— Well, Bourrassol, anything on those bogus summonses?
The staff sergeant was sitting in my office. By the look of it he hadn’t got very far.
He started spluttering.
— No, I mean, maybe … Prodis’s office at the Capitole seems to have something.
The name made me jump.
— Let’s be clear, Bourrassol: I won’t be in debt to Prodis. You well know that you have to repay guys like him a hundred times over! They think they’re God almighty. You’re the one who’s responsible for flushing out these jokers. Nobody else. We were the only targets in this business, not the town hall. It’s an internal problem as far as I’m concerned. And what’s their story?
Bourrassol cleared his throat before answering.
— During the cantonal elections in ’81, a newspaper poster, I mean a fake, was plastered all over town. It showed the official candidate practically naked on a beach in the arms of a young woman. Three months before that he’d had a car crash; he was basing part of his campaign on the theme of fear … Holding meetings on crutches, you get the picture! The headline of the fake poster played on it: ‘His car accident? The revenge of a jealous husband!’ He filed a complaint against persons unknown, with the usual lack of results. Last week while they were working on an extension to the municipal print shop, the builders came across the offset plates that had been used for the poster. The staff were questioned. One of them confessed that he’d been in a situationist group active in Toulouse since 1976.
— Did he talk about the summonses for the anti-terrorist dossier?
— No, he admitted involvement between ’77 and ’82. He claimed the collective had then broken up, as the result of ideological differences. It’s possible that some members of the group kept up their subversive activities, but in more difficult circumstances, given they no longer had the resources. Their forte was printing pamphlets and posters and reproducing official documents. Without the support of the guy from the municipal print shop they had to fall back on a straight printer …
— In which case it won’t be too hard to corner them. Did they find out who were the other members of the network?
Bourrassol had been fiddling with a sheet of paper since the start of the interview; he put it down on the edge of the desk. I took the typed sheet and read out the names.
— Jacques Maunoury, Claude Anchel, Jean-Pierre Bourrassol …
I stopped short on this last name and questioned the sergeant.
— Is he related to you?
He bowed his head like a thieving urchin caught red-handed, and made a barely audible reply.
— Yes, Inspector, it’s my son. I’ve done my letter of resignation. I’ve no idea what made him do it.
He sank back into his chair and broke down sobbing. I had no idea how to deal with this situation; I was out of my depth. I went over to Bourrassol and patted him on the shoulder as I’d seen people do in films.
— It’s not that bad, Sergeant. What you’ve just done took a lot of courage. I can appreciate what it means to you. There can’t be many policemen of your calibre who are ready to sacrifice their family to their ideal of justice and truth. You didn’t shrink from turning in your own son! What more can be asked of a police officer? It would be adding to injustice to make you resign over something you didn’t do. All said and done, they didn’t do much harm. I’ll try and sort it out.
Bourrassol had stopped weeping; he sniffled loudly before wiping his nose with the sleeve of his uniform.
— Have you discussed all this with your son? It was pretty easy for him to get hold of our headed paper and the rubber stamps. No one would have suspected the son of a colleague …
He answered me in a broken voice.
— Of course, I’ve thought of that too, but it’s impossible, my son’s been in the West Indies for four months. He’s a conscript in the navy. I can’t vouch for anything else … But as far as this is concerned he’s got a watertight alibi.
The telephone cut short the sorry story of the Bourrassol family. It informed me of a hold-up taking place at a jeweller’s in allée Jean-Jaurès. The salesman had managed to activate the alarm signal without being noticed. If we moved fast, we had a chance of catching the thieves red-handed. I checked my Heckler pistol, a PS9 model, and released the safety catch. Lardenne was waiting for me in the courtyard, the engine running. I got in next to him. He was getting a blow by blow account of the robbery on FM. He didn’t need to be told to step on it.
A patrol car was out of sight behind the church of Notre-Dame des Graces. I radioed instructions to make no move until Lardenne gave the order. They were covering the jeweller’s shop-front and the two streets either side of it. Going round the other way, we came down one of these streets. I got the car to stop just before the corner of allée Jean-Jaurès. I left Lardenne and sauntered towards the shop, trying to look like a casual passer-by. It didn’t come easy; at moments like this you wish cop training covered one or two courses in body language … I had a quick look around. I could see no one keeping lookout on the pavement. Unless they had an accomplice hiding in a doorway. Which would mean I was a perfect target.
When I got to the jeweller’s I hurled myself against the glass door. I burst into the shop yelling like crazy, my gun drawn.
