“The bus! That’s why the bus braked so noisily on the Champs-Élysées. That’s when he got out of the taxi. He must have taken the subway at George V,” explained the detective.
“Turn around and go back to Paris. I want you in the car in front of Place Émile Goudeau immediately,” said Lenoir.
Pierre-Gabriel was very astute—if they weren’t careful, he would cheat Lenoir out of the game. He had a little company that mainly tracked people, couples with suspected infidelity, insurance fraud, and bank fraud, but never severe criminal cases. That was a matter for the police. Lenoir was treading on dangerous ground.
61
Montmartre, 11:40 p.m.
With great difficulty, Pierre-Gabriel climbed up the wooden stairs, his eyes fixed on the threadbare red carpet. The stairs led up four floors to Pichon’s apartment.
When Pierre-Gabriel reached the last landing, he stood still for a moment, leaning on the wrought-iron railings. He’d taken a lot of pain pills during the day and a few more before going out. That afternoon he’d passed out twice while vomiting. Morgane wouldn’t pick up her phone, so he was alone for this round. He’d just keep all the money. He’d finish off Pichon and take the pennies to a paradise somewhere—somewhere they’d examine him and get rid of these damn headaches.
He breathed in deeply but not too much, because it hurt his head. He pressed the ancient white ceramic doorbell, which made a loud sound. Soon after, the rackety, ancient bolt turned.
Pierre-Gabriel had decided what to do. He’d repeat the triumphant entrance he used for the red giant: a huge, surprising blow to get the door open, then he’d pounce on Pichon, holding the stun gun to his neck. Then he’d tie him up, but this time with a nylon rope he had in this pocket, and he’d wait patiently for Pichon to recover from the shock. Pierre-Gabriel had managed to lose his pursuers, and he had the whole night ahead of him.
The door started to open, and Pierre-Gabriel flung himself into it with all his might—but this one wasn’t prefab. It was made of solid oak.
Pierre-Gabriel injured his shoulder and entered Pichon’s apartment sideways, disoriented and feeling lost. He thrust forward and looked into Henri’s dumbfounded eyes. Henri stood to one side, a shotgun in his hands. Pierre-Gabriel reacted first and managed to reach out desperately with the stun gun. Pichon retreated too late, and the glowing stun gun brushed his arm, paralyzing half his body with a painful shock.
Pierre-Gabriel dropped the stun gun as both men thumped to the ground, knocking over a copper umbrella holder. Pierre-Gabriel kneeled down, recovered the stun gun, and gave another shock to Pichon, who was trying to move.
Pierre-Gabriel barely managed to get up, picked up the shotgun, opened it, took out the two sixteen-caliber bullets, and put them in his pocket. He hunted occasionally out of snobbery. “Now that’s better, isn’t it, Pichon?” he said and smirked.
He went to the landing of the stairs to check whether the noise had made the neighbors anxious. After waiting for a moment, listening to the silence and the distant sounds of the city, he reentered the apartment and slowly closed the door. Then he picked up his umbrella, placed it conscientiously in the copper holder, and put the weapon on the side table near the entrance.
“You see, Pichon, everything is in its proper place.”
He searched the pockets of his raincoat until he found the nylon rope he’d brought especially for the occasion.
“It’s the rope Tash uses to tie parcels. How ironic, wouldn’t you agree, Pichon?” he said as he proceeded to tie Henri’s feet and hands behind his back.
Once he completed this exhausting task, Pierre-Gabriel slumped on a chair at the dark, polished dining table to recuperate. Some objects on the table near an open laptop caught his attention. He went over to see.
It was Maillard’s cell phone and wallet.
“Fuck, Pichon! Always one step ahead. You are a genius,” he teased. Then he added, with a touch of aggression, “Have you seen the old man’s state? But that’s nothing compared to Garibaldi—I suppose you’ve heard.”
He looked at Pichon’s computer screen and saw nothing important. Henri let out a moan; he was starting to come back to his senses. Pierre-Gabriel left the computer and went to Henri’s side.
