In Chalon-sur-Saône, at a place that supplies film studios, I found more bits and pieces to complete my disguise: a false moustache that’s ever so slightly darker than the wig, the glue that goes with it and a cream to add a light tan to my skin. I bought some clothes that I’d never normally wear: thick cords, shirts that are a little too garish and a leather jacket. They are grotesque, classless and hideous garments.
I usually maintain a five o’clock shadow, but I’m going to have to shave it off. I’m often told that I look like the actor Terence Stamp: I have his clear eyes, his cheekbones and his large forehead.
I look in the mirror. The person reflected back at me is a man of refinement, with somewhat of an aristocratic bearing. He’s in his fifties but looks seven or eight years younger. His white hair is very short, almost shaved, and this masks his impending baldness. His stubbled cheeks camouflage the wrinkles caused by his vaguely mischievous smile. His face has a certain distinction. He is tall and slender. You’d think him a seasoned athlete, but he’s not. His life is hectic, and he travels a lot and with enthusiasm, but has neither the time nor the will to practise a regular physical activity. I know this man well. He is hiding something of himself in the shadows and I challenge anyone to discover it. He’s an extrovert, a cultured and knowledgeable being: he’s me.
But in about ten minutes, I’ll be someone else. I’ll erase my natural class to take on a less civilised aspect and become the sort of man that police officers can relate to. I’ll stop watching my language and let myself go a little. I’m no actor, but in my profession you have to adapt to and reflect your customer. That’s the plan: from now on, I am an actor, a snooping and prying detective . . . but one who remains on his guard.
I start by spreading the cream over my face, taking care to cover my neck and shoulders to create the effect of having recently returned from a two-week holiday in Bermuda. I apply the glue and then the moustache. The wig requires more effort. I have to adjust it several times to make sure of a perfect fit.
I won’t get in touch with Jacques Lambert straight away. First, I need to suppress my own nature and get to know the character I’m trying to convey by bringing him out of the void. The traits of his personality will gradually reveal themselves. My voice will change. My general demeanour will change.
It takes me four days to start to feel comfortable, during which time I rarely leave my room for fear of the staff questioning why it appears to be occupied by two different men. My doubts remain as to whether this will work, but I’m sleeping better now at least. I’ve convinced myself that Lambert, were he to meet Achilles later down the line, would not recognise him.
I’ll give myself time to make concrete progress before heading back down to Nice for Christmas. By then, I’ll know what my next move will be.
To avoid difficult questions at the hotel, I’ve rented a room for my new character in a rather insalubrious establishment next to the Père Lachaise Cemetery. I paid upfront and in cash and made it clear that I’m looking to drum up some business in the area.
I’ve finally become someone else. When I’m disguised and made up, I’m Robert Morane, a failed salesman, a kind of Achilles who didn’t do so well in life. I speak loudly. I like dirty jokes. I drink too much. I give my opinions without thinking first and have difficulty keeping my racist views to myself, and I respect the police. I would have liked to join the force when I came out of the army, but unfortunately my father, who’s even more working class than I, convinced me to focus instead on a career in sales. I vote Front National, but I never say so, even if the content of some of my conversation suggests it. Despite all this, I’m good company for like-minded men.
Jacques Lambert will love me. I’m going to admire him, and he’s going to spill. I know how to seduce men. Sometimes I even take them to bed. This isn’t the type of appeal I need now, but my know-how in this area will prove beneficial to me.
Every time I take on another identity, I feel uncomfortable – not that I often find myself in this situation – but inside every man there’s a schizophrenic just waiting to blossom, and sometimes you even find yourself preferring the new version to the original. There’s not much chance of that this time round. Robert Morane, unlike his namesake Bob, the famous intrepid hero from the Henri Vernes novels that I devoured as a child, is a complete idiot.
I found a lot of Jacques Lamberts in the directory and rather than pay a call on all of those living in the vicinity of the Ile de la Cité, I decide to keep an eye on 36 Quai des Orfèvres. In any case, I very much doubt that my target would earn nearly enough to live in that neighbourhood.
