A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

  So he decides, almost a decade after working together on a successful contract, to start decimating my client portfolio.

  He must have called me at the beginning of 1986. We spoke on the phone every January to wish each other a happy new year. I don’t remember the conversation we had at the time, but he may have asked more than usual about how business was going. I bet it’s not all that hard to get a list of my clients. In general, sales reps are discreet about this type of thing, but it’s not impossible to find out and obtain such information.

  What must have been going on in that jealous little brain of his? He’s a real green-eyed monster. He must have been so angry.

  Oh, I don’t need to play the amateur psychologist here. I can easily imagine that after living at his level of mediocrity for so many years, he felt frustrated. Maybe when we were working together, he thought we’d become long-term partners?

  Nonetheless he must have been at the drawing board even then. He coveted my contracts and started following me.

  At the beginning of March 1986, when I went to Lille to kill Françoise Laville, he must have tailed me. Maybe he was already following me when I went to study the place, long before I did the deed.

  He watched me with customers in Paris, then up in Lille. Maybe he was outside, in front of Françoise Laville’s building, while Patroclus was dancing upon the young woman’s belly?

  When the press talked about the case, I bet he gathered all the information available and came to understand that I am The Artist.

  He’s following me.

  I confessed to you already that from time to time, I go to the woods in Grasse – even when I’m not about to create a masterpiece – to take Patroclus in my hand, to allow him to breathe in some fresh air. Jean-Paul must have followed me on one of these occasions and discovered where I hide the tools of my trade.

  When I walked away, he dug them up and went to Montpellier. Meanwhile, I was vegetating up in Strasbourg. I had no idea what was going on behind my back.

  Jean-Paul knew my methods because they were so detailed in the press. He killed Caroline Berthier while wearing my shoes, which convinced the investigators that the young woman’s death – even if the style of drawing on her belly may be different from mine – is indeed The Artist’s work.

  The burning question is: why?

  Why is he doing this? If he’s angry with me or envious of me, then why wouldn’t he take it out on me directly?

  But I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s thinking. Human beings are vicious balls with arms, legs, sometimes testicles and a brain, but the sum of these parts is incomprehensible. What’s going on in that insane brain of his? I’ll never know.

  I think back to how he answered me earlier during our phone conversation. I try to analyse the tone of his voice, his responses, his stammering.

  ‘You don’t know what I’m capable of. You have no idea who I really am.’

  ‘Actually, Achilles, I do know.’

  That’s what he said.

  ‘Jean-Paul, I don’t want us to ever cross paths again. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it’s understood, but you don’t know who I am either . . .’

  That’s what he said before I hung up.

  I’m not the type to procrastinate. A little trip to Lyon it is then.

  I’m starting to suffocate in this wardrobe, but I now understand what has put me in this state. I’m not operating in the way I usually do. I have no concrete alibi to spare me the sleepless nights watching through the window of my apartment for the arrival of flashing blue lights and the shrieking sound of a siren spitting out its disapproval. I’ve not studied the surroundings meticulously. There’s been no rehearsal. I’ve taken no photos. And furthermore, Patroclus is conspicuous by his absence. When he’s not here, I feel outnumbered.

  To say that I’m not in my element is an understatement.

  Since the beginning of this confession, I’ve tried to be honest, my dear canvas. I’ve shown you the darkest side of my personality, sparing you neither my faults nor, to be fair, my qualities, and I’m sorry about that . . .

  You know me. You know I like control. The course of events must never escape me, and yet I’m about to go out on a limb here.

  I feel helpless, fragile, timid.

  There’s the sound of a key slipping into the lock and I feel my balls shrivel.

  I’m hot and the sweat is running down my back. Saliva builds up in my mouth, but I daren’t swallow for fear of making a gulping sound that would warn my target of my presence.