“How are you? You’re still numb, aren’t you? Don’t worry—in a few minutes, you’ll feel better enough for us to have a little talk. Now I need to pee. I presume there’s a bathroom in this old shack? Now don’t get up to any mischief, or my friend might get upset,” he said, stroking the stun gun.
As soon as he headed along the corridor toward the bathroom, Pichon tried to untie himself. He couldn’t understand why, but he felt absolutely fine. His muscles were aching, but he could move freely. Perhaps Pierre-Gabriel hadn’t recharged the stun gun and it was losing potency.
Freeing himself was impossible: the pink nylon string wouldn’t break, and the knots were tight. The more he struggled, the more they dug into his skin. He had the idea to get his hands in front of him with some acrobatic movements and untie himself with his teeth, but he heard the toilet flush and stopped trying.
When Pierre-Gabriel returned to the dining room, he found Pichon still numb. He touched him with his foot.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to redo the bathroom. Lately I find it hard to hit the target.” He laughed. He’d thought up the joke on the way back. “Wake up, lazy bastard. We need to talk.”
Pichon grunted and opened one eye.
“Your five days in a coma did you no good, my friend.”
Pierre-Gabriel got a glass of water from the kitchen and poured it very slowly on Henri’s face. At first Pichon didn’t react, but little by little, he pretended to wake up.
“Do you feel better? I need the accounts. Don’t play dumb. I need you to give them to me now. Do you understand?” he said, pouring the rest of the water in Henri’s face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” mumbled Pichon in a barely audible voice.
“My dear Pichon, this isn’t a game. I need the money, and I need it now,” he said, kicking Henri in the ribs.
Henri barely moaned, holding on through the pain as if he were still numb from the stun gun. He had to gain time and find a solution.
“I’m suffering post-traumatic amnesia, I can’t remember anything,” he mumbled.
Another kick.
“You asked for it. I’m going to call my beloved, faithful wife from her father’s phone, so she picks up, and I’m going to tell her to come here without saying a word to anyone. You can bet she’ll do it; I know her very well. When I take care of her, I’m sure your amnesia will disappear.”
Henri decided to risk everything. He couldn’t allow Pierre-Gabriel to involve Tash.
“On my computer, in the folder—” his voice went quiet. Pichon seemed to pass out, and Pierre-Gabriel got scared. He was suffering from tremendous migraines after his headfirst collision with the baseball bat, and he hadn’t even been in a coma. Pichon had been in critical condition; perhaps the stun gun had caused further injury.
He quickly kneeled by Henri’s side and leaned over, repressing a stab of pain and cupping his right ear, the reflex of a right-handed person.
“What are you saying?”
Man is the only animal that falls into the same trap twice, Henri thought, remembering the previous night when Maillard managed to get his son-in-law to come close to his ear.
Henri gave Pierre-Gabriel a brutal head butt on his bruise.
Pierre-Gabriel fell flat on his side, half-unconscious, trying to emerge from the tremendous pain that took over his head, but he instinctively searched his pocket for the stun gun.
It was now or never, and Henri contorted himself like crazy until he managed to get his hands in front of himself. He turned, kneeled, and got up. Pierre-Gabriel had already recovered somewhat, and despite the intense pain, he
pounced on Henri with the stun gun.
Pichon ducked, taking him by surprise. Pierre-Gabriel didn’t manage to shock him and rolled between the chairs.
With tremendous effort, Henri managed to stand up and throw himself on Pierre-Gabriel, who was thrashing about like a madman, trying to shock him with the stun gun.
Henri put his arms, tied at the wrists, around Pierre-Gabriel’s throat and squeezed, pulling back. A charge from the stun gun shook his leg, and the pain was extreme, but it only paralyzed part of Henri’s body. He had to make Pierre-Gabriel pass out before it was too late and he received another shock.
In a desperate move, Pierre-Gabriel went for his neck. Then Henri passed out, falling to one side, strangling Pierre-Gabriel even more as he squandered his last bit of strength trying to rid himself of the choke hold he was caught in.