I’ve seen Jacques Lambert’s face on the news and know I’ll recognise him with no difficulty, so I just hide on the other side of the road and wait. The cold is eating into my bones and I’m cursing myself for ever having started on this whole ridiculous business.
The day goes on and no one leaving the building resembles anything like the short, rough little man I saw on the television when he got so angry, dodging the journalists’ questions. I didn’t pick him for his personality though. I chose him because he seems like a congenital idiot and I stand a better chance of fooling him than one of his colleagues with a little more savvy.
I resume my watch the following day. I find it humiliating to be doing this. I am The Artist. I’ve always known how to combine my taste for good living with absolute comfort, and now I find myself walking around in circles in the very depths of December. I really do wonder how I could ever have come up with such a plan.
At one point, I think I recognise a man who’s leaving the office in a hurry. I approach and see it’s not Jacques Lambert after all.
I’ll wait a few more days, but what will I do if I don’t find him? Will I be doing this for the rest of my life? What if Lambert’s away on leave? Imagine that: Lambert on holiday for two weeks, looking forward to Christmas and visiting his in-laws somewhere in the Dordogne or Brittany . . .
No, I must not give in to any hasty action. December is a merciless month. I’d be so much better off in the warmth of a gourmet restaurant enjoying a fine bottle of 1966 Pessac-Léognan, but I have to go through with this now.
I’m a lone sentinel but at least I can take the opportunity to reflect. I never have time to think. I’m always up and down, living at a hectic pace and watching the years go by too fast.
Unlike so many frustrated people, I have refused to curb my urges. I’ve always known who I am. My canvasses, once I’ve completed my handiwork, are an immense source of happiness and pride that few can claim in their lives, and if I have to go through an ordeal like this one in order to defend my achievements, then I will find the strength within me to see it through to the end.
It’s on the third day of surveillance, just as night is starting to fall, that I finally spot Jacques Lambert’s brick-red face in the middle of a bunch of coppers who are moving noisily away from the quayside.
Lambert. He can’t be any more than five foot tall. He has bowed legs and swaggers along the pavement with the gait of a cowboy. His face is round, his hair jet black. There’s something virile about him. The very prototype of a macho Latin bloke. Six of his colleagues surround him, peeling off one by one as they make their way down the street.
Jacques Lambert walks towards a motorbike, and climbs onboard in one single movement. He’s not wearing a helmet. He starts it up and the engine rumbles.
I watch him leave. I’m on foot.
The next day, the exact same thing happens. I watch the main doors to the building and when I see him coming out and making his way towards his Yamaha, I run over to the scooter I rented a little earlier in the afternoon from a salesman who smiled too much. I’m caught in the 7 p.m. traffic jams, but he stays in sight. I stop and watch carefully as he leads his bike into a garage. I wait on the other side of the road. He walks further up the small avenue and enters a grim little building. I spot his name on a letterbox. Now I know where he lives.
Two days later I g
et a lucky break. Until now, Jacques Lambert’s life has been pretty humdrum. He leaves early for work and comes back late at night. I don’t follow him in the daytime. I gave up on that, and there’d be no point – he might see me. I know he travels a lot on various cases I couldn’t care less about, but it’s enough for me to know that at the end of the day, he’s often too tired to go out.
I’m starting to think that if I want to talk to him, I’m going to have to ring his doorbell, but then I see him leaving his building half an hour after entering. He heads back to the garage and gets back on his motorbike. I follow him.
He parks up and walks into a bar. I hesitate for a moment, but then decide to go in.
I find myself in a real dump. And it’s full of police.
9.
The place is full of officers and the sound of laughter is deafening. It reminds me of the little country dives I used to go to as a teen. There are no women in here. When I close the door behind me, all eyes are on me. I’m a stranger. In their world, anyone they don’t know could be up to no good. I’m a suspect.
