Mallock had been up since four o’clock in the morning, unable to get back to sleep. He suffered from insomnia sometimes, when the day’s results hadn’t lived up to his expectations. Sometimes he slept like a baby, with the reassuring feeling of having conducted his day in ways that were helpful for himself and others. Work as remedy for depression and guilt.
At six o’clock he turned on the radio, to keep the silence from whispering hateful things that he didn’t want to hear.
The news hit like an exploding bomb. France was at the mercy of the most fearsome murderer of all time. A super-killer, a bloody monster, a butchering psychopath . . . there was no lack of titles and superlatives. Worse, the number of two hundred victims was mentioned for the first time. Someone hadn’t been able to hold their tongue, and the journalists had pounced on the case with their customary voracity.
Carnage like this was a godsend! A victim tally like that, how lucky! What joy, for the press.
At seven A.M. Amédée went out to buy the newspapers. It was even worse than he ever could have imagined. After seventy years of blackout, everything was now revealed in the light of day, with various versions that were more or less precise but all relatively complete. Some of them wallowed in the horror, in more or less realistic descriptions of the different murders; others preferred to focus on the mystery, the fantastical aspect of this unprecedented series of killings.
And the ultimate question: how old could the murderer be?
They had published old photos of the chief superintendent, taken on various cases. Some of the captions allowed readers to believe that the shots had been taken yesterday, while others wrote: Chief Superintendent Mallock, seen here trying to dodge our cameras, has refused to comment on this incredible case.
He should have become immune to their mudslinging a long time ago, but this really infuriated him. You might get wiser over the years, better at turning the other cheek, but you don’t get used to everything.
At eight o’clock, like a gladiator marching back into the arena, Mallock headed for the Fort. Snow had started falling again on the mob of journalists bunched at the main door of the police station. After a brief hesitation, he began making his way through this crowd of people he had liked at one time, but couldn’t feel any affection for now that they had replaced ethics with grandstanding, sources with the gutter, objectivity with ideology, and information with spectacle. Every journalist now followed his paper’s editorial line the way an addict followed a line of coke; there was no question of anything anymore except staying in the good graces of the editor-in-chief. To be honest, if you added to all of that the lobbies and networks, the cronyism and mutual back-scratching, the commercial and financial pressures—both those on the media and those on journalists at the end of the month—how could you still believe for a single second that the information being diffused could still have the slightest bit of value?16
Mallock was very careful not to make any statements. These guys were only going to write down what they wanted to hear. He made sure to say nothing at all. They loved nothing more than zooming in on one little sentence or even a single word, if it was on the blacklist of terms forbidden by the semantics police.
This time they managed to crucify him even when he didn’t say a word.
They drew their own conclusions from his silence, especially because he made the mistake of accompanying it with a fixed, rather idiotic smile. That same rictus would be splashed across the front page of every newspaper that very afternoon. The journalists, poor darlings, professed themselves to be completely scandalized by the irresponsible attitude of this superintendent who smiled so mockingly when so many unfortunate victims had been tortured and all of France trembled with fear. Some of them called unhesitatingly for the resignation of this monster of cynicism—or reactionary, or anarchist, depending on the political leanings of the publication. Comparing three newspapers’ versions of the same photo, Francis noticed that one of them had retouched the smile so that the scum-sucking cop looked even more repugnant. It was Photoshop’s smoothness slider, Amédée realized, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
The morning passed without Mallock’s being able to get much done. Phone calls and visits came thick and fast; it was like everything was made so the pressure would reach unprecedented levels. From the DA to the president of the bar association by way of Humbert and a host of other examining magistrates, from the lowest asshole of an umbrella-holder to various goddamn cabinet members, everyone piled on him, directly or through some middleman. All of them were careful to cover their asses as quickly as possible in case of a possible failure and the victims to come.
For Mallock, it was already a failure.
Only the Secretary of the Interior, and God knew this wasn’t typical of either his position or his character, acted halfway civilized. Which didn’t stop him from warning Mallock, in his low, gravelly voice:
“I’ve only got one piece of advice for you: hurry. The wolves have been released. I can’t do anything for you unless I get some tangible results as soon as possible, some bone to throw to the dogs. They’d be all too happy to pin the blame on me, so let’s not beat around the bush. I’ll support you for as long as I can, and not a minute longer. I’m well aware that you’re a good detective, which makes you my best chance—and the country’s. Give me another demonstration of your talents as fast as you possibly can, if you don’t want to end up as the fall guy.”
He hung up without giving Mallock time to respond. The phone immediately rang again. It was Queen Margot, who was none too pleased either.