62
Henri Pichon woke up with a start: he’d had a bad dream, and his whole body ached. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t. He opened his eyes. His face froze in horror, and a chill ran down his spine. Just an inch from his face was the face of Pierre-Gabriel, his bruise half-covered with the bandage, his skin purple, and his eyes bulging out.
With great effort, Henri managed to break away from the ghastly body, as the last few events returned to his memory.
He stood up and hopped to the kitchen. There he freed himself with the help of a bread knife, which was fortunately always out.
He returned to his little living and dining room, picked up the stun gun, put it in the closet, and stooped down to look at Pierre-Gabriel. He gave him a shove, first with care and then vigorously. Pierre-Gabriel didn’t react.
Henri checked his pulse at the wrist, but there was none there, nor at the neck. He went to his aunt’s room to look for a little mirror in her chest of drawers. After all these years, all her things were still there—he’d done nothing with them, simply closed her door. He’d renovate the house with Tash’s help. But right now he had more important things to do.
He went back to Pierre-Gabriel and put the little mirror in front of his mouth and nose. There was no fog.
Pierre-Gabriel would not be up to his usual tricks anymore.
63
Now he had to analyze the situation.
At first sight, it looked pretty bad. He couldn’t go to the police, because Pierre-Gabriel didn’t look like he’d died of natural causes. With the reputation of a psychopath that Superintendent Loiseau and Detective Lenoir had built for him, he didn’t stand a chance. The situation would eventually clear up, no doubt, but when? And what would Tash think?
He went to his aunt’s room, which overlooked the street, and gazed out of the window. The detectives on duty were still there in the shadows, and Lenoir had reinforced the watch. The one watching Pierre-Gabriel was sure to be there, too. For instance, in that parked car on the corner in front of a bakery, with the windshield fogged over, a sign that there was a worm in the apple.
He wouldn’t be able to get rid of the body easily. Lenoir’s men would see him come out. Should he take Pierre-Gabriel out through the patio? Too complicated, and the risk of a sleepless neighbor seeing him was too high. Then there was another idea: the quarries.
But any solution he chose amounted to the same thing: Pierre-Gabriel had to come out of his house through the front door alive, so he could disappear officially later. Tash couldn’t live the rest of her life worried about the return of her dangerous husband.
He also had to retrieve the evidence, Garibaldi’s computer, and the lists with his programs. Everything was probably hidden at Pierre-Gabriel’s house—Tash’s house.
He had to think of everything, absolutely everything, and not leave a single loose end. This meant he had to devise a complex plan.
First, he had to distract the guards. Forty minutes had passed since the arrival of the intruder. He walked in front of the net curtains on the living room window so that they could see normal movement. Then he started undressing Pierre-Gabriel completely, even taking off the bandage. Once he was done, and because the image of a naked dead body on his carpet bothered him, Henri went to his aunt’s closet and took out some long covers made of lined plastic. They were decorated with field flowers that had wilted over time. He emptied the covers completely on the bed, except for the mothballs, which he thought would go nicely with Pierre-Gabriel. Then he went to the kitchen, got some rubber gloves, and returned to the dining room to start packing. A few minutes later, he tied the parcel together with Tash’s rope. He looked at his masterpiece and wasn’t sure if it reminded him more of a mummy or a tied roast.
Now the complicated and dangerous part—going down to the basement so that nobody would see him. He looked down to the courtyard as far as he could see through the kitchen window and checked the other windows. There were no lights on the outer wall. Which was normal at twelve thirty in the morning on a Friday. It was a workday.
He took the keys, opened the door, went to the stairs, and tiptoed down as quietly as they allowed, listening at each door without turning the light on. He reached the main door and opened the little door that led to the basement. Then he went up again, checking on each landing to detect anybody stirring. Nothing!
When he got home, he loaded the parcel on his shoulders, closed the door delicately, and slid down the four stories as fast as he could. The stairs had never creaked so much. He arrived at the main door to the basement and shut himself in behind it. Finally, he went down the stone steps in darkness until he found the switch. A timid lightbulb hanging from a cable shone its yellow light on a small dirt corridor flanked by doors made of wooden planks.