  I even had trouble picking the lock, which just goes to show that I’m not in good shape right now. That’s how the best of us get caught. Most criminals are arrested because they do something careless, and mistakes are only made if you’re not fully prepared. It’s better to postpone your work if you don’t feel it in your gut. The feeling – that’s what it’s all about.

  I can hear some shuffling noises. Jean-Paul is tipping something onto his desk. He’s rummaging around in the drawer. I’m trying to guess what he’s doing. Is he taking his shoes off? Will he throw his keys onto the dresser? Is he hanging his overcoat on the coat rack?

  What does a single man do alone at home on Christmas Eve? Is this all he’s doing tonight? Staying in? When I saw him at home in Nice last year, he told me he was forcing himself to spend Christmas on his own, so as not to forget how awful it was to be single. As far as I know he’s still single, so he’ll be staying here. I just know it.

  A strange feeling starts to overwhelm me. I know my quest is drawing to an end. I should focus on the next few minutes, but I can’t help thinking about tomorrow – provided there is a tomorrow.

  I have slipped up. I, The Artist, the master of organisation, the aesthete, the methodical and meticulous battler, have failed.

  A man has managed to deceive me, and it’s taken a combination of circumstances for me to thwart his plans, and because of that, I fear for my future. If Jean-Paul Malanceau, a rather mediocre fellow, could identify me as The Artist, then why couldn’t a much sharper detective do the same?

  My thoughts come to an abrupt end when the door of the wardrobe suddenly opens. I wasn’t expecting that. I was too lost in my thoughts to hear Jean-Paul approaching.

  We find ourselves face to face. Neither of us moves.

  Then my arm shoots forwards, and the blade of the knife I stole from a kitchen drawer sinks into his belly. The sound of the dagger as it enters his body is shocking. It’s as if I’m pressing down on soft, spongy foliage.

  Jean-Paul’s eyes open wide. He holds his breath, and his rib cage swells visibly through his shirt, then he staggers as he grips the handle of the weapon still stuck in his stomach.

  He falls onto his back and lies motionless. I get down on my knees and crawl over to his right-hand side. His eyes search for my own, begging. He tries to open his mouth, but no words come out. Panic is written all over his features.

  ‘Achilles . . .’

  His voice is weak. There’s barely a breath.

  ‘Achilles . . .’

  I feel no glory in what I’ve just done. This has nothing to do with what Patroclus and I do together. Without the pretext of art, I have just committed a dirty and ignoble act. There’s no greatness in it.

  ‘Achilles . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Jean-Paul. I had to do it.’

  ‘You’ve . . . hurt me . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I . . . What did you do to me?’

  ‘I stabbed you. You have a knife stuck in your abdomen.’

  ‘Achilles . . . Call . . .’

  I shake my head from left to right.

  ‘No, Jean-Paul. I’m not going to call an ambulance. You asked for it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I . . . Achilles . . .’

  ‘My clients . . . Caroline Berthier . . . I don’t know why you did it. Were you jealous?’

  ‘Achilles . . . You have to call . . .’

  ‘Answer me. Why did
you do it?’

  ‘It hurts . . .’

  ‘Why did you pretend to be me?’

  ‘Achilles . . .’

  ‘Were you jealous of me? Huh? Is that it? Say it and I’ll call an ambulance. You’ve always been jealous of me, haven’t you? Have you always envied me? Since we worked together that time?’

  ‘Achilles . . . Yes . . . Yes . . .’

  ‘Yes? Yes, what?’

  ‘I was jealous . . . I knew I could do what you do . . .’

  ‘Who knows about this? Jean-Paul, answer me and I’ll call an ambulance Who knows about this? Who knows I’m The Artist? Who did you tell?’

  He remains tight-lipped.

  ‘Jean-Paul, just spit it out and it will all be over. Who knew about it? Did you talk to the police?’

  ‘No . . . Achilles, call . . .’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone about this?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘And what were you going to do next? Carry on with the copycat routine? Take me head-on?’

  Jean-Paul frowns and looks as though he’s about to cry. Then he takes his last breath with a sigh.