— Police! Drop your weapons.
The crook, an edgy little guy dressed like a bank clerk — Woolmark and Italian shoes — did a half turn on his heels and aimed a high-calibre weapon at my chest. He was at least as scared as I was.
— Don’t get any ideas … I’d have three bullets in your head before you’d got as far as pressing the trigger.
My thumb moved a fraction against the side of the pistol; it pressed gently on the tiny lever to the left behind the trigger. The slightest pressure on the trigger, the smallest movement of my index finger, would now release it.
— Listen carefully. When it comes to a situation like this my word is as good as gold. Better than anything you’ll lift here. You have no hope of getting away. You’re done for. There are two cars stuffed full of cops out there. In five minutes every cop in Toulouse will be here; it’ll be like a convention. Not counting the TV and radio people …
He didn’t move, keeping his arm held out, his hand locked on the butt of his revolver.
I kept talking.
— Be sensible. So far you’re up for attempted armed robbery. It’s a serious charge but we can do something about it if you don’t shoot. I’ll be called as a witness at the trial. The evidence of a cop at the scene is worth years inside. If I tell them you put up no resistance, it’ll get your sentence cut by three or four years … You’ve had it. Make the best of a bad job, it’s better for everyone concerned.
My speech seemed to make no difference to him, or else I’d been barking up the wrong tree. I decided to speed things up.
— That’s the deal. I’m giving you thirty seconds to let me know if you accept my offer. Hurry up, thirty seconds isn’t a long time.
I didn’t take my eyes off his gun. I knew I’d won when his hand relaxed and opened. The gun fell on the floor with the hollow sound of a toy.
The jeweller rushed to his attacker’s feet and picked up the revolver. He waved it in the air with a nervous laugh.
— It’s plastic! I’d never have thought … It’s still pretty scary, just as much as a real one.
The thief took advantage of this brief interlude to lift his hands to his mouth. He forced something down with several swallows before throwing himself on the ground, his body twisted with violent cramps. I knelt to take a closer look at him.
— He’s poisoned himself. Quick, call an ambulance. He’s going to croak!
The jeweller turned pale.
— No, Inspector, this bastard has just swallowed my diamonds and pearls. He’s guzzled more than thirty million’s worth. He’s nuts!
Lardenne came into the shop followed by a herd of uniformed police, guns at the ready. I stopped him in his tracks.
— We have to get him to hospital right away. See to it.
— Is he wounded? We didn’t hear any shooting!
— It’s not that, this fucker has made a meal of the shop’s capital. He’s got the most expensive digestive tract in the world.
The ambulance took us to the military hospital near the Saint-Pierre bridge. The diamond guzzler went straight into the care of the enterologist. The doc saw us after examining him:
— There’s nothing to be done for the moment. I have to tell you it’s the first time I’ve treated a patient with indigestion from precious stones. Normally we find objects of lesser value. Nails, pieces of glass, fork tines. It’s quite unbelievable what people manage to swallow. And I’m only dealing with what passes by mouth! Colleagues who work on the other orifices could tell you a thing or two … Men as well as women! I’ve often thought we should collect all the foreign bodies removed over the last ten years just in Toulouse and put on a little exhibition of perversity … Your diamonds would go down really well.
— Sorry, but we have to get them back, they’re material evidence. Will it take long?
The professor pursed his lips so we could see he was thinking.
— They’re small. They’re heading for the stomach now. We’ll follow their progress by radio or sound probe, to protect him from too many X-rays.
The jeweller broke in at this point.
— I hope my stones aren’t going to be ruined by rays or gastric juices?
The professor gave him a scornful little pout and made no reply.
— Over the next few hours they’ll pass through the second part of the digestive system into the intestines. It is a delicate stage that is not without risks. We can’t discount the possibility of an intestinal blockage that requires surgical intervention. It can be tricky, I won’t pretend otherwise.
— And if it all goes along normally?
— That’s what I’m hoping. In which case you will get the stones back in three days at the outside. I’d say tomorrow, if I was sure our patient would cooperate …
— Meaning?
— We still have one possibility: we could give him a strong laxative to stimulate fast bowel movement. Of course, we can’t administer such a treatment without the patient’s agreement. Amnesty International wouldn’t forgive us …
The fearsome prospect of surgical intervention persuaded the crook to swallow substances designed to speed up his natural functions. I took the precaution of posting a guard in the room where the mobile toilet was and ordered him to check the prisoner’s excretions.
