meet them, they’re very warm, welcoming people. At the same time they thought their son had been given back to them, thirty years later; they planned Bernard’s upbringing as if he was their own child. They never attempted to resume contact with their daughter-in-law, from fear of being separated from Bernard. I can understand them … In a way.
She was talking very fast, her head lowered so as to avoid my eyes. She was trying to explain things without reopening too many wounds. Suddenly she was on her feet and light-hearted again.
— This time I’m buying the drinks, I’m in your debt. Don’t act surprised. I remember you tipping the hotel porter. I haven’t paid you back yet!
Outside she took my arm and guided me through the housing projects on rue Thomire and avenue Caffieri. We reached Poterne des Peupliers in silence. Under the stone bridge of the circle railway, a pack of dogs were vying in their attacks on a rubbish skip left there by the municipality to relieve Parisians of their vast quantities of rubbish. A yellow-haired alsatian had won: he was standing at the top of the heap. As we approached he showed two rows of threatening teeth, obliging us to cross to the opposite pavement.
Claudine turned into rue Max Jacob, which climbs in a gentle slope towards the Italie quarter. You could make out glass and steel towers behind the red-brick buildings. In the middle of a bend in the road she turned right towards a green-painted metal gate and pushed it open. In front of me was a vast public garden planted with trees, its different levels linked by imposing stone steps. Claudine pointed out the loopholed ramparts.
— We are on the remains of the fortifications of Paris! There’s not a lot left, they’ve been knocking it down since 1920. The last bastions were demolished when they were building the ring road. I found this intact stretch during a walk. In the middle of the Porte de Charenton exit there’s a corner battlement that’s been turned into an office of works … It was Thiers who had them built, starting in 1842 … thirty kilometres of defence works. The irony is that he led the attack on them during the Paris Commune in 1871!
We had reached the edge of the ramparts. We were looking down on a vast open space which contained a children’s playground laid out with games, rope frames, slides. To the right the garden abutted the seething mass of the ring road and to the left the housing projects. Further, on the horizon, a multitude of small buildings announced the start of the suburbs: Arcueil, Kremlin-Bicêtre. On the flank of the hill, tucked between the motorway and the big projects, was Gentilly cemetery. Claudine took in the whole scene with a sweep of her arm.
— See how calm it is. Yet after the battlements were built thousands of people settled here.
— Did they have the right to do that?
— No. By rights it was prohibited, but sometimes laws yield to realities; the housing shortage and high rents for example. Like squatters today … It’s not so long ago that it was our grandparents who lived in shanty towns! This was one of the most sordid districts, like the area round Porte Saint-Ouen. The kingdom of the rag pickers. No water, gas or electricity. All the sewage went straight into a stream that flowed through a hollow at the bottom of the cemetery. The Bièvre, a real open sewer … I’m boring you?
— Not at all. I was only thinking that you didn’t stand much chance of a job with the city of Paris tourist office! Go on. Listening to you I get the impression that you’re nostalgic for those days. I’m not; this neck of the woods must have been a den of crooks and murderers. A court of miracles.
— Of course, it was like that. But that’s only one aspect of it. It was also like scenes from Casque d’Or and the settings of Le Breton’s books … On Sundays, the slopes of the ramparts looked like the Senlis woods, with families on an outing. There were even ponds and people fished …
— Plenty of cafés too!
— Bound to be! You see, I’m more nostalgic for pleasure gardens than vans selling hot dogs! Of course there were brawls, settling of scores, but dance halls are seldom trouble free, are they? People came to forget the tiredness of a week’s work. In those days people did sixty hours’ hard graft in dreadful conditions. Legend and literature have neglected this side of things. It was easier to talk about the barbarians at the city gates.
— Believe me, criminals can’t have had much trouble finding a hideaway in that undergrowth of shanties!
— Maybe, but a few decades earlier, every crime under the sun was put down to the working-class districts. Take a newspaper, open it at the faits divers, and you’ll find that nothing much has changed. The black sheep are now the ones living in the big housing projects in the outer suburbs. The Minguette flats, the 4000. The immigrants have replaced the vagrants, the young unemployed have succeeded the rag pickers.
