The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “The torch is a small model. A ‘mini G 50,’ made by Triton, serial number 13269 6235 KL 349. Its beam is extremely concentrated and it is switched on by a simple twist of the top. It’s powered by four AA, 1.5 volt alkaline batteries.”

  Lieutenant Richard from forensics rested his elbow on a large microscope, wrinkled his nose, and looked at de Palma and Vidal over the top of his half-moon glasses.

  “It’s the kind of lamp that you can hang off the strap of a diving mask,” he said. “I’ve got one, and I use it for hunting. It means you can get a good view while keeping your hands free. Some divers wear two, one on each side … They work for about an hour, no more … as long as they have new batteries.”

  “Is that all?” de Palma asked.

  “Hang on, Michel. This all takes time!”

  Richard picked up the knife and examined it.

  “This is a Lagoon Legend, by Seafirst. Serial number: K6-2216. A fine weapon and an expensive one … very expensive! They cost about 800 euros. The blade is fourteen centimeters long, the longest on the market … It has a double blade, with a notch for cutting lines … And a flexible handle, which is very comfortable to use … Stainless steel type 431 AISI, which never rusts.”

  “What about …”

  Richard placed the knife on his work table next to some jars containing scalp samples.

  “Not a single fingerprint or pubic hair, if that’s what you mean. Nothing, my poor Michel … nothing at all. It’s spent too long at the bottom of the sea.”

  “Can you give me a rough idea of how long it was down there?”

  “According to what the coastguards have said, and the micro-organisms found on the knife’s handle, it would seem logical to deduce that these objects were both lost in the depths four or five months ago, no more.”

  “No traces of blood? Zero?”

  “Zero, boss … stop dreaming!”

  The technician picked up the knife again and turned it in front of his eyes. Its top edge was slightly serrated.

  “It’s brand new. Not a scratch on it, nothing at all. The blade is perfect. This knife has never been used. Never. What’s more, it’s a recent model. It came out in May last year. The real innovation is the stainless-steel reinforcement at the end of the handle.”

  Vidal jotted down Richard’s conclusions, then drew de Palma to one side.

  “Do you want me to check out suppliers of diving equipment?”

  “You’re going to have to, son. You never know. We’ll see about that tomorrow.”

  Richard held out the envelope containing the photographs taken during the dive.

  “The quality isn’t great, but you can still see the scratches on the large cube. It’s obvious …”

  De Palma looked at them for some time. With the tip of his pen, he showed Vidal the marks in the concrete.

  “He must have tried to lever it with a crowbar,” Richard said.

  “Is that possible thirty-eight meters down?”

  “Perfectly, Michel. Underwater, objects are in fact lighter.”

  Vidal fanned the air with the photos.

  “But you’d have to be a really good diver to do things like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes indeed, Maxime,” the technician replied, sitting at his desk. “You’d have to be extremely good! I’ve been diving for ten years, but I wouldn’t play at being a miner at that depth.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too dangerous, Maxime … that kind of underwater work is for the experts. If you make the slightest mistake with the length of the dive, the decompression stops and what have you, you end up as fish food.”

  “All of which might explain Luccioni’s death,” mused de Palma.

  13.

  Christine Autran’s flat on Boulevard Chave smelled musty. At 10:00 a.m., de Palma, Vidal and three technicians from forensics arrived for a thorough search.

  The Baron headed straight for the prehistorian’s study; he had decided to look at that first. He recognized the multicolored folders. There were no messages on the answering machine, which raised his worst fears.

  These were confirmed when he opened the first drawer. Empty. Nervously he opened two others. They were empty as well. The documents he had seen during his initial visit were no longer there. He tried to remember them: sketches, photos, topographical surveys, the sorts of things that would be important. Important enough for someone to break in despite the risk of being spotted by Yvonne Barbier. And yet the old dear had just told him that she had seen no-one and heard nothing. He assumed that the thief must have been familiar with both the flat and the old lady’s nosiness. He had not even bothered to make his visit look like a classic burglary. He must have had the keys.

  De Palma cursed himself in fury, but it was too late. The documents he had come to get, which were certainly vital evidence, had gone. Before leaving, he glanced around the study, then went into the small bedroom which served as a library. Hundreds of books were lined up before him. Le Geste et la Parole by Leroi-Gourhan, the same author’s dictionary of prehistory, a collective work entitled Art et Civilisations des Chasseurs de la Préhistoire, Taïeb’s Sur la Terre des Premiers Hommes … The books contained pink, green or red markers: A4 pages folded in half or in three on which Christine Autran had noted down observations and criticisms in her agitated handwriting. He came across La Grotte Le Guen by Palestro and Autran, a handsome, coffee-table book with a beautiful jacket and sumptuous color prints. He sat down on a sky-blue Formica stool and began to leaf through it.

  An overview of the creeks took up a double page. Cape Sugiton was a huge arc of cliffs jutting into the sea, then there were the white and rusty-red faces of La Triperie, the summits overlooking Morgiou and, in the distance, lines of limestone that stretched to the horizon.

