Patroclus is so far away. If she’s the right one, I’ll have to go and fetch him.
The plans form rapidly in my tormented mind. I’m not there yet, and it might be several more weeks before I can draw on her.
I’m pleased this has happened in Paris. I’ve never killed in the capital.
Cannes, Béziers, Bayonne, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Lyon and Lille, but never Paris. And, of course, I’m not counting Montpellier because that business had nothing to do with me.
The police have never made the link between the murders committed in Cannes and Béziers and those officially attributed to me. According to the police and the press, The Artist has killed five times.
My potential seventh victim is still walking.
I’m breathing faster, probably with stage fright. She ends up – as do I – on the Quai de Gesvres. Jesus, I know this place . . . We cross the bridge at Notre-Dame and then turn right onto the Quai de la Corse.
And I give up. My cheeks are burning with fear, burning with fury, burning with shame. I hiccup and have trouble swallowing my saliva. I’d like to punch the walls until my fists bleed, but someone would see me. The woman and I are heading straight for the heart of Ile de la Cité, where there are more police officers than you can shake a stick at. It’s as if they’re breeding there. I’d be walking straight into the lion’s den. Walk where everyone’s watching, Achilles, and your fall will be all the faster.
I turn back, hissing under my breath, then retrace my steps along the same roads that led me here, glancing up at the same facades. I’ve lost my canvas. She’ll live another day and will never witness the awe-inspiring slashes of Patroclus.
And as for me – I’m in a void. I’m about to lose everything, especially the precarious balance that holds me to humanity. I’m lost, a tightrope walker without a wire, whose fall will end in a cloud of dust when I hit the ground. I’m in shock and grinding my teeth.
I pass the tramp I accidentally tripped over earlier. He’s sleeping now. He smells of alcohol even from several metres away and I’m dying to take out all my rage and disappointment on him. He’s not like me. He’s a Robert Morane who’s rushed to the bottom of the abyss, rejoicing at the dregs in which he’s wallowing. This man is the very opposite of what I am in terms of refinement and control.
I need to come to my senses and get away from here now.
10.
Monday, 5 January 1987
I’ve been away, but I’m back now and looking for the way out.
Jacques Lambert knocks his pastis back in one. He’s already drunk and it isn’t even dinner time. In about half an hour, these men propping up the bar will head home to the family table and enjoy whatever their poor wives have cobbled together.
I’m living the life all right. I only got back to Paris yesterday and feel as though the powers that be are on my side. Two weeks in Nice did me the world of good. I’m not quite myself yet, but I do feel better.
On Saturday, I went over to Jean-Paul’s house. He asked me at great length about business in Montpellier, and once again the discussion turned to the murder of Caroline Berthier. I find it curious that he’s quite so insistent, but then again I’m hardly objective on the subject. I have to admit that it actually even helps to have a conversation with Jean-Paul about the case. It allows me to gain a better overview of events.
There aren’t too many people in the bar tonight. I wasn’t feeling too hopeful when I came in, but on seeing Lambert I convince myself that Lady Luck might finally be smiling down on me.
I’d say there are around half as many people as usual – about fifteen officers in total. We’re nearing the end of the holidays and the time is not yet ripe for endless nights out, it would seem.
Lambert is talking to a man a little younger than himself. They’re leaning against the bar, sipping aperitifs. I take a stool to his left.
Quarter of an hour passes and Lambert finds himself alone when his sidekick suddenly remembers he has to go home for dinner. Naturally Lambert readjusts his position and is now facing in my direction. He’s finishing his pastis and I suspect he’ll be leaving soon.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ I say.
Lambert hesitates a moment. He frowns, searching through his sozzled brain to see if he can remember my face. Then he nods.
‘Pastis?’
‘Yeah. Do we know each other?’ he replies, on his guard.
‘I think we’ve had a brief chat just the once, that’s all.’
‘In here?’
‘Yeah. I like this bar. Not many in tonight though.’