— You won’t convince me that the criminals weren’t thick on the ground! There are figures …
— No, they did exist, in fact in the same proportion as for Paris and the Seine département. Neither more nor less. There were those with an interest in giving a negative image to the poorer sections of the working class. They made use of this outcast status to push them beyond the city limits. This continues today in the way everyday insecurities are played on. There’s an attempt to identify the social groups most hard hit by the crisis as groups endangering the rest of society. A real sleight of hand! Victims are turned into bogeymen. And it works! The kindliest old lady will hug her bag to her chest the minute she encounters a boy whose complexion is on the dark side. Only this kind of fear can legitimise the measures that are then taken against these people.
— You’re forgetting you’re talking to a cop …
She smiled and pressed her arm more tightly against mine.
— No, not for a minute. Go and look at the police registers in the days of the fortifications. The work of your ancestors, as it were! Bloodshed was extremely rare. The most common crimes were petty swindles, the theft of food, family brawls. Yet the great majority of headlines in the gutter press ooze with blood. Good for selling newsprint! Popular newspapers today have not changed: murderers, sadists, rapists, all the filthy roles are played by workers, have-nots. Never any big shots … Doctors, lawyers, captains of industry get mentioned on the Society page. They get off lightly, when in fact the sums involved in fraud and embezzlement cases add up to ten times the total of all hold-ups throughout France.
— So what you’re saying is you think we’re chasing the wrong villains?
— You only chase the little ones and you let the big ones prosper undisturbed …
— You don’t know me, my earlier cases prove the contrary … I wanted to say more, so that she wouldn’t see me as a bastard timeserving cop, though without seeming to justify myself. I tried out some words in my head but the dialectic left me in the lurch. I took refuge in silence. Claudine noticed my hesitation; she made the most of it to launch another onslaught.
— The system has a good line in self-protection. The police play a crucial role. Now and then an expiatory victim has to be found to show that the upper echelons can be contaminated. And to prove that their strength lies in the fact that they can get rid of the bad elements without compunction. Landru, Petiot … They get everything thrown at them and are made into monsters whose function is to show how aberrant their behaviour is: everything places it outside the norm. On the other hand, the unemployed man who robs a grocery is seen as part of everyday life. He is taken as representing his class and surroundings. He becomes merely a product of his environment and not of a system that condemns him to poverty and theft.
— By your logic all the unemployed would be villains! Fortunately that’s not the case.
She gave a heavy sigh. As her breast swelled it lifted the front of her summer blouse. I glimpsed the black lace flash of her bra. My heart abandoned its steady beat and started racing.
—You’re not listening. I’ll admit that there’s one kind of equality between a company director and a down and out; there’s the same odds of either becoming a sex maniac! However, you won’t convince me that the unemployed man doesn’t have more opportunity to be tempted by petty theft for simple reasons of survival.
Claudine was getting carried away. Her intensity coloured her cheeks the same red that her half-glimpsed breast had lit in mine. I surrendered.
— We won’t agree on this … We already have some common ground, we mustn’t forget that; I’ll do my very best to arrest Bernard’s murderer. Whether he’s weak or strong, tramp or millionaire. Before I forget, Madame Thiraud mentioned something to me, a pamphlet, a monograph on Drancy that her husband was writing in his spare time. Do you know anything about it?
Claudine nodded.
— Yes, it’s at home. Bernard wanted to finish it in memory of his father. I can send it to you in Toulouse tomorrow if you think it’s relevant to the inquiry.
— It’s better if I see it right away. I could drop in at your place on my way to the station. I’ll ask the taxi to make a detour …
She wrote her address in a notebook, tore out the page and gave it to me.
Seven hours later, I arrived at Toulouse Central. Sergeant Lardenne was waiting for me on the platform, even though he’d been off duty since late afternoon. He dropped me at my place, using the journey to bring me up to date on the video games front. He’d even managed to beat his son at the Battle of the Malvinas. Four Exocets against two! A great score … By the sound of it nothing more noteworthy had happened in my absence.