Summertime All the Cats Are Bored

by Philippe Georget

  “Isn’t the sun hat a little too much?”

  “You think?”

  “Frankly, yes. These days only retirees on organized trips are bold enough to sport that kind of headwear.”

  Molina didn’t resist. He put the sun hat in his pocket.

  “You’re right; I swiped it from my father. He brought it back from a trip to Turkey . . . ”

  “Otherwise?”

  “Still nothing. An employee and a model son, apparently.”

  “What did he do with his scooter?”

  “He put it in the hall.”

  “Are there no other exits from the building?”

  “No, I checked. He has to come out here.”

  Sebag looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty.

  “Do you think he’s going to come out?”

  “I’d be surprised. With his baguette under his arm, he looked more like someone who was going to eat supper in front of the TV set. And then he had trouble getting his scooter through the door, and he wouldn’t have done that if he was going to leave again in ten minutes.”

  Sebag reflected.

  “Maybe he has another way of getting around. He could have bought a car. Or rented one.”

  “Didn’t you check?”

  “I didn’t think of it until just now. I’ll look into it tomorrow. Have you got the photo?”

  Molina handed him his cell phone. It was hard to see the face, but the figure was recognizable.

  “That’ll do,” he commented. Before coming, I left a message for Anneke. I’m waiting for her to call me back.”

  A roar in the streets made them turn around. First they saw an enormous green trash can fall over on the street about fifty yards from them. The top came off and a flood of refuse flowed noisily out onto the pavement. A bottle broke when it hit the ground, followed by a can that rolled down the street until an iron post diverted its course toward the gutter. Then a dark figure slowly detached itself from the trash can. The man stood up. He was tall, hairy, and seemed to be extremely angry. He walked off without even looking at his victim. He swung side to side, offbeat. When he came to another trash can, he froze for a moment before uttering another roar. Then he lunged, throwing his adversary to the ground.

  “Nice technique,” Molina commented.

  “I’ve heard about a guy who attacked windmills, that was classier!”

  The man got up. He was now only ten yards from them, and gave them a furious look before moving on toward a third trash can.

  “You should call headquarters,” Sebag suggested. Otherwise the streets of Perpignan are going to look like a huge garbage dump. Afterward, you can go get something to eat. I’m going to go up to Coll’s apartment. I’ll meet you here in an hour.”

  “You’re going to Coll’s apartment? Do you think that’s smart?”

  “We’ll find out. We worked all day without finding any convincing evidence. We can’t wait anymore. That’s what wouldn’t be smart.”

  CHAPTER 35

  What surprised Sebag first about the apartment was its emptiness. And immediately afterward, its silence.

  The room was large, with two tall windows looking out on the street. It was furnished with two armchairs separated by a low table on which a book lay. The Bible. A simple lamp—a translucent ball on a long, gray metal base—illuminated the scene. The walls were pale pink, undecorated except for blue-figured wainscoting about halfway up. The green shag carpet muffled the sound of footsteps. You felt more like mowing it than vacuuming it.

  Coll was wearing sky-blue pants and a mustard-colored polo shirt. He was about the same height as Sebag, but thinner. His dark eyes stared into the inspector’s. His hand did not tremble when he pointed to the armchair.

  “Please sit down.”

  His deep voice seemed to be swallowed up by the perfectly sound-proofed walls and ceiling. Sebag sat down. The brown leather chair was comfortable. He put his arms on the mahogany armrests.

  “You read wholesome books,” Sebag complimented him, alluding to the Bible in front of him.”

  “It’s the only novel I can stand,” Coll replied, sitting down in turn. “Do you know the Bible?”

  “By name. I know the main lines. Especially the end.”

  Sebag listened, but he couldn’t hear any of the usual street noise. In this apartment, the silence was as deep as in a recording studio.

  “You don’t like noise?”

  “I am especially fond of silence.”

  “Then why don’t you live in the countryside?”

  “The countryside isn’t silent. There’s nothing noisier than nature.”

  Sebag contemplated the emptiness around him. Not a single knick-knack or photo. He suddenly had the feeling that the apartment had been set up this way specifically for this meeting. His host had said nothing about his visiting so late. He hadn’t even seemed surprised. He’d buzzed open the ground floor door without protest and he’d come out on the landing to greet him. As if he were a friend who’d been expected.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Do you know why I’m here?” Sebag was deliberately elliptical.

  Coll did not immediately respond. He seemed to be sizing up his adversary.

  “You’ve ended up being interested in my car, haven’t you?”

  Sebag nodded.

  “Did someone explain how it was useful?”

  “Your colleague told me. A case of kidnapping, I believe.”

  “Kidnapping and murder,” Sebag said.

  “I thought kidnappings were rare in France these days. I recall several famous cases in the 1970s, but I thought they’d gone out of fashion.”

  “You know how fashion . . . ”

  “Yes, it comes and goes.”

  “Exactly.”