The jeweller was grateful for my suggestion that he keep the policeman company and help him with his task.
The stones and the pearls were recovered the next day, thanks to a purgative whose secret formula the enterologist had refined so as to eliminate all risk of side effects.
There was a telegram from Paris when I got back to the office. Dalbois had a lead on Roger Thiraud’s executioner. This was to let me know I’d get a detailed letter later in the day.
I tried to get down to a pile of pending files, without much enthusiasm. A run of break-ins, two or three drunk and disorderlies, a summons ignored. I killed time checking the service records of station staff in relation to the promotion scheme. I saw that Bourrassol could expect promotion to Scale 4 of his rank, unless Commissaire Matabiau made no allowances for his offspring’s pranks and kept him on Scale 3 for two more years.
I started at every ring of the phone, at every knock at my door. The postman came regularly at five with the evening delivery, but I’d have rather he broke with routine. I rushed on to the stairs as soon as I saw him come through the door. I took all the post and spread it across my desk. Dalbois’s letter was there all right. In my haste I tore the envelope as I opened it. The Inspector from Intelligence didn’t bother with meaningless formalities.
Dear Cadin,
Your CRS guy is called Pierre Cazes and it turns out he was in the Special Brigades who had the job of liquidating the OAS and FLN leaders during the last years of the war. I should tell you that everything connected with the Algerian war has been covered by a decree of July ’62 which stipulates, among other things, that nobody can be prosecuted or discriminated against in any way in respect of actions arising from the events in Algeria and Metropolitan France before the proclamation of the ceasefire.
Pierre Cazes is retired now. Only a few months ago he was living in your area, at Grisolles, a village between Grenade and Verdun on route 17.
Watch your step, you’re not walking on eggs any more, but on a powder keg. Do me a favour, destroy this as soon as you’ve read it, I’ve done the same with the photo you gave me.
Regards
Dalbois
I took a lighter out of my drawer and burned the letter and the envelope in the ashtray. I gave the rest of the post to the secretary for distribution. I set out to look for Lardenne.
I found him hunched on the front seat of the squad car. He seemed stricken by some nervous disease. His arms were shaking and his head jerked forwards. He would momentarily draw himself up only to lunge back down towards the wheel. This display of St Vitus Dance was explained once I got to the car. Sergeant Lardenne had abandoned the mathematical joys of the Rubik’s cube, to place himself in the nervy thrall of Bansai’s video delights. In his hands he held an electronic board the size of a calculator and was trying to steer a small figure along a route strewn with ambushes.
— Let me see that, Lardenne! Head for Grisolles. It’s a village on Route 17 before Montauban.
I left him to play with the white lines, the traffic lights, the highway code and all the little fellows who were driving around between Toulouse and Montauban this late afternoon.
I took over the escape of the little pacman, right thumb to go forward, left thumb to go back, and tried to get him as far as the helicopter that was waiting for him on top of the building. He had to climb a fearsome number of steps, pass through an infinity of doors that chose to shut as he got to them, forcing him into breathless detours. The concierge was there too, pursuing him with an avalanche of kitchen utensils. He also had to watch out for an enormous rat which relished nothing more than eating up whole floors!
On our way through the village of Verdun I managed to get my pacman on to the platform, but at the last moment the helicopter, unbalanced by a wrong movement of my right thumb, crashed against the windows of the 113th floor, while the gleeful concierge took advantage of this to stick a horrifying butcher’s knife in the pacman’s back. The rat rushed to gobble up the corpse. The gadget squeaked out the first few notes of the Funeral March.
— What was your total, Inspector?
I pressed the score display button.
— Nine hundred and thirty-nine steps!
— My personal record is one thousand five hundred and fifteen. It’s a tough one … One of these days I’m going to treat myself to Yakoon. They say it’s ten times more exciting. The little man has to face an enemy without knowing what he looks like, and who unleashes his different creatures on him. You never know if what’s in front of you is a friend or an enemy. If you eliminate your helpers you’re even less protected. You have to go through twelve different tests to get to the supreme combat with the Yakoon. What’s more, the method of scoring varies with each game. It permutates to infinity. You need at least two months to master the first level. It’s a fantastic game!
— Did you take a look at the signpost, Lardenne?
— The Grisolles road! You’ve just passed it. And you don’t have twelve different options for getting back on it. There’s only one: turn back the way we came!
Pierre Cazes lived in a little cottage surrounded by a pretty, well-kept garden. I went up to the gate and rang a little bell nailed to the gatepost. A man of around sixty with heavily lined features appeared at the ground floor window.
