The First Fingerprint

by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

  “Was there anything she told you that evening which surprised you?”

  “Surprised? No, nothing. She was the sort of tormented being that we come across, alas, more and more frequently. She was looking for her path … She had been to confession and then, that evening, she called me for reassurance. She was a lonely soul. She wanted to take holy orders.”

  Father Paul massaged his bald scalp with both hands, then raised his large eyes toward the ceiling.

  “There’s nothing else to tell you. I met her that morning, in the church. She found it difficult to talk about herself. Then, in the evening, she telephoned and asked to see me. I went to her house at around 9:00 p.m., and we spoke for about two hours. When I saw the newspaper, I swear to you I had doubts about my mission in life.”

  “Why?”

  “In this sort of situation, I think everyone blames themselves a little, don’t they? I was once a chaplain on death row and, take my word for it, each execution weighs down on you. You say to yourself, my God, couldn’t I have done something?”

  “Yes, I understand. So she didn’t tell you anything that sounded strange?”

  “No, she just spoke about her loneliness …”

  Father Paul stared into Vidal’s eyes.

  “She was homosexual. I don’t know if that will be of any help … and I hope I won’t see it in the papers tomorrow.”

  “You can trust me.”

  Vidal stood up and walked over to the pictures of catechism classes on the wall.

  “When you came back to the presbytery, it must have been about 11:00 p.m. You didn’t bump into anyone?”

  “Absolutely not. Around here, it’s deserted in the evening.”

  “Isn’t it rather unusual for a priest to visit a young woman in her home at night?”

  “I hardly ever do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Gossip, Inspecteur.”

  “We say ‘Lieutenant’ now, Father … So why did you go and see her that night?”

  “I sensed that she felt lost … I was worried she might harm herself.”

  “That she might commit suicide?”

  “Not necessarily, but you never know. I could hear intense anxiety in her voice.”

  “If I understand you correctly, you arrived at about 9:00 and left at about 11:00, is that right?”

  Father Paul stared once more at Vidal.

  “Yes, more or less.”

  “Did she show you out?”

  “Yes, of course. She closed the door behind me.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I went home.”

  “Here?”

  “No, I live in Les Caillols.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “It must have been about 11:30, maybe a little before.”

  “Does anyone live here?”

  “No, not any more. What do you expect? There are fewer and fewer vocations. I look after three parishes at the same time.”

  A man of about forty pushed open the door of the presbytery, carrying a large cardboard box. He looked coldly at the police officer and then nodded at him.

  “This is Luc, a young man who has made himself indispensable. He’s here to help me with my three parishes. We’re going to let him live here … Today, he’s bringing us some new missals. We were beginning to run out.”

  Vidal shook the man’s outstretched hand.

  “Luc … and what’s your surname?”

  “Chauvy.”

  Vidal jotted it down on his notepad.

  “With a Y?”

  “Yes … that’s right.”

  “Tell me Luc,” Father Paul said, “do you remember what time I arrived home the evening poor Julia was murdered?”

  “The exact time, no, but it was at the end of the film on channel three … It’s awful what happened,” he added, turning toward Vidal. “How can one of God’s children do such a thing?”

  “Listen, we have good reason to believe that the person we’re looking for lives in Saint-Julien, or else used to lived here. We think he’s a loner, middle-aged, passionate about prehistory and university studies … What more can I tell you?”

  Father Paul smiled scornfully.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of it,” he said, “but the murderer of the young woman at Cadenet was arrested yesterday. It was in La Provence this morning. According to the journalist, he might well be the same man.”

  Vidal took the news like a bucket of sea water.

  *

  ARREST OF THE SUSPECTED MURDERER OF HÉLÈNE WEILL

  … The psychiatrist François Caillol was arrested at eight o’clock in the morning as he was leaving his home, an old house on route de Puyricard, on the way to his practice in Aix-en-Provence. Caillol made no attempt to escape as he was getting into his Mercedes, the same car which apparently took Hélène Weill on what was to be her last journey.