I can’t see Lambert. He must have made his way further in towards the back. There must be around forty punters in here.
I hate the atmosphere. I hate the arrogant looks. I hate this bar. It’s rough, noisy and filthy. Thick smoke hovers around the yellowing light fittings. The Gitane cigarette rules supreme in this hole and its presence permeates the room. Scraps of paper are strewn across the floor among a dense layer of cigarette stubs.
I’m the new bloke so I’m the focus of attention. I’ll have to blend in with the crowd. I walk over to the bar, lean on my elbows, ignoring the dirt, and call out to the barman. A hirsute man acknowledges me with a tip of his chin. He doesn’t bother with a greeting. I order a pastis and light up a Gauloise.
To my right, I spot a couple of old-timers, already three sheets to the wind. I move towards them discreetly, sliding my hand along the zinc counter, trying to look innocent. When I’m only a few centimetres away, I do my best to listen in on their conversation. Football and Arabs. I think we’ll put the second theme to one side – it’s too dangerous for the moment – but I manage to creep into the conversation. I hear the elder of the two, a man with his baseball cap jammed onto his head so hard that it looks like his ears are about to drop off, sounding off about those ‘Kraut bastards’ who’d beaten us yet again during the World Cup in Mexico a few months back.
I hate football, but it was impossible to escape the media frenzy this summer.
I interrupt. ‘If Rocheteau had played in the semi-final, we’d have had them, wouldn’t we?’
The two men turn towards me. At this point, there are two possibilities: either they won’t like me butting in, or they’ll throw the ball back to me. I shout out for three pastis. That should do it.
I turn to the one in the hat and say: ‘Up for a pastis?’
‘Always!’
‘A pastis it is then! I’m right about Rocheteau though, aren’t I?’
‘Course you are. Stopyra’s good, but he can’t hold his ground.’
I keep on and on and on . . . doing my best to maintain the flow of the conversation. It’s boring me to tears, but I force myself. Believe me, I’d love to just leave. I’m like a fish out of water in here, but I talk, argue, agree with what they say, till these two old men are eating out of my hand. We’re as thick as thieves. I have them firmly in my grasp and I’m not letting go. I buy three more rounds, and before I know it, they’re calling me a ‘good ’un’ and starting to spill the beans.
They both live in the next street. They tell me they’re lucky they bought after the war, before the prices went sky high. They come here every day for a few drinks, alternating between pastis and muscadet. The fact the place is full of policemen doesn’t bother them in the least – on the contrary, they feel honoured. They know them all and get on well with them.
I leave them for a few moments to go to the toilet. I need to make sure Lambert is here. I still haven’t seen him, but then nor have I spotted him leave. Yes, there he is. He’s at the back of the room with his colleagues. I pass by but no one notices.
As I relieve myself, I read some of the graffiti written or engraved on the wall over the urinals. It’s intellectual stuff, all right. It confirms everything I think about these dives. The toilets are so dirty I don’t dare touch the tap. Cigarette butts clog the overflowing sink.
I rejoin my two new friends and chat for another fifteen minutes or so. The old guy in the cap introduces me to a few of the officers but by the time I leave, I’ve lost sight of Lambert so still haven’t made direct contact. At least I’ve managed to find out a bit more about him though, and I’ll be back.
I return to the bar for the next three evenings, get a few drinks in, and become a member of the clan. A regular. Here, anyone with a bottomless wallet is a good mate. That’s fine by me. I can afford to drown them in booze if that’s what it takes.
I learn that Lambert comes by once a week, not always on the same day. He enjoys a skinful with his boys in blue and staggers out at closing time. He’s a once-a-week drunk. He takes care of himself. He has a bit of a reputation as a big mouth. I read between the lines that his badge gives him kudos and the self-esteem he craves.
To keep the barflies happy, I ask the barman to top up their glasses one last time. I need Lambert to come back soon. I’ll need to go home to Nice in just a few days from now. I haven’t made much progress . . . and the copycat is still out there.