— Yes, what do you want?
— I’m Inspector Cadin from Toulouse. This is my assistant, Sergeant Lardenne. I want to have a word with you in private.
He came out onto the steps and used an electronic command mechanism to open the gate. I went up the path with Lardenne behind me. He met us at the door.
— To what do I owe the honour of a police visit? Not bad news I hope. My wife has gone out shopping in the village, but I can still offer you an aperitif.
We were in a vast room furnished in impeccable taste, with a stone chimneypiece as its focus. He placed several bottles on the table while he talked, then two glasses and a variety of savouries.
— There are only two glasses because I’m forbidden drink. I make up for it with my medicines.
He served us drinks, pastis for me, floc de gascogne for Lardenne, who likes sweet things.
— Well, Inspector, is it me you’re investigating? Or my wife?
— No, not exactly. Would you mind us taking a little walk in the garden? I’d like to stretch my legs.
Pierre Cazes looked a little surprised but he agreed to my suggestion. I decided to get straight to the point.
— Right. In the first place, my being here has no official status. There’s nothing I could do if you refused to answer my questions …
He made a sign to me to go on.
— During the last month a young man was killed in Toulouse … Bernard Thiraud …
I watched his face but his features displayed no particular emotion at the mention of the name.
— He was murdered in the street, with no apparent motive. We’ve checked everything, no connection with money or personal problems, nothing. A complete mystery. Then when I was questioning the family it came to my attention that the father of this young guy died in similar tragic circumstances twenty years ago. Murdered in the street: a bullet in his head. At the time there was no inquiry into this murder. By an enormous coincidence a Belgian television crew that was there for Jacques Brel’s concert at Olympia filmed the last moments in the life of Roger Thiraud, Bernard’s father. It happened in Paris in October 1961. Everything suggests it was you who held the gun …
Pierre Cazes thrust his hands in the pockets of his overall and clenched his fists. His shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and, through parted lips, gave a deep sigh, then he stooped forward. With difficulty he sat down on one of the large stones that bordered the path.
— How did you find out? All the archives are top secret …
— By chance, I told you.
— Take a seat, Inspector. You’re stirring up very painful memories. I never expected a blow like this. What’s the use of taking every precaution if it’s fated; there’s nothing you can do. What do you want me to tell you? Yes, I’m the one!
— Why did you kill Roger Thiraud?
For a split second his eyes became unfocused.
— I know damn all. I had orders. I had to obey them.
— Did they come from the Special Brigades?
— Why do you ask me if you know the answer? Yes, from the Special Brigades command … We had the job of cleaning out the most active leaders of the OAS and the FLN. The Préfecture supplied our passes and unmarked weapons. If there was any snag we had the Director of the Sûreté’s direct number. I can still remember it, useless though it is now. MOGador 6833. We learned everything by heart, nothing in writing. It wasn’t much fun, we lived a secret life. The other side didn’t take anything lying down. An eye for an eye. It bears no resemblance to your job, Inspector. We were on our own, with our own methods of extracting information and operating.
— Even for the business in rue Notre-Dame de Bonne-Nouvelle?
— No, it happened regularly that we’d be picked out by central command to get rid of some underling who was in the way. I far preferred the other side of the job, liquidating the enemy. But taking out an ordinary guy never gave me any satisfaction. I can’t speak for the others … You know I took part in the Resistance and the Liberation. I was active in Indo-China. I’ve been used to looking danger straight in the eyes: shooting a German or a Vietnamese in the belly isn’t particularly pleasant, even if he was about to do the same to you. But sticking a bullet in the head of a young French guy you know nothing about. With him unarmed and from behind. It had to be done. I console myself with the thought that what I did maybe prevented a terrorist attack or shortened the war by an hour, a day …
— What exactly happened with Roger Thiraud? Who singled him out for you?
— The same as usual. A liaison officer left an envelope in a letterbox that I visited twice a week. That’s where I found instructions and procedure. With Thiraud, if that was his name, I was supplied with a photo of the target and details of his movements, his routine. I chose to do the job during the demonstration. He lived near one of the rallying points; normally he ought to have been home before it started. I’d had it in mind to telephone him with some excuse to get him to come outside. But I didn’t need to do that. He didn’t go straight home, he went to a cinema opposite the Rex. I very nearly did the job during the film … Thinking about it now, I should have, I’d have avoided being filmed by a Belgian television crew.