  One might have been listening to two old acquaintances talking over a cocktail. It was a good sign. Still, Sebag felt ill at ease. The muffled sound of a door slamming reached them from the landing. The silence ceased for a moment. Coll grimaced with annoyance.

  “Did my colleague show you some photos the other day?”

  “No. Should he have?”

  Sebag took his wallet out of his jacket pocket.

  “He didn’t have to, no. Let’s say that I like to do it as a matter of course. You never know. Chance always plays a role in investigations, but not necessarily where you expect it. Maybe there’s a good reason why it should be precisely your car that was used in this case. Maybe, without knowing it, you are connected with this case.”

  “You’re scaring me, Inspector.”

  Sebag opened his wallet. He hesitated for a second, then decided not to add Claire’s picture. He handed the photos to Didier Coll, who took his time looking at them. Sebag had the impression that this was a calculated pause. Coll was waiting, not reflecting.

  “No, I really don’t recognize these faces,” Coll finally answered.

  He put the photos on the table alongside the Bible. Sebag finally took out Claire’s photo.

  “How about this one?”

  Coll took the photo and held it up to his eyes. This time, he really looked at the photo.

  “Who is it?”

  Sebag did not reply.

  “You know Gérard Barrère well, I think?”

  “I wouldn’t say I know him well.”

  “You gave him as a reference when you came to see me at police headquarters.”

  “I thought that would help me keep your attention.”

  “Are you doing business with him?”

  “Our directors like to reward our best managers every year. I’m the one who has been assigned to handle contacts with Perpign’And Co. to organize parties.”

  “Do you participate in these parties?”

  “As infrequently as possible.”

>   “Why?”

  “I don’t like leisure activities in groups. Besides, I never leave Perpignan. Because of my mother.”

  He spoke slowly, punctuating his sentences with deep breaths. Sebag pretended not to know.

  “Is your mother ill?”

  “Ill, no. Let’s say that she’s elderly and is losing her mind. She’s in a retirement home.”

  “Do you visit her regularly?”

  “I try to go there every day.”

  Sebag gave him an admiring look.

  “You’re a model son.”

  Coll refused the compliment.

  “No. Not at all. If I were a model son, I wouldn’t have put her in a retirement home.”

  “What else could you do? You work . . . ”

  “One can always get help.”

  Sebag gestured with his hand to indicate the apartment.

  “And then here, it wouldn’t be very practical.”

  “That’s true,” Coll replied with surprise, as if he’d never thought of that argument. “But that’s not what you’re here to talk about.”

  “You’re right. Let’s get back to Gérard Barrère. It happens that José Lopez, the man whose photo I showed you, worked for Barrère from time to time. You might have had occasion to meet him . . . ”

  Coll put down Claire’s photo, which he was still holding in his hands, and looked again at the photo of Lopez.

  “No. Truly not. His face means nothing to me.”

  Sebag then slipped in a few questions about the Volvo. He asked again where Coll had parked it, when he’d used it the last time, how he’d realized it had been stolen, and so on. Coll gave the same answers as he’d given to Ménard. Sebag noticed that he often even used the same words and expressions that had appeared in the interview report.

  “Have you bought another car?”

  “No, not yet. I was hoping to get the old one back.”

  “Don’t count on it: it’s evidence. Are you currently renting a car?”

  “No. I . . . don’t really need one. I might rent one for a weekend. But for everyday, from work to my apartment by way of the retirement home, I can do all that on my scooter.”

  Sebag felt that something wasn’t right. Coll was speaking correctly but his hesitations lacked spontaneity.

  Silence took possession of the room again. Sebag wrote a few things in his notebook. He took his time. He was thinking about what he would do after the conversation and tried to observe Coll without his noticing. The periods of silence were the hardest ones for suspects to manage, because they left them alone with their fears. Coll, however, showed neither concern nor tension. He limited himself to breathing. Calmly.

  “Were you satisfied with that car?” Sebag abruptly asked him.

  “What do you mean?” Coll said, surprised.

  “It interests me personally, excuse me,” Sebag lied. “I’d like to buy a new car and I’m looking for a station wagon. When you have a house with a yard, a wagon is more practical for going to the dump, for example. You can’t put anything in the trunk of a sedan. So, was the Volvo a good car?”

  “It’s reliable. Though not very comfortable.”

  “How many miles does it have on it?”

  “A hundred and ten thousand.”

  “Has it run well?”

  “I never had any problems.”

  “How old is it?”

  “It’s over twenty years old.”

  Sebag seemed to be making a rapid calculation.

  “It’s true that you don’t drive much. That’s something I was wondering about: why did you buy a car like that when you live in town?”

  “I didn’t buy it, I took it over from my mother when she went into the retirement home.”

  “Did your mother live in the countryside?”

  Sebag had spoken faster than he’d thought and it was only as he asked the question that he had what might be called a revelation. He tried not to let Coll see that.