  The gendarmes have explained that a certain number of converging details, clues and concrete proof led them to Caillol. During a lightning investigation of six weeks, the gendarmerie questioned a large number of witnesses. Then one testimony in particular, describing how Hélène Weill was seen getting into a gray Mercedes on the night of her murder, pointed toward the psychiatrist. According to sources close to the investigation …

  De Palma put down La Provence. Bitterly he glanced around Le Zanzi. At 10:00 a.m., the bar was empty. Dédé looked weighed down by fatigue. With his elbows on the bar and the telephone receiver stuck between his shoulder and his cheek fat, he was checking the details of an order with one of his suppliers. He hung up angrily.

  “Hi, Michel. Do you want a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Dédé shakily placed a measure of coffee in the espresso machine, then whistled as he wiped down the bar top.

  “Did you read about the gendarmes in Cadenet?” he said in what appeared to be a conversational gambit.

  “Yes, apparently they sometimes find out things.”

  “Don’t be jealous, Baron. It takes all sorts to make a world. But that was quick work. They solved it in two months.”

  “Yes, so it seems …”

  The coffee arrived.

  “Have you heard from Maistre?”

  “No, not for two days.”

  “Yesterday he came in with a journalist friend of his. He was looking ever so pleased with himself. He told me a strange story, I don’t know if you know it. Ever heard of the M.L.A.?”

  De Palma smiled.

  “No, what is it?”

  “The Marseille Liberation Army.”

  “Maistre is a real joke. He pulls that one on everyone … I don’t know why, but he seems to find it funny.”

  “It’s no joke. He was dead serious. It seems there was a bomb alert yesterday in the town hall of the fifteenth arrondissement. You know, up in the heights …”

  “Really?”

  “Would I lie to you? That’s why he was with the journalist.”

  “So Maistre has taken to talking to journalists. That’s bad news.”

  “You know, he was just explaining the whole thing, was it a bomb or wasn’t it … and the hack was noting it all down.”

  “What do you expect him to do? Knit a shawl?”

  “Anyway, it’s none of my business …”

  “I’m going to call Maistre.”

  De Palma dialed Maistre’s mobile number.

  “Jean-Louis? It’s me. I’ve got some information about the M.L.A. They’ve kidnapped Dédé … that’s right, Dédé from Le Zanzi … they’ve said they’ll only free him if you agree to retire … Really … Let’s do lunch … O.K.”

  De Palma hung up. He barely had time to ask Dédé for another coffee before his mobile bleated its two strident notes. He had a message. “Good morning, sir. I’m phoning about your message last week. Could you please contact me? I’ll be in my office from 10:00 to 11:00. Speak to you soon.”

  The Baron decoded the message. It was from Gérard Mourain, a.k.a. Têt
e. It was 10:30. He just had time to dash over to his “office.”

  The gangster was waiting like a statue outside a phone booth on the corner of rue Roger Salengro and avenue Camille Pelletan, blinking to chase away the dust blown everywhere by the mistral. Pages of newspapers and plastic bags fluttered in the air, rising up the gray façades of the buildings.

  When he saw the Baron’s car, Tête stepped off the pavement and on to the tarmac. He dived into the unmarked car and put on his seat belt. The Baron held out his hand.

  “Good morning, Tête. Are you scared of having an accident, or getting a fine?”

  “How are you, Monsieur le Divisionnaire?”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times now that we say Commandant, not Monsieur le Divisionnaire!”

  “Yes, I always forget.”

  “So what can I do for you, Tête? Are you feeling nostalgic about the good old days?”

  “I called you because I’m freaking out. I can’t keep it all to myself. It’s too much.”

  “Can you be a bit more specific, Tête? What’s up?”

  Mourain looked down. He did not know where to begin. He knew how ferocious the Baron could be. It was a fact that had often haunted his nights. His fragile brain was becoming increasingly scrambled.