— Didn’t you want to know why this man was going to die by your hand?
— Why, do you think the OAS worried about that when they blew apart a dozen of my best buddies with thirty kilos of plastic planted in their meeting room? We picked them up in little pieces — I could hold the biggest in my hand … Or when they threw a grenade into a school playground? I’ve seen children’s faces torn to shreds by bombs … Have you ever heard the screams of five-year-old kids blinded, solely to terrorise people? In those days I made a point of asking no questions so I wouldn’t get ten times madder than I was.
— Who sent you these envelopes? You can tell me, it’s twenty years now, part of history …
— I can’t say for sure. Everyone knows that the Special Brigades were headed by André Veillut and that they were attached to the official police service, though they didn’t appear on the family tree. The best proof is that my years of undercover work count towards my retirement pension. I can even tell you that they count double. But there were other groups too, like the SAC, which operated outside any hierarchy. Parallel commandos. We watched our step even though we were on the same side. Don’t imagine time has erased the hatreds and resentments. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were still old hands in the OAS trying to settle scores. The FLN not so much. They won, and the victors are always more generous than the conquered.
— So your boss, this Veillut, was probably behind the decision to wipe out Roger Thiraud?
— He would have to have known about it. Our chain of command reflected our commando-style organisation. It had to be as tight as possible so as to operate at top speed with the maximum chance of avoiding enemy intelligence. Veillut worked in a group of four, but he could act on his own in an emergency.
— What’s he doing now?
— He’ll soon be like me. He’s close to retirement. When the Special Brigades were broken up, he got a post running the criminal investigation department in the Paris Préfecture. The government knows how to reward those who’ve served it well.
Suddenly, he bent towards the ground, beckoning me to do the same.
— Look, Inspector, an anthill. Two or three times a year I destroy it, to no avail; it’s re-formed nearby. Have you ever looked inside one?
— Of course, when I was younger …
— It’s strange, they build galleries and access ramps. I’ve read that there are more than two thousand species of insects classified as ants. Red ants, black ants, honey ants, driver ants, Amazon ants. When you look at them closely you can’t miss noticing that there’s some species or other which corresponds exactly to your own character. A little while ago I discovered what kind of ant I was …
He took a twig and pointed it at the edge of a small crater hollowed in the sand, as big as a five-franc coin and scarcely any deeper.
— The lion ant. A solitary! He digs his hole, gets into it and waits patiently in ambush for creatures like himself to fall within his reach …
The twig whipped furiously at the ground. An avalanche of sand covered up the lion ant. I stood up. Pierre Cazes gazed at me in mute mockery. I broke the silence.
— Thank you for agreeing to this conversation, Monsieur Cazes.
Sergeant Lardenne joined me, pastis on his breath. He was the worse for two aperitifs! He turned the car round in haste and got on to the Toulouse road.
I caught a glimpse inside the garage where a huge metallic green Mercedes sat in state, a 250SE from the sixties, with a chrome radiator. A dream car!
I turned to Lardenne.
— What a car! Some have all the luck …
— Don’t believe it, Inspector. His wife arrived when you were talking in the garden. She thought we were from the hospital. The old guy hasn’t got long to go; did you take a look at him? The docs give him three or four months … Another one who won’t be enjoying his retirement.
— It’s hard to believe. He’s pretty cheerful for someone who knows he’s a condemned man!
— He doesn’t know how seriously ill he is, they’ve got him believing it’s a bad ulcer.
Befor the bend I looked back. I could see an old woman dressed in grey standing at the garden gate. I had the impression she was making a note of our car number. Lardenne turned. She disappeared from sight.
The wall opposite the station had always carried echoes of events that shook the world. During frequent periods of reflection, my gaze would wander across the stones, where I read and re-read the white letters of FREE HENRI MARTIN, or traces of a half-obliterated slogan: … I AU REFERENDUM, without being able to decide whether the I was the last letter of OUI or the final stroke of an N for NON. As for this Henri Martin, I didn’t know which of them to choose from all the different Martins in the dictionary:
Was it Henri Martin 1830–1883, born in Saint-Quentin, French historian (History of France, 1833–1836) member of the Collège de France. Or Henri Martin 1872–1934, born in Dunkirk, French symbolist poet, The Lily and The Butterfly (1902), Académie Française Prize in 1927 for his collection Vegetables and Shellfish.
Or again, Henri Martin 1912–1967, born in Saint-Denis, French architect. Renovation of Paris. Project for the outer ring road.