  On the next page, a drawing showed the same landscape thousands of years before. Men were hunting a monk seal on the seashore, a large deer was cocking a cautious ear, and there were horses and bison. The caption read: “The landscape of the Le Guen Cave in the era of Upper Paleolithic man. The red circle marks the entrance to the cave. At the time, it lay seven kilometers away from the coast.”

  Two pages later, Palestro and Autran could be seen deep in conversation on the bridge of L’Archéonaute, the D.R.A.S.M. boat. Palestro appeared to be asking Christine about something which lay out of frame. A little further on, there was Palestro in a wetsuit, his hair dripping, posing beside Le Guen inside the cave. Intrigued and enthusiastic, de Palma skimmed through the text, cursing his lack of time. He also cursed his profession, which excluded him from all this.

  He came across a chapter entitled “Nature, Man and Animals in the Era of the Le Guen Cave.” On the left-hand page, there was a large image of horses with their hoofs in the water, as though crossing a motionless stream. The caption read: “The great horse mural. Samples of carbon pigment taken directly from the paintings indicate a date of approximately 18,000 years ago.”

  As he flicked through the pages, he saw bison, aurochs and a large black horse painted on the ceiling. Palestro and Autran had included drawings to explain how prehistoric men went about painting the walls and ceilings of their decorated caves.

  Vidal interrupted his reading.

  “Do you want us to take anything with us, Michel?”

  “I’ve no idea. Let’s see if there’s anything, maybe a piece of paper slipped into one of these books.”

  “That’ll take hours! There are papers everywhere.”

  “What do you expect me to say? What about you, have you found anything?”

  “Nothing of real interest. Various fingerprints. Some are comparable. Others not. But we think they may belong to just two people. It’s merely a theory at this stage. It’s as though only two people ever came here.”

  “That’s far from nothing!”

  “You think so?”

  “It tells us a lot about our lady’s character, and the fact that she invariably entertained the same person. Where did you fin
d the second prints?”

  “More or less everywhere. In the kitchen, the salon, the loo … Everywhere.”

  “An intimate friend, then. We’ll have to take this further. Anything else?”

  “No, apart from the answering machine … No messages, which is odd.”

  “What do you conclude from that?”

  “It bugs me. I have the impression that someone came here before us.”

  “Exactly, my boy. On my first visit, I thought exactly the same thing.”

  “Really?”

  “The worst of it is that since then I’ve phoned five times leaving messages saying that I was a friend or a student … at various times, which I noted down.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “The day before yesterday, at midnight …”

  “So we can conclude that our man, or woman, has been here in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Brilliant, Vidal! You’re starting to turn into an ace!”

  “O.K., Michel, leave it out. I haven’t got your experience.”

  “It will come, kid. Just try and surprise me.”

  “We’ll have to check out all the people who have called this number. And then see if anyone has phoned from here.”

  “Now you’re talking … What else? In your opinion, why did our visitor erase the messages?”

  “Because they pointed to him. Because the person who broke in here obviously killed Christine Autran. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “You’re right. Feelings of guilt pushed him into making a mistake. Because a mistake it certainly is. There was no reason for him to erase the messages again, after I’d dropped by, because he couldn’t have called his victim. It was a stupid, reflex action—the sort of error that people make when they are so methodical that they lose their common sense. They forget that a crafty old sod like me can lay this kind of trap. So now he’s condemned himself. Except that …”

  “What? Aren’t you sure?”

  “Yes I am, but, you know, I always distrust things that seem too simple. Apparently we’re up against someone who’s incredibly intelligent. I wouldn’t be surprised if all this wasn’t meant to frame someone else. We’ll check out the phone numbers.”

  De Palma went down to Yvonne Barbier’s flat and asked her a few questions. She had of course heard the phone ring several times, but no other sounds of footsteps or doors closing. Nothing.

  “When someone comes in, I inevitably hear them because the main door slams as it closes. Only regular visitors close it gently because they know it disturbs me. But I still hear it. I’ve lived here for more than sixty years, so I know all the sounds in this place.”

  “Think carefully, Madame Barbier. Can you remember a man or a woman who came here frequently? A friend or acquaintance of Christine’s?”

  “Of course. Last time I told you that she never saw anyone. But, in fact, that’s not quite true. He hasn’t been around much for about a year now, but he used to come regularly enough.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Professor Palestro. He never spent the night here, but I think that he and Christine … There are some noises you can’t mistake. Or else silences. As you like.”

  “Really?”

  Yvonne looked as inquisitorial as Louella Parsons.

  “Oh yes. Don’t you know what I mean? Anyway, I believe he really was in love with her, but she didn’t give a damn. All that interested her was her career. Period. Palestro was just part of her game plan.”

  “Thank you, Madame Barbier.”

  De Palma went down to the entrance of the building, then opened and closed the heavy oak door several times. Sure enough, it slammed loudly if not prevented from doing so. However, it was also possible to close it without Madame Cerberus upstairs hearing a thing.

  14.