‘No, it’s always like this in early January. You from around here?’
‘No, I’m up on business. I don’t think we’ve met properly, have we? I’m Robert Morane.’
I hold out a hand to him and he squeezes it softly.
‘Jacques Lambert. Business, you say? What kind of business are you in?’
‘Sales. I’m a rep.’
‘Representing what?’
‘Loads of things. Have you seen Les Galettes de Pont-Aven with Jean-Pierre Marielle?’
‘The guy who sells umbrellas and fucks anything that moves?’
‘That’s the one. Well, that’s what I do for a living. I sell toothpaste, food, stuff like that.’
‘D’you make good money?’
‘Can’t complain and I get to travel a lot – I like that part. What about you?’
‘I’m in the force.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘There’s a lot of plods come in here. Sorry! I said “plod”! I didn’t mean to be rude or anything . . .’
‘No worries. I am a plod. There, I’ve said it now.’
‘So what exactly do you do then?’
‘I’m a detective.’
‘Really? Like in the films? Do you go after murderers and all that?’
‘Well . . . There’s more paperwork than people think.’
One thing leads to another as we free ourselves of the need for caution, as people do when they get to know each other. Our tongues loosen and we start to converse with casual ease.
Lambert is in a right sorry state. I can tell from his pale complexion, his tired face and that strained look. Everything about him screams mediocrity. He’s dressed without any effort at taste, in shapeless clothes that don’t quite fit. His black hair is peppered with dandruff that flies around him in a cloud when he makes any sudden head movements. His face is serrated, with a sharp-angled chin.
‘Tell me, Jacques . . . What kind of cases are you working on then?’
I’m going for a first-name approach here. This should help me assess just how far I can go.
His chest swells with pride as he answers. ‘Put it this way: I don’t stick parking tickets on windows. I investigate crimes.’
‘Really? Proper crimes?’
‘Yeah.’
We continue the conversation. The thick carpet of cigarette stubs at my feet absorbs the splashes of anyone who drinks too vigorously.
‘Oh, Jacques, you’re going to have to go home, aren’t you?’
‘Home?’
‘Well, yeah! It’s gonna be dinner time. Your wife will be waiting, won’t she?’
‘A wife? Me with a wife? Told you I was a policeman, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah . . . but . . .’
‘Policemen don’t have wives, not for long anyway. It’s not even worth a try when you do the job we do.’
‘So you live on your own?’
‘Yeah. I shag a lot of women though, believe me, but I don’t have one at home nagging at me for coming back late.’
I pretend to ponder a while on what he’s just said, then finally I invite him to dinner, and he accepts. He tells me about a small brasserie at the end of the street where we’ll be made to feel more than welcome. We step outside and I can see Lambert’s drunk. He stumbles and steadies himself against a lamppost while I tease him with a slap on the back.
‘Hey,
Jacques! You gonna be all right?’
‘I’ll be just fine.’
I light a Gauloise and hold out the packet to him. In the dim light the smoke looks brown as it rises up towards the starry sky. I follow Lambert to the restaurant. As we walk in through the door, the manager rushes over and bows several times.
Lambert introduces me and we sit at a table set apart from the other diners.
‘Jacques, let me pay for this. You can have anything you want and I won’t take any refusals, OK?’
Lambert winks at me. I pretend to be surprised. Lambert pouts in response.
‘Don’t worry, Robert,’ he explains in a mocking tone. ‘Neither of us is paying. I’m entitled to a few perks in this restaurant.’
‘Perks?’
‘I’ve saved the boss a shedload of money in my time, so I can eat my fill in here, and tonight, you are my guest.’
‘Except . . .’
‘What?’
‘Jacques, I’m embarrassed! I wanted to pay for us both. I wanted to do it.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Robert.’
‘Fine. I’ll pay some other time. Agreed?’
‘As you wish.’