I was still undecided the day Bourrassol, who had been getting acquainted with sea-faring lore ever since his son had gone to sea with the French fleet, informed me that the Martin whose name was on the wall had experienced the damp of a ship’s hold and the hardship of chains for having refused to fire the several hundred shells under his control on the working-class districts of Haiphong, in the early fifties.
But the wall didn’t only live in the past.
At the end of June a team of propagandists of Shi’ite persuasion had traced in white letters an imposing inscription: SOLIDARITY WITH IRAN.
Some other graphic artists, probably in disagreement with Khomeini’s outlook, had simply crossed out ‘Iran’ and replaced it with ‘Palestine’. The response of the Zionist students was to cover up ‘Palestine’ and take over the slogan by inserting the word ‘Israel’ outlined in blue letters.
Finally a genius came along and created unanimity by rollering over the words Iran, Palestine and Israel. For good measure this person also whitewashed ‘WITH’, leaving only the word ‘SOLIDARITY’.
Commissaire Matabiau was back. He burst into my office on the dot of ten, without giving me the time to greet him with a friendly good morning …
— Come with me, Cadin. I want clarification of what’s been going on here while I’ve been away.
He was in a foul mood. The Corsican suntan barely concealed his bilious complexion. He didn’t hold the door for me as I followed him into his office; it just missed hitting me smack in the face. Matabiau sat leaning against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms on his chest. He must have got out of bed in a rush, for I noticed one of his socks was on inside out.
— Well Cadin, I’m waiting!
— There’s been nothing really noteworthy, Commissaire, apart from the gravediggers’ strike.
I was stalling for time, so as to find out whether Cazes had already made a complaint about my visit.
— All in all the strike only lasted a week and everything was quickly back to normal. A few brawls between the strikers and the mourning families. Otherwise run of the mill stuff. Complaints of all kinds, no need for me to draw you a picture. I’ve personally devoted most of my time to the biggest case of the month. The murder of Bernard Thiraud. There’s a complete file on my contacts, in Paris as well as Toulouse …
— That’s all?
He uttered the question in an exaggerated tone of voice, waving his arms about.
— Yes, I can’t see anything else of significance. I won’t go into the hold-up in allée Jean-Jaurès; there are pages of it in the newspapers …
I had dropped this in deliberately; the journalists were all going on about my courage in the face of an armed gangster; keeping quiet about the exact nature of the pistol I’d had pointed at me. Just the mention of my most recent exploit had the effect of softening the Commissaire’s attitude.
— Yes, Cadin, I’ve read all those papers. I congratulate you on your presence of mind in the circumstances. What I’m really bothered by is this business of the situationists. I’d hardly got back from holiday when I was besieged by phone calls from the mayor, and his deputy, Prodis. Watch out for that parasite … I couldn’t make sense of what they were on about except that Sergeant Bourrassol is supposed to be implicated in this business. I’ve never heard anything more outlandish! Can you imagine Bourrassol as a situationist? Do you know what this story’s all about? Can you tell me what’s behind it?
I put the staff-sergeant in the clear.
— Bourrassol had nothing to do with it. They’re making things up just to piss you off. What’s happened is that we’re on to the network of situationists behind the fake municipal papers from 1977 onwards, as well as the bogus newspaper poster. Bourrassol’s son was mixed up in that crowd, but he’s got nothing to do with the fake summonses sent from the Commissariat. He has a cast iron-alibi: he’s swanning about between Martinique and Guadeloupe courtesy of the cruises organised by the navy.
Commissaire Matabiau shot up off the desk and stood in front of me.
— False summonses! So this is what’s up! Don’t you think this is more important than anything else? I don’t give a damn about your murder and your jewel eater. Before I went on holiday I had my suspicions you might land me in the shit. What exactly is going on with these falsified documents?
— We’re still looking. Several hundred Toulouse residents received notification, a perfect forgery of an official form, telling them to make an urgent visit to the station in connection with the anti-terrorist records. The summons was signed in your name with what looked like your signature. It so happened that the recipients of this communication were chosen from among the most prominent personalities in the city. Big businessmen, industrialists, clergy, club men, notably the ex-servicemen’s associations …
— Can you show me one of these summonses?
I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my jeans and with some delicacy extracted a blue square which I unfolded before giving to Matabiau. He looked over it, line by line, in silence. This moment or two of study calmed him down, to my great astonishment. He handed the summons back to me.
— It isn’t a fake. This form is quite authentic. I signed it the night before I left for Corsica. I don’t know how this mess has happened!