  The Vieux Scaphandre was as much a symbol of Marseille as its boats and wood-fired pizzas. It was the town’s oldest, best-known, and best-stocked diving store. Vidal pushed open the door and immediately felt as though he was walking into a cartoon. To his right, he was welcomed by a mannequin dressed in an ancient deep-sea diving outfit, its orange color partially bleached by years in the sea. Vidal was intrigued and stared at its face through the meshed window of its bronze helmet, then looked down at its lead-soled shoes.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Good morning, Maxime Vidal, murder squad …”

  Gilbert Simian, the shop’s owner, propped his glasses up on his bald pate and looked at Vidal with eyes as round as marbles.

  “You’re from the police?”

  “That’s right. I’m investigating a disappearance.”

  “Really?”

  With a wave of his hand, Simian beckoned him into the back of the shop.

  As they passed a display case, Vidal noticed the same type of knife as had been found in Sugiton. A collection of flippers of every conceivable color were piled up any old how on some shelves. Below them, two fluorescent yellow and blue wetsuits dangled from hangers, with large labels pinned to them: “Special Offer.”

  The office was in the same apparent mess.

  “So, how can I be of help?” Simian asked.

  “Well, I want to know if you sold a diving knife and torch with the following serial numbers.”

  Vidal handed him a piece of paper.

  “What makes you think they were bought here?”

  “You’re the best-known shop, that’s all.”

  Simian grimaced, pursing his lips.

  “For the ‘Lagoon Legend,’ it won’t be difficult because I don’t sell that many. But for the torch …”

  “So start with the knife.”

  “I don’t have a computer. I don’t know how to use them. Otherwise, it would be quicker! And as I don’t keep customer records …”

  Simian stood to open a decrepit cupboard. On top of it stood a huge, scale model of a clipper in full sail, measuring about a meter long.

  “Here, I still have all the bills since last May. I say ‘May’ because that’s when the knife came out.”

  The owner of the Vieux Scaphandre looked about sixty and spoke with a heavy Marseille accent. The skin of his hands and face had been weathered by the sea. Two deep lines furrowed his forehead.

  “There … I sold two ‘Lagoon Legends’ … one on May 20 and the other on August 30 … and you say the serial number was K6-2216?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Here’s a copy of the guarantee … you’re lucky, it was a customer who has an account here! His name’s Franck Luccioni.”

  Simian pushed his glasses on to his forehead and sat up in his chair. His eyes searched Vidal’s.

  “Wasn’t Luccioni found dead at Le Torpilleur?”

  “Exactly …”

  “Goodness me! But just now you told me you were investigating a disappearance.”

  “We can’t reveal everything …”

  Simian’s hand flopped heavily on to a stack of bills. Vidal remained impassive.

  “You also asked me about the torch …”

  “Indeed.”

  “That could take some time. It’s a very popular model …”

  “Look at the same period. You never know …”

  “I’ll try a different way … I’ll take a look at the stock book.”

  He went back to his cupboard and removed a file covered with stickers of various brands of diving equipment. After a few minutes, Vidal stood up and paced around the store. On a noticeboard, several small ads offered trips out to sea. Beside them was a poster for the Le Guen Cave exhibition, going back to the time when it was first discovered. Vidal read the large letters printed on a negative hand: “The Frescoes of Silence. The Treasures of Le Guen’s Cave.”

  Then Simian’s voice called out from his office:

  “O.K., I’ve found it!”

  Vidal returned to the room.

  “It was Luccioni as well. It’s lucky he had a customer account, otherwise we’d never have found
the name! There you are, he bought it on March 15.”

  Vidal wanted to ask him a few questions about lifting blocks of concrete under water, but he restrained himself. He produced a photo of Luccioni.

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, he was a customer, that’s all.”

  “Did he come here often?”

  “Quite often, yes. He bought a lot of things here: crossbows, masks, a knife … He was a good customer!”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No, nothing …”

  Simian looked sorry as he shook his head. “He was a good diver, was he?”

  “To judge from the equipment he bought, he must have been very good. He must have done underwater pot-holing too. When I looked through my bills just now, I noticed that at the beginning of last year he bought a 20-watt lamp and a T 25, a superb lamp with two Xenon bulbs and a revolver grip. It can last for up to four hours … a marvelous piece of kit!”

  “What would equipment like that be used for?”

  “For anything, just to see underwater …”

  15.

  De Palma emerged from the Prado-Carénage tunnel at 9:30 a.m. A dull light had settled on the dome of La Major and was creeping down its salt-eroded Byzantine walls. On the horizon, the sky had lined up small mouse-gray clouds; winter rain, fine and steady, was on its way. Stuck in a traffic jam just a few meters from headquarters, the Baron waited patiently. He lit a Gitane and watched as the lights on the upper decks of the Danièle-Casanova gave in, one by one, to the new day.

  A quarter of an hour later, he pushed open the door of Le Zanzi, shook a few hands and sat down beside Vidal who was reading La Provence, his nose between the crumpled pages. The Baron roused his team mate from his usual morning lethargy by tapping his finger on the front-page headline:

  JEAN-JACQUES SARLIN GUNNED DOWN OUTSIDE HIS HOME

  “So, kid, aren’t you interested in gangland bastards when they get whacked?”

  “Hi, Michel. He’s the second one this year …”

  “They have to die of something, don’t they? A work accident!”