I wave my goodbyes and leave the bar. The moon is round and shines bright. Brighter than me. I take a few steps forward and throw my half-smoked cigarette into a trickle of stinking water in the gutter below. Generally speaking, I have abundant belief in myself, but am at such a low point right now that I want nothing more than to shrink down in size and throw myself into this miniature river, to be carried away among all the shit and cigarette butts and see where fate will lead me.
There’s still time to turn and head home to the azure Mediterranean. I want to run back into the soft warm cocoon of my home and wait. Wait for him to make an appearance. Wait for the ‘other one’ to show himself again.
I walk along the docks. It’s not very late, and people are out strolling along the quayside, far from the hustle and bustle of the centre where the crowd always seems to condense into one enormous alien mass, making its way through the heart of the city. I breathe in an air full of hydrocarbons.
I enter the rundown hotel that to my great regret I’ve been forced to stay in and find it difficult to get to sleep. It’s a vicious circle. The longer I wait, the more impatient I become and the less credible I am in my role. I can’t be Robert Morane forever. It’s simply beyond my capabilities.
I wake up in the middle of the night. I’m dripping with sweat. The alarm clock tells me it’s 4 a.m. I get dressed and my clothes stick to my skin. I decide to go for a walk. I want a sexually aggressive woman or a passive man.
There’s no one out on the streets. The immediate surroundings are not particularly well provided for in terms of night-time establishments and I travel through a long desert. I’m panting.
I come across a suspicious-looking fellow who turns his face downwards when he sees me approach. Then I stumble over a tramp who screams at me drunkenly. He swears and waves his arms wildly, but the rest of his words are unintelligible. I continue on my way.
A woman appears on the horizon. She’s on the other side of the street. I look at her and I just know. She’s far away and I can barely see her figure, but I already know she’s beautiful. She’s neither too thin nor too fleshy. I can already imagine her skin.
A shiver runs from the base of my spine and into my skull, where it joins my dark thoughts, and it’s as if I see the light. In fact, I’m bathing in it. I reckon this mysterious passer-by will suit my needs very nicely. My approach is hesitant, and it takes all my effort to slow down my pace and concentrate. I don’t want to attract attention. If Patroclus were with me, he’d
flinch.
We’re nearing each other. Nearly there. She walks past.
She’s even smoother than I might have hoped for.
She’s a canvas.
I’ve already tried to explain to you the feelings that run through me when I meet a canvas. I become quite hysterical, and my inner child comes to the fore. I imagine her blood flowing and her skin tearing. I’ve already told you, reader, that you could well become a canvas on the receiving end of my future blows, but I don’t actually know you. I don’t know if you’re suitable. Suitability is a condition, a quality. She, the ghost of this Parisian night, is most certainly suitable.
She’s around five foot six. It’s hard to estimate her weight, but I think she could do with shifting a few pounds, although I wouldn’t want her to do that because if she did, her skin would lose the very elasticity that I find so appealing. I look over my shoulder. She’s in evening wear – I can see the bottom of her dress beneath a winter fur.
This is a canvas right here.
Yet my last act wasn’t that long ago – not even ten months. If she weren’t precisely what I usually look for, I might manage to stay calm, but my thirst for art is now causing my stomach to churn.
I turn to follow her. She’s ten metres ahead of me. I quickly glance left and right. I’m on full alert. I need to make sure that no one notices me.
I’d like her to be slightly drunk – it would make her less wary of me – but her posture and gait are firm and stable. You must be prudent, Achilles. I try to walk silently, as though gliding over the tarmac, and keep my head down, trying to be as invisible as evanescent smoke.
I don’t know where we are and I don’t know where we’re going. I pay scant attention to the names of the streets and the buildings along the way. My entire focus is on my next canvas.
She turns left. She walks. She forks to the right with no hesitation. Her pace doesn’t slacken.
A Killer's Game Page 7