I really think my surprise couldn’t have been any greater if he had confessed to being Bernard Thiraud’s murderer.
— I haven’t lost my marbles yet, Cadin! I have a clear memory of giving the original of this letter to Sergeant Lardenne and also the list of the four hundred people concerned in Toulouse. I thought you had enough to do already with all the station paperwork without dumping this extra duty on you. All Lardenne had to do was make photocopies and make sure they got sent out … Get him for me, I want to clear this up at once.
The sergeant was finishing off a pinball game in the café nearest the station. At the risk of making an enemy, I pulled him away from the machine’s winking lights a hundred points short of a free game. I put him in the picture on the way back to Matabiau’s office. The Commissaire had adopted a mournful expression. He raised his head when the door opened.
— Lardenne, you owe me an explanation. Try to make it a good one if you want to avoid a transfer to sentry duty! I suppose Inspector Cadin has brought you up to date? What do you have to say in your defence?
— Well, you’d better put your mind to it, Lardenne!
— I took the work to Madame Golan, one of the secretaries. I told her what you wanted. Word for word …
— Well done, Sergeant! I entrust you with a job of the greatest importance and you waste no time dumping it on the first person you can find! Go and get me this Madame Golan.
Lardenne was away for less than a minute. He reappeared accompanied by the large matronly lady who for many years had presided over the issue of ID cards and passports. She took up a not inconsiderable amount of space, but was none the less trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. This appeared to be the second time in her career that she had crossed the sacrosanct threshold of the boss’s office, the first being when she was taken on. It was clear from her demeanour that she fully appreciated the gravity of the occasion. Matabiau displayed great sensitivity: without too much trouble he managed to shed light on the mystery. The poor woman was goodness itself. She had soon become known for acting well beyond the call of her ID card duties. She would seldom refuse to help out a harassed colleague; there never passed a day without someone asking her to give them a hand because of pressure of work, always adding ‘I’ll do the same for you’ for the sake of form. Good Madame Golan folded papers, taped packages, indexed cards, and stapled things together for the whole police station.
When Lardenne turned up, flushed with the importance of his task, and asked her to send out four hundred summonses for the anti-terrorist records for Commissaire Matabiau, she accepted with alacrity, thanking the sergeant for having thought of her when it came to such sensitive work.
She did the same thing the next day when another section head asked her to help with the despatch of three hundred and seventy-eight announcements reading as follows:
The Benevolent Fund of the Toulouse police and the whole of the city’s Police Force thank you for your generous gift which will be used, as in other years, to relieve the distress of the widows and orphans of our colleagues who have given their lives while safeguarding the public.
It wasn’t known how the ‘anti-terrorist’ list came to replace the labels of names of the benefactors. But if the upper crust of Toulouse complained bitterly of being tainted with some shadowy international threat, no bomber, or suspected one, expressed his surprise at being thanked for a non-existent charitable donation.
Lardenne left the office first, closely followed by the secretary. Matabiau strode back and forth across the room raging against his subordinates and admin in general.
— Do you realise, Cadin, one hour back at work and I’ve already lost all the benefit of my holidays. It’s put me on edge again, in one fell swoop. One month of peace, relaxation, it was too good to last … I’d have preferred it to have been Bourrassol’s son who took the rap. At least he wasn’t one of us. We look like fools. What’ll they take me for? An incompetent? This Lardenne has got it coming to him. He’ll find out about sentry duty. I can promise you! Right, there are other things to deal with, how’s this murder going?
— Not as well or as fast as I’d like. We haven’t much to go on. Bernard Thiraud was killed by a Parisian of around sixty. We have the statement of a witness who saw the murderer getting out of a black Renault 30TX registered in Paris, and following the victim. That took place opposite the Préfecture a few minutes before the murder. Lardenne checked every likely location between Paris and Toulouse, motorways and highways, but nobody remembers seeing the car or anyone answering the murderer’s description.
— If this was Lardenne’s work, it’s best to double check …
— I’m not defending him, but I trust him with this work.
— All right, go on.
— We haven’t got very far with establishing the motive. The young guy was on his way to Morocco with his fiancée …
— I can’t see why a Parisian would go through Toulouse on the way to Morocco! It isn’t the most direct route to Marrakesh.