The most dangerous part was over. Now he had to make an excursion to the quarries.
When Henri was ten years old, his uncle had made him aware of a family secret. They went down to the basement. There, along a short corridor, were four closed doors: one storage space for each floor. The last and most spacious was theirs. Maurice cleared away some junk and searched for something on the ground, a ring. He pulled it and opened a wrought-iron trapdoor. A musty smell invaded the room. Some stairs led down to a hellish darkness. Henri took a step back.
It was an entrance to the forgotten quarries of Montmartre. Maurice had shown him the underbelly of Montmartre, its dangers and its beauty. On his fourteenth birthday, Henri’s uncle gave him his first flashlight.
64
Henri Pichon opened the door to the family storage space. He hadn’t been down there in almost twenty years, and there were all sorts of things stashed inside. He quickly pushed away the debris, reached the trapdoor, and pulled the ring, and the same damp smell invaded the room. He dragged his parcel to the edge and grabbed his flashlight from a shelf; it was old-school, the kind that never fails. He hung the light from his neck and a metal box from his waist, turned the handle, and there was light. He went down the stairs, accompanying Pierre-Gabriel on his final journey.
After twenty minutes of traveling through tunnels, tubes, and faults, he reached a natural well. It had probably been dug for water centuries ago but had served as a common grave during the Paris Commune, before the quarries were filled in. Pierre-Gabriel was going to meet others like him, 130 feet below. Henri took the time to cover the deceased man with a thick blanket of plaster stone.
After returning home, Henri took a shower and made an inventory of what he had, starting with Maillard’s wallet and phone. He had emptied Pierre-Gabriel’s pockets: cell phone, address book, wallet, extremely luxurious and expensive wristwatch, luxury car keys, house keys, a loose key on a cheap green plastic key ring that had some address in Poitiers, the keys to Garibaldi’s garage—he’d taken the giant’s house keys! Fuck, Henri thought. What else was there? A packet of tissues. Something was missing. The stun gun and something else. The glasses! Where were the glasses? He hadn’t seen them when he undressed Pierre-Gabriel. He looked on the ground and there they were, under the cabinet. He had every
thing now, and he needed to come up with a credible explanation that everyone would believe.
65
“I’m here,” said the detective. “I swapped cars. I took my wife’s car on the way because it was nearby. I’m parked on Rue Ravignan at the corner of Rue de Trois Frères, in front of the bakery.”
“Perfect. I hope this time, he doesn’t spot you.”
More than forty-five minutes went by, and Lenoir was in a state of tension the likes of which he hadn’t felt for years. He was about to order his men to enter Pichon’s house forcibly when a silhouette walked calmly in front of the fourth-floor window. Lenoir relaxed.
Two interminable hours later, the huge wooden door of Pichon’s building opened.
“The door is opening, I’m going to take a series of photos, though the rain might—someone is coming out. It’s Pierre-Gabriel de La Valette, and he’s carrying a dark umbrella—green, I think. He just stopped for a moment to take a rest. He’s touching his bandage and forehead. That guy isn’t well.”
A few seconds went by, and the man seemed to recover. He adjusted his raincoat and teetered toward Rue Ravignan.
“He’s leaving; he’s going toward Rue Ravignan.”
“You follow him on foot. If he takes the subway, go after him. If he takes a taxi, both of you go in the car. One person watching Pichon should be enough. Don’t let him get away this time.”
He went down Rue Ravignan to Place des Abbesses. There he took a taxi that seemed to be waiting for him. The detective got into his colleague’s car right away—they’d followed him there from just the right distance. Close enough to see the smooth, flat hair of Pierre-Gabriel in the rear window as they drove under a lamppost, and to make sure he wasn’t going to play a dirty trick on them.
The taxi dropped off Pierre-Gabriel at the door to his building and went in search of another insomniac. The detectives saw him enter and shake his umbrella, while they moved a little farther away to avoid being discovered.
The Penny Thief Page 18