We order the special. To my surprise, the boeuf bourguignon we’re given is absolutely fine. As someone who only frequents Michelin-starred or otherwise renowned restaurants, I expected to find some sort of obscure, inedible mush on my plate, but this is not the case. We wash it down with a pitcher of table wine that should have just been sold as vinegar. Never mind. I don’t want to drink too much anyway.
Lambert is out of his skull. After downing a hot coffee, I help him up. He asks me to have a nightcap with him, but I politely decline on the pretext that I have an appointment very early the next day. He doesn’t take offence.
We agree to have dinner together on Thursday evening in a restaurant of my choice. I’ll be his guide. He trusts me.
With a jerky step, Lambert heads off. I can hear him laughing as he goes.
I make my way back to my hotel.
My back is straight as I walk and I feel truly once more on the path to my destiny. The scent of victory hovers in the air and I become who I really am once more: The Artist.
11.
Thursday, 8 January 1987
I am The Artist again.
The place I’ve chosen, L’Auberge des Mille Saveurs, has been in my address book for a very long time. Achilles, the other me, the real me, wanted to see what it was like after a friend recommended it, but he – I – haven’t ever had the chance. It’s Robert Morane who will go in the end.
‘Hey, Robert, are you sure you want to go? This type of restaurant costs an absolute fortune. You sure you can afford it?’
I smile at Lambert. ‘It’s fine, Jacques. Come on! I’ve booked!’
He gives me a get-out on principle, but I think that the promise of this evening is having the desired effect.
So what’s this Lambert like, then? He is a typical police officer: hectic and devoid of all subtlety. His weaknesses are hidden under the self-importance that such status bestows on a fellow. I know this man so well, even though I’ve only just met him. He eats cassoulet out of a tin, has been drinking the same brand of beer for twenty years (the cheapest), eats in front of his TV, takes the mickey out of his boss in front of his easily impressed colleagues, plays the saviour with victims who think they’ve been rescued, has a flutter on the horses, listens to very loud music and masturbates at full throttle with pornographic magazines he buys every week in a newsagent’s far away from where he lives.
Lambert doesn’t eat, he inhales his food, and it’s crap food at that. It’s quite likely that he’s never bought a fresh vegetable in his life, and the only fruit he consumes are the fermented grapes he’s made a regular habit of drinking. He buys cheap plonk (that would burn the most hardened of throats) at the grocer’s across the street and serves it in one of those glasses you get free with a jar of mustard. He swirls the revolting liquid around and sniffs at it because he’s seen some sommelier do it on TV.
But tonight, he’s my best friend and I do as he does. I chuckle at his smutty jokes and agree with him wholeheartedly when he blames the Arabs for all France’s problems. When he pronounces the word ‘France’ his accent suddenly turns upper class. He’ll have heard it said that way in some debate on one of the late evening shows.
It must be a police thing – to believe that Arabs are the root of all evil. Unemployment? It’s the Arabs’ fault. Crime? The Arabs. Why’s it all gone wrong for Matra Racing? There were a load of Arabs shouting in the stadium last Saturday and they distracted the players.
When I left my musty hotel earlier, I’d just stepped out when I had to turn straight round and head back to my room. The problem was my outfit. Without really noticing what I’d done, I’d dressed like I do when I normally dine in a fancy restaurant, but I’m supposed to be Robert Morane, not Achilles. Morane doesn’t even own a good suit. He dresses in practical clothing from cheap menswear shops. So I put on some cords, despite the protests from my body, and wore a jacket over my shirt – the same jacket I’ve been wearing every day since I first started with this whole new identity thing.
Nothing is going as well as it should. We look like beggars in a palace. The maître d’ leads us over to the small round oak table reserved for us, and I have to bite back a sarcastic comment when I realise quite how impressed Lambert is with this place. He leans back to admire the frescoes on the ceiling.
‘Hey, Robert, this is classy, isn’t it?’
I nod in agreement.