  “Yes,” Coll replied in a voice that seemed to Sebag even more toneless. “In fact, it was my father who bought the car.”

  Sebag jumped on the opportunity. He had to change the subject.

  “Is your father no longer with us?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He took off without leaving a forwarding address a little over twenty years ago. He’d just bought the car.”

  Sebag adopted a tone he hoped would be anodyne.

  “Now I understand better. I said to myself: such a big car for an elderly lady, that seems odd. Did she keep it as a souvenir, maybe?”

  “In a way.”

  Sebag smiled. A bit foolishly, but not too much.

  “So . . . to sum up, would you advise me to buy a car like that?”

  “I don’t know. Do you have children?”

  “Two grown-up ones, yes.”

  “Well, why not? You’d have plenty of room for going on vacations.”

  Sebag imagined his whole family in the Volvo. A car like that might have been useful. Before. He asked a few more questions about the case and tried to take an interest in the answers. Then he got up and said good-bye.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late.”

  “It’s all right. I hope I’ve been useful to you.”

  The two men shook hands. As they had at the beginning of the conversation, Coll’s eyes looked into the Inspector’s. They were trying to read his thoughts. The scene reminded Sebag of a black-and-white movie he’d seen when he was a kid. The story of a class of schoolchildren who were evil and exceptionally gifted. Children who were killers. Endowed with supernatural powers and capable of reading other people’s thoughts. At the end, their teacher tries to exterminate them. He hides a bomb in the classroom, but the kids very quickly guess that he’s hiding something from them. They come up to him. Blue eyes, blond hair, angelic faces surround him and try to discover what he’s trying to conceal. Then the teacher concentrates. He focuses his mind on a brick wall. The children decipher his thoughts but can see nothing but this brick wall.

  And the bomb explodes.

  “As much as you could,” Sebag replied, trying to think about a brick wall.

  The door closed behind him. He thought each of them had gotten what he expected out of the conversation. Coll had gotten the thrill of the game, and he’d gotten a new lead that he was eager to follow the next day. He went down the stairs slowly, trying to relive in his thoughts the meeting he’d just had with his suspect. Coll hadn’t betrayed himself; he hadn’t let Sebag see anything. And yet, Sebag felt growing within him a diffuse but powerful feeling: the certainty that he was not mistaken.

  CHAPTER 36

  The door had just closed and he didn’t know what to think.

  But he was finally having fun.

  He’d enjoyed the conversation. A highpoint, so long awaited. Raskolnikov confronting Porfiry. He thought he’d been remarkable. Calm and relaxed. He hadn’t discerned any false note in his replies.

  Inspector Sebag had done well, too. Pertinent questions. Especially when he was talking about the house. But he’d missed the bus, passing on too quickly to something else.

  Unless . . .

  He wasn’t sure what to think, and that was delicious.

  He had to remain wary and be ready for the last stage.

  Already . . .

  He was beginning to have second thoughts about the end he’d imagined. He couldn’t lose, but how would he know if he’d won?

  Too bad!

  He’d granted himself the right to improvise regarding the form, but not the content. The end had been set long ago: he had to stick to that. One didn’t have the right to change the rules in the middle of the game.

  So far as the young woman was concerned, there was still nothing to be feared. He’d gone to see her after work: she
was calm, patient, and resigned. The sedative he put into her pitcher of water every day promoted that state of mind, but it didn’t explain everything. Despite appearing to be a free woman, she was ultimately very docile. Wanting to be prudent, he limited his visits to one per day.

  Scarcely an hour.

  And he forced himself to go back to his apartment to spend the night. The advantage was that he slept better far away from that body.

  It had been a red-letter day. This conversation with the inspector, and then a little earlier . . . the message left on his cell phone by the directress of the retirement home.

  Somebody from a ministry had called the home. They were looking for a model son. Devoted. Loving. Attentive. “I immediately thought of you,” the directress had told him.

  He’d almost laughed.

  A model son . . . The inspector had used that expression, too. A model son. I who go to visit my mother only for the pleasure of contemplating her decline . . .

  She no longer understood anything, and he confessed to her all the terrible things he’d done as a child. The thefts of money from her purse, the cats whose eyes he’d put out, the dog shit mixed into the morning marmalade. He also talked to her about her husband. His father. He’d left a little too soon, unfortunately.

  He particularly liked to feed his mother. She chewed slowly because her false teeth were poorly fitted to her rotting gums, and he enjoyed shoveling food into her mouth. The poor woman spat out half of it. It was disgusting.

  He made her drink a lot, too. To the point that she ended up wetting her diaper. Then he changed her. Before the admiring—and grateful—eyes of the young women who worked in the retirement home.

  He wouldn’t have spent a day far from his mother for anything in the world.

  He breathed. Counted slowly up to ten. Breathing was his sole gymnastics. His sole philosophy. Absolute self-control could be acquired only through absolute control over his breathing.

  All the same, he did feel that he had a tendency to allow his thoughts to get out of control as the fated result approached.