  “Come on, Tête, we’re not going to beat about the bush for hours on end. Police officers like me have got work to do!”

  “O.K., boss. Take the coast road toward L’Estaque. Then we’ll have a quiet chat.”

  De Palma sensed that the gangster had something serious to tell him. Since Mourain had started informing for him, he had never seen him in such a state. He offered him a Gitane.

  “Listen up, boss. Last autumn, the Bar des Sportifs gang asked me to trail someone. Just trail them … And to keep them informed later. Got me?”

  De Palma did not answer. The wind was shaking the car.

  “Then, one evening just recently, I was in the bar and I read the papers. See what I mean?”

  De Palma stared at the road in silence.

  “Well, I saw the photo of the girl they asked me to follow. Understand?”

  De Palma indicated and turned left toward the access lane leading to the coast road.

  “She lived on boulevard Chave … Jesus Christ, I haven’t slept a wink since … I just can’t get it out of my mind.”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, de Palma spat:

  “It’s a bit late now.”

  “I know, boss, I know … Put yourself in my shoes!”

  “But I’m not in your shoes …”

  “Jesus, I know that. I’ve done no end of hold-ups. I’ve stolen loads of things. But I’ve never killed anyone. On my mother’s soul. Especially not a woman.”

  “Have you been back to the bar?”

  “Of course I have! I don’t want to get myself blown away. But Lolo doesn’t trust me any more, I can just feel it.”

  De Palma drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He took the Saint-André exit.

  “Tête, if you know anything else, now’s the moment. Who asked you to follow her?”

  “Lolo, you know him?”

  “Of course I know the little prick. Who else?”

  “Someone I hadn’t seen for ages. Richard Mattéi. You know, the one they call ‘Petits Bras.’”

  “Why, because his arms are so short that when his ass itches he can’t scratch it?”

  “This is no laughing matter, boss.”

  “What date was all this?”

  “I can’t remember, on my daughter’s life, I can’t … It was in the autumn … September, or October …”

  “Jesus, can’t you make an effort to remember the date? What am I supposed to do with all this crap?”

  “I know. But being in prison … Eight years is a long time. You lose all notion of time.”

  “When you followed her, what did she do?”

  “Nothing much. She went to Aix. To the university there. Then she came back …”

  “And that’s all.”

  “No, boss … there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Someone else was following her. I’m sure of it. I’m used to this job. But he wasn’t. The dickhead never spotted me.”

  “Oh yes, indeed, trailing people’s a real craft.”

  “Give me a break, boss, I’m bricking it.”

  “What was this guy like?”

  “About one meter eighty tall, forty-something. At the very least. Wearing a cap, like kids do. He had a beard and glasses. I even asked him for a light. He’s not from round here. He doesn’t speak like us. He doesn’t have the accent. He’s got blue eyes. I could identify him any time.”

  On the coast road, de Palma parked on the pavement between two refrigerated trucks, a few meters away from Saumaty fishing port. From his pocket, he removed the official identity photo of François Caillol, which the gendarmerie had sent him. Mourain took a long look at it.

  “Negative, boss.”

  “Tête, is it him or isn’t it? Don’t screw me around!”

  “Definitely not boss. He’s not even wearing glasses. No, it’s not him.”

  “Smart, Tête, very smart.”

  “Don’t take the piss, Inspecteur. Everyone can have their doubts, can’t they?”

  As he spoke, Mourain gesticulated wildly, with stiff little fingers and extended thumbs.

  “Listen to me boss, he was wearing specs for his eyesight. Real ones! Almost like magnifying glasses … See what I mean? That’s why I noticed he had blue eyes. They bulged out, like jelly-fish.”

  “Wait a second, Gérard.”

  De Palma called the Cadenet gendarmerie on his mobile. He asked them if the man they had arrested wore glasses or contact lenses, and if his eyes were blue. The answer was no. De Palma hung up.

  “Thanks a lot, Tête.”

  “What’s going to happen to me now?”