We order braised guinea fowl and winter vegetables from the waiter – who can’t be any more than twenty. When it arrives, it’s absolutely divine.
I start by talking about anything and everything. I try to take an interest in his life. I ask a few innocent questions. He seems intrigued that I can enjoy the road and the loneliness that goes with it. Then, inevitably, it’s his work that comes to the fore.
‘So, Jacques, how about you? How’s the job?’
‘Well . . . it’s still the same old shit, you know. Every time we catch one bastard, the next one comes along. We’re too soft on crime . . .’
‘And there aren’t enough of you, are there? That’s what your colleagues say whenever I see them on TV.’
‘Oh yeah, we’re short of people, that’s true enough, and all the thugs out there are better organised and better equipped than we are.’
‘You said you have to work on more than one case at the same time?’
‘Yeah.’
It has to come from him. Everything he reveals must be on his own initiative. I don’t think I even dare direct him to the specific subject I want him to address.
‘But do you work on the serious stuff? The big news stories?’
‘Course I do.’
‘Wow, that’s amazing. What – even murders?’
‘Course . . . I’m in Homicide. That’s all I do! All I get is murder cases!’
‘What? Are you in charge of murder cases in Paris?’
‘Mainly, except my team also gets to work on broader national cases, but . . . well, mostly I do the admin. I’ve done a bit of fieldwork but I’m finished with all that now. Not that I’m avoiding it – I gave it all I could, but to be honest, I’m not as keen to take risks as when I first started.’
I pretend to be captivated. He goes on for three or four minutes about how he spends his days.
‘And what’s the biggest case you’ve ever had?’
‘The biggest case? Mesrine – though I wasn’t really in the team that dealt with him – and the one we’re on right now: The Artist.’
‘The Artist? You’re working on that?’
‘That’s right . . . We’re spending most of our time on it.’
‘It’s all anyone ever bangs on about! He’s the one who draws on women, isn’t he? He draws famous places on them?’
‘Yeah. He’s a fucking freak, let me tell you . . . I can’t wait to take h
im down.’
I don’t react to these insults. I’m Robert Morane and Robert Morane has not just been insulted.
‘You anywhere near catching him?’
‘I just don’t know. We had a nice lead and thought we had him but it didn’t work out. We’re a bit in the shit right now. The pressure’s on. You would not believe it . . .’
‘He killed someone fairly recently, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. A woman in Montpellier, God rest her soul.’
We clink our glasses together. I don’t intend to stay in Paris for long, but I need to know more, and I need to know it now.
‘D’you have any idea who he is at all?’
‘Nothing concrete.’
‘I bet that’s tough. Are your bosses on your back?’
‘Well . . . Those pricks can shout as much as they like. For what we get paid, I don’t see why we should work our arses off more than them. We’ll get him eventually. You see, Robert, the problem with these nutjobs is they can’t stop, so there always comes a day when they do something stupid and we catch up with them.’
Silence. If I insist too much, he’ll think it’s odd, but there’s no way I’m letting Lambert go. He’s too drunk for me not to take advantage. My obsequiousness towards him is a work of art, which proves once again that my nickname fits me like a glove. You may not know this, but worship and praise are the most powerful drugs available. Once you get a sniff, you cannot do without it.
We leave the restaurant and I help steady Lambert as he stumbles into the reception desk. If I wasn’t dressed as I am, I’d be more ashamed than I have ever been in my entire life. But I am not Achilles, and Robert Morane doesn’t care what the wealthy and aristocratic clientele of this luxury establishment in which we’re intruders may think of him. Lambert is a tick on the pelt of a Great Dane, a simple mite that might cause one to itch. I, the Great Dane in this scenario, have learned to flatter him, and I do it most convincingly. I also understand these posh fools, shocked that a lout such as Lambert should dare to walk among them.
My policeman friend tells me he’s going to take a taxi. He needs to go home, in all honesty, but I convince him to come for a nightcap.
A Killer's Game Page 8