  It’s a terrible sight. I should have taken him in my arms. I, who have emptied pints and pints of blood down drains when slitting my victims’ throats, now feel thoroughly nauseous.

  Sometimes these things are inexplicable. I don’t know if Jean-Paul wrote down what he knew about me somewhere. Before he got home, I searched his apartment but found nothing.

  Who knows who I really am?

  30.

  Sunday, 27 December 1987

  I know who I am. No matter how clumsy I’ve been, I know I’m smarter than the average person. Living with doubt is no easy task, but I can just about cope with it. I can live with the risk. It’s time to go home.

  After Jean-Paul’s murder, I spend Christmas alone, in a dreadful little guest house. I don’t know if it will help if I come under suspicion, but I have an alibi, even if it’s somewhat incomplete. Hopefully, the owner of the guest house won’t be able to remember precisely what time I arrived. On the bill for the poorly refrigerated minibar, I write down a few fictitious times. It won’t hold up in a court of law, of course, but it could divert police attention. We’ll see . . .

  Then, instead of returning home on the twenty-sixth like a complete idiot, I seek refuge in Limoges, taking care to avoid any motorways, and now, finally, I have made it back to Nice.

  I climb the stairs and enter my apartment. Claire comes out of the bathroom and throws herself into my arms. She looks thoroughly panic-stricken.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Achilles?’

  ‘I told you on the phone. I was in Limoges.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me where I could reach you? I had no way of contacting you . . .’

  ‘But . . . we never do that?’

  ‘We do! Usually you tell me where you’ll be. You’ve even given me the phone numbers of the hotels in the past so I can call you if I need to. Why did you just disappear like that?’

  ‘It’s OK, Claire . . . I explained to you that I’ve been having some problems at work. I’m going to have to go back at some point . . .’

  ‘Achilles, the police have been here . . .’

  Shit. I take a step back. ‘What? The police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When? When did they come?’

  ‘On the 26th. Achilles, my God . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . . Jean-Paul is dead.’

  ‘Dead? Is that why they came?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did they say exactly?’

  ‘Not much. They were looking for you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. They must have learned that you two were friends and that you sometimes worked together. I confirmed that we’d seen Jean-Paul recently. Listen, it’s horrible . . . He was killed. Jean-Paul was murdered.’

  ‘Killed? You mean . . . it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘No, someone killed him at home in Lyon.’

  ‘In his house? But that’s just awful . . . Have they arrested anyone?’

  ‘No, they’re still looking for him.’

  ‘Do they have any leads?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . They didn’t tell me much.’

  The police officers have made the connection between Jean-Paul Malanceau and me. In truth, there’s nothing surprising about that. I never thought my name would escape this investigation, but I didn’t think they would find me so quickly. Unless they seriously suspect me. After all, all they need do is contact Jean-Paul’s clients to find out that we’d recently had a feud of sorts.

  But they didn’t come here with handcuffs. They wanted to talk to me.

  I’m feeling very uncomfortable and my head is starting to spin, but it’s not me who’s odd, it’s the world. This world is all wrong. I’m normal. I am. I’m just an artist who refuses to repress his desire to put all the rage and beauty he has inside down onto canvas. I’m cursed. I’m misunderstood. I’m the toughest man around.

  ‘Achilles? Sit down. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

  ‘You look so pale. Sit over there.’

  I hear sobs. No, not that . . .

  I turn to Claire to reassure her, but her face is dry. Where is that sound of sobbing coming from? It’s me. I’m crying.

  ‘I’m going to have to leave, Claire.’

  ‘No! Achilles, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m going, but I’ll be back. I should be back on . . . Look, I can’t tell you too much. I have some worries at work, that’s all, but I don’t want to involve you in this . . . Stay here and wait for me, OK?’

  ‘No! Achilles, you can’t . . .’

  I push her away. I’m not violent with her, but I push her firmly. Claire falls back into the chair and shuts up.