  “You’re going to have a nice quiet drink at your friend Lolo’s place. Don’t worry. He wasn’t the one who killed her. Just try to find out why he got you to follow her.”

  The gangster was now looking more relaxed. Mourain had been working for the Baron for a good ten years now and, as his most faithful informer, gave him the best leads on the market. The one he had just delivered, in the form of a confession, was weighty enough. One name above all worried de Palma: Richard Matteéi, alias Petits Bras, an ex-member of the French Connection and a big player who was making a comeback. The drugs squad suspected him of dealing in Ecstasy and organizing raves to flog his gear via his shitty little pushers. As for the vice squad, they suspected him of selling illegal porno cassettes. Meanwhile the serious crime boys thought he was behind a dozen gangland killings. Once again, Petits Bras was becoming quite a number in the mob.

  De Palma sketched in another connection: Christine—Lolo and the Bar des Sportifs gang. An intellectual and the mob. And Franck Luccioni. He didn’t like the way things were going. And the case was tumbling into a world it would be hard for him to penetrate. A world of silence.

  De Palma aimed a friendly smile at his informer. He thought about those glasses. Tête had mentioned lenses like magnifying glasses, so real ones which the wearer cannot do without.

  A detail.

  A simple detail which complicated everything and upset his thoughts and certitudes. The investigation had gone off the rails. Caillol had not followed Christine Autran. Mourain was a skilled villain; he wouldn’t have made a mistake. It was impossible.

  “How’s your kid?”

  “Fine, boss. She’ll be leaving school soon. But I think she’s seeing someone. Jesus, just let me catch him.”

  “She’s eighteen, Tête.”

  “If he lays a finger on my daughter, I’ll smash his face in!”

  “Maybe she loves him.”

  “Fuck love! At her age, you concentrate on your studies.”

  “You’re right, Tête, watch out for her. By the way, where does she go to school?”

 
“Lycée Périer.”

  “A word of advice, don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “What do you mean, boss? Do you reckon …”

  “I think the guy you ran into on boulevard Chave knows where you live and maybe also knows where your daughter goes to school. It wouldn’t be hard. You’ll have to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Keep your eyes open. If you spot him, call me, O.K.?”

  “Right, boss.”

  De Palma lifted Mourain’s jacket. He saw the grip of a police Beretta.

  “So you’re out in company, Gérard?”

  “I’m scared, boss.”

  “If he gets close to your daughter, stay cool and call me at once. Where shall I drop you off?”

  “By Bougainville métro. I’ll walk home.”

  The terrace of Le Robinson provided a spectacular view of Epluchures beach, the only place around Marseille with waves good enough for surfers. Sitting sheltered from the wind, Bérengère Luccioni had been sipping at her mint-flavored mineral water for the past fifteen minutes as she watched the dickheads parading themselves.

  She thought of Pourriture Beach, the well-known detective story by Patrick Blaise, which she had just read. A few fluorescent figures were trying to stay upright on the crests of the waves beyond the beach; invariably they flopped down like unstrung puppets and vanished for a few seconds beneath their multi-colored sails. Submerged in the blue. Three days before, the mistral had changed direction, and the waves were becoming smaller and smaller. The next day, it would fall completely and the sea would be calm.

  De Palma was late. From afar, in the sunlight, he stared at Bérengère for a few moments. Her hair flew into her face at each gust of wind, and he was reminded of the little girl he had once known.

  Bérengère had recovered her natural hair color—auburn had replaced that vulgar blond—and she was no longer wearing an overly short skirt or high boots. Just jeans, a pair of trainers and a cotton top which hugged her hourglass figure. The mobster chick had been transformed into a Madonna by Raphael.

  She sensed the policeman’s presence and turned round.

  “Hello,” she said, pushing back her hair.

  “Hello, Bérengère.”

  He sat down beside her. She was not wearing perfume, but the mistral breathed the subtle fragrance of her hair into the atmosphere. De Palma stared at the sea whitened by the crashing of the waves.