— No, indeed; Bernard Thiraud and his fiancée are historians. They made a detour through Toulouse to look up the archives in the town hall and the Préfecture. Wads of paper on regional history. I worked there for two days with Lardenne and came up with nothing. However, I went to Paris and discovered a few things that were more interesting. The victim’s father was killed in strange circumstances in October 1961, during a demonstration organised by the Algerians. I can even tell you that he was professionally executed.
— Who by?
— It appears to have been a political killing. Reasons of State. I found the officer who was given the job. He lives in an out-of-the-way place on the Montauban road. He’s retired. At the time he was in the Special Brigades; there were undercover commandos created by the ministry to take care of the OAS and FLN leadership. When required, to take them out for good. The service was headed by André Veillut, a high-up in the Préfecture. Naturally, they fixed things so as to avoid autopsies and investigations. The files are empty. I don’t know if it would do any good to fill them; all those things are covered by an amnesty decree.
— But you think these two affairs are linked, is that it? It’s not too hard to construct a hypothesis whereby the son managed to identify his father’s murderer and came here to avenge him. That would explain his itinerary.
— I’d be quite happy with that, but too many details don’t fit. Firstly, Pierre Cazes. Apart from his age, he doesn’t match up with the witness’s description. I don’t see him complicating the job unnecessarily by getting himself a car registered in Paris to come and commit his crime in broad daylight at maximum risk!
— If he’s a professional, and we’re dealing with a top class professional, this is exactly the kind of reasoning he would want to see you follow. The killer knows exactly what he is doing, Cadin. If you haven’t found any trace of this Renault 30TX, maybe it’s because it never made the Paris-Toulouse trip!
— It must exist though! No vehicle of this type was stolen during the weeks before Bernard Thiraud’s death. I checked the national list myself.
— Why wouldn’t someone have lent him the car? Do some digging on how Pierre Cazes spends his time and see whether one of his friends drives a black Renault … Did you go back to the archives after you turned up this Algerian demonstration story?
— No. Why, should I?
— In your shoes I’d treat myself to another session dusting off the files. Now you know what you’re looking for: a link with this Pierre Cazes or the Special Brigades. That’s worth the bother of two or three hours rummaging. You’ve a faint chance of unearthing an explanation. But you may come back empty-handed if the victim was really just there in his capacity as historian … In which case the Thiraud affair will remain a mystery. Until the day we come across a life insurance policy or a little letter breaking off a romance. The best crimes are often the most banal. Don’t you think?
— Not this one. There are too many coincidences and ramifications. I know my real job is to find Bernard Thiraud’s murderer, but the one thing I desperately want to get to the bottom of is why a mere teacher at the Lycée Lamartine ends up getting bumped off during an Algerian demonstration by a political cop disguised as a CRS man. If I had the guts I’d go and ask André Veillut what it all meant — the old boss of the Special Brigades! It’s all been amnestied, he has nothing to lose by talking …
— I won’t give you lessons in how to handle a case, Cadin, though I’ll never give up handing out advice. Listen, please yourself how you work; you can go right back to the Siege of Alésia or the Saint Bartholomew Massacre if you think fit and it leads to the culprit’s arrest! The point is to reach a solution: I don’t give a damn which route you take to get there. But if you stray so much as a centimetre from legality don’t count on me for cover. Say it loud and clear that it’s Cadin’s work and nobody else’s. I don’t want my name mixed up in any funny business! Take it as read.
— I’ve always taken responsibility for my work, Commissaire. I’m convinced these two crimes are connected.
— For now the only link is blood ties. Nothing allows you to extrapolate from that. Be very careful. You’ve just referred to TWO crimes, yet less than five minutes ago you were admitting that Roger Thiraud’s death was covered by an amnesty. Watch your step very carefully, Cadin.
— I’ll try, Commissaire.
— It’s not enough to try. Above all, don’t go on your hunches. Leave that to the examining magistrates. I need an accused every bit as convincing as the corpse picked up beside Saint Jérôme’s church. At any rate it would be better if you stayed in charge of the station while you get this case sewn up. You’ll have more room for manoeuvre. I’ve still got two or three days’ holiday. I was going to take them for some pigeon-shooting, but there’s nothing to stop me using them this week! What do you think?
It was more than I could have hoped for.
— Fine by me. It won’t be time wasted.
All the same, I had the funny feeling there was an ulterior motive behind this sudden generosity. Matabiau confirmed my suspicions.
— I’ll make the most of it to do some home decorating. There’s always something to be done when you’ve got a house. One last thing, Cadin, see Prodis about his business of the mixed-up letters. I’m counting on your sense of diplomacy to get it all sorted out.