  There are several options available to me at this point. I can go and see the police off my own bat and answer their questions, although that would require me to be capable of deception, and I’ve never in my life felt more insecure. Normally, I’d be able to fool anyone but my world is crumbling. Everything is going wrong . . .

  What do the police know? Maybe they know more than they told Claire? Anything is possible. I always thought I was careful enough not to get caught, but Jean-Paul discovered I was a killer – a simpleton like Jean-Paul! And even if I was pretty sure of what I was doing, it’s possible the police have identified him as the one responsible for Caroline Berthier’s murder. Through Jean-Paul, could they then establish the link with me?

  I have to get to safety. I’m a sales rep, and sales reps travel around France. There’s nothing odd about going for a drive. I can leave right now and let some time pass to better prepare myself. I need to breathe and think. If the investigators get their hands on me, I will always be able to explain that I fled Nice because of my business and that under no circumstances did I want to avoid questioning.

  And the evidence . . . The backpack with my gloves, the shoes and Patroclus . . . There . . . in our room . . . In our apartment. For safety, I’d gone to get them before going up to Grenoble. When the police were talking to Claire, they were standing just a few metres from it.

  ‘Claire . . . did the police search the apartment?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Answer me! Did they search the apartment while they were here?’

  ‘No . . . I mean . . . I mean, why would they do that?’

  ‘Stay there!’

  I rush into the bedroom. In the wardrobe, behind a pile of clothes I no longer wear, I find the famous evidence. My gloves are like the helmet that cradles the golden mane of Achilles; my shoes are like Hephaestus’ shield.

  I knew it. If the police had discovered them, they’d have handcuffed me before I got out of the Mercedes. The fall of Troy . . .

  I have to throw away my shoes and gloves. They’re of no use to me now. I can’t end up in a cell because of them. But I can’t let go of Pa
troclus. I can get rid of or destroy the backpack containing the size 9s and the old worn gloves, but there is no way I will betray my faithful companion.

  I pass in front of the mirror. The man looking back at me has tired red eyes. He’s tall, fairly handsome, slim. He’s looking a little unkempt, which shows just how much pressure he’s under. This tension goes up and down, up and down, but with each curve, it climbs a little higher than before.

  I come back to the lounge, grab the suitcase, and walk towards Claire. I want to kiss her on the lips. A simple kiss just to thank her for being there, but she falls into my arms, crying.

  ‘Claire, I’m sorry, but I have to go. Try and trust me.’

  ‘Achilles, what’s wrong? This isn’t normal . . . You’re acting . . . strange . . .’

  ‘I have to leave. It’s business, but I’ll be back soon. Promise.’

  ‘Is it because of the police? Should I be worried?’

  ‘Huh? Not at all . . . Why do you say that?’

  ‘I know that’s what it is. I can tell!’

  ‘No! Look, I’m not feeling very well . . . I have a headache . . . I have to go. I’ll call you, OK?’

  ‘No, Achilles! Stay with me!’

  I grab her by the forearms.

  ‘Claire, listen to me carefully. I haven’t done anything wrong. If the police come back . . . If they come back, tell them I left because of my work. Tell them I’m really upset that Jean-Paul has died. Will you say that?’

  ‘Are they coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I suppose everyone is a suspect at this point. They have to run their investigation . . . There’s been a murder. Any of us could be a suspect . . . Even me . . .’

  ‘No, Achilles! They won’t suspect you! You . . .’

  Claire screams. She falls to her knees and clings to my thighs.

  ‘Claire! Let go of me!’

  ‘They’ll never find out.’

  ‘I have to go now.’

  ‘They’ll never know it was you.’

  ‘Me? Me what? Claire? Why did you say that? Claire, you don’t think . . . Claire, do you think I killed Jean-Paul? But, Claire . . .’

  I can’t see at this point that her face is bathed in tears. Her cheek is glued to my leg. She hugs me so tightly that I’m unable to free myself from her embrace.