“You asshole! Everyone’s put out an article and I’ve got zilch! I’m furious! I kept everything to myself, and now I look like an idiot in front of my editors-in-chief. I promised them reliable, exclusive info. Wasn’t that our deal?”
“You’re right. But the info you’re talking about didn’t come from me. There was a leak. I give you my word; I didn’t see any of this coming, and frankly I feel terrible for you.”
An embarrassed silence fell between them. She wasn’t wrong, but neither was he. It had just worked out badly. Murphy’s Law. He explained it to her calmly, and Margot, magnanimously, took it on the chin.
“I’m not angry at you,” she said at last. “Your investigation comes before I do, and that’s normal. But seeing all these articles everywhere when you swore me to silence . . . it made me livid. Especially because they completely destroyed you.”
“I understand. I wasn’t particularly happy about it either.”
“The only information they have is your wonky smile. Incredible. Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a journalist.”
“Those people aren’t journalists anymore. You still are, and there are a few others, thank goodness. The ones outside, they’re . . . ”
“Cocksuckers?”
Mallock laughed. “You said it, not me.”
“Okay, I’ll let you get back to work, my big bear. Try to think of me next time.”
Mallock made a quick decision. “Wait, don’t hang up. Get out your tape recorder; you’re going to have the only official and exclusive interview given by Chief Superintendent Amédée Mallock, my girl. That’s better than the scuttlebutt, don’t you think?”
After the improvised interview with Margot Murât, Amédée organized a series of meetings in his office. Then he spent his lunch hour listening, eyes closed, to the reports of the various lieutenants and inspectors who had been conducting house-to-house inquiries. Maybe some detail would tell him something, awaken that particular brand of inspiration he’d abused so many times. He met with all of them, one by one, without a break, from eleven A.M. to half past four.
At exactly 4:20, as like he had yesterday, he started and stood up abruptly at his desk, thinking of Toto and classes getting out. He sat down again once he remembered that Tom didn’t go to school anymore, now that he was dead. At the same moment a call from the hospital came, telling him that Amélie Maurel’s condition had taken a new turn for the worse. They’d had to put her back on the ventilator.
“You seem to know her quite well,” ventured Dr. Ménard on the telephone.
Ménard was an old-school gentleman, and a man of courage and duty. Mallock had liked him right away.
“Not for too long, but we . . . get along very well.”
“Her father is dead,” said the doctor, “and her mother lives out in the country with the rest of her family. Would you be so kind as to bring us her things? Identity papers, social security, insurance—anything you can find within the next couple of days. I’m very much afraid she won’t be with us a great deal longer.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you very much.”
Half an hour later Amédée was standing despondently at Amélie’s door. He didn’t have very much trouble locating the various documents. Her home was neat as a pin, arranged very much like her notebook, with fanatical precision. In her wallet, which was in the pocket of a raincoat, he found her ID—and a photo of himself. She’d taken it when she visited him for the third time.
“It’s for my notebook,” she had explained. “It helps me remember each client.”
But she had never put this photo in her planner. It seemed almost worn out, as if she’d often taken it out of her wallet and held it between her beautiful fingers so she could look at it more closely. That meant . . . he hadn’t known . . . Amélie had always kept Amédée’s face within reach.
He put the picture back in her wallet.
Her condition once again made any hope illusory that she would be able to give evidence or describe the face of her attacker. She was the only one of the Makeup Artist’s victims who was still alive. Had she seen him? Would she recognize him again? Could she give them any physical description to go on?
His back had been hurting him again since noon. He decided to replenish his stock of painkillers in the little pharmacy on the ground floor of the same building. His young friend, Amélie’s patient, was behind the counter.
“How are you, Superintendent?”
The youth seemed happy to see Mallock again. They loved the same woman, and instead of pitting them against each other, the feeling had brought them together—undoubtedly because neither of them could hold her in his arms now.
“I could be better, if my back didn’t hurt so much.”
The handsome young man bent his athletic six-foot-three-inch frame toward the tile floor. His eyes were glistening. “We miss her too,” he murmured. He hesitated for a few seconds, then asked: “Is there any news?”
He still seemed deeply upset. Mercifully, Mallock lied to him, as he would have liked to be lied to himself: “She’s doing better. Don’t worry. I think I may even be able to question her soon.”
The apprentice pharmacist’s emotions kept him speechless for a brief instant. Mallock thought he might start crying again.
“Thank God,” the boy said eventually. “Do you still have your prescription?”
Mallock handed it over, and he went off in search of the life-saving pills. From the back of the pharmacy he called out:
“Do you want a care sheet?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He filled the form out once, made a mistake, tossed it into a garbage can behind him, started over. As he was leaving, the young man walked him out and held the door for him.
“Thank you . . . Didier,” said Amédée, proud of himself for remembering this time.