“And what’s the best news?”
“Castello doesn’t want him interviewed on the phone, he wants me to meet with Garcin in person. And do you know where he lives?”
“Is this a riddle you’re asking me to solve?”
“Absolutely!”
Sebag didn’t need to reflect for very long.
“It’s easy, right?”
“Tell me and we’ll see.”
“Your Garcin attacked a monument to the OAS in Marignane. So we can assume that he lives in a town near the Mediterranean?”
“Not bad . . . ”
“A large city?”
“You could say that.”
“And Castello wants to send you there hoping to kill two birds with one stone?”
“Meaning?”
“He’d like you to take advantage of this to say hello again to one of your buddies over there, a pal who’s a historian?”
“Bravo, you’re the best.”
“Well! I hope you’ll begin to appreciate pastis and bouillabaisse, and that you’ve found a good hotel over there.”
“You never cease to amaze me. You’re the king of puzzle-solvers. If only you could find a better suspect before I leave . . . ”
“What time does the next train to Marseille leave?”
“4:52.”
“It’s going to be close, but we’ll do our best. If not, bon voyage!”
After hanging up, Sebag saw that Molina had a smile on his face.
“Ménard is off to Marseille again?” he asked. “The lucky bastard . . . I hope he has found a little mistress over there.”
“He’s not the type . . . ”
Molina sighed, discouraged.
“Do you think you have to be a certain type to have a mistress? And just what would that type be, in your opinion?”
Fortunately, they had arrived in Moulin-à-Vent. Molina found a parking place on the Ramblas a short distance from Martinez’s apartment and Gilles took care to forget his partner’s question.
Sebag spent a tedious and interminable afternoon. He was having a hard time getting over his recent disappointment. And above all, he couldn’t accept it. Why had he been so sure about this business of the cars? A white Clio or a SEAT of the same color, Spanish plates: in the end, wasn’t that simply a coincidence?
The work that he was doing didn’t distract him. Making neighborhood inquiries was the kind of thing he hated most about the routine of his job. Neither at law school nor at the police academy had he ever imagined that he would some day have to develop a sales rep’s techniques and qualities in order to get someone to open the door of an apartment. It had been a long time since just showing his police card was enough to convince people to listen to him and let him enter their homes. He always had to explain, persuade, convince. And sometimes to accompany the argument with a quick course in French law: crammed with American cop shows, people often demanded to see a warrant just to return a friendly greeting.
So Sebag and Molina walked for hours up and down the streets and stairs of Moulin-à-Vent. To save time, they’d split up, but the work just seemed even more tiresome.
Around 5 P.M., when he was beginning to despair, Sebag received a text message from his partner: “Got something. Meet me at no. 2, Rue du Perthus.”
He put his phone back in his pocket and said a quick goodbye to the little old lady who had just started telling him the story of her life, from her childhood in Cerdagne to her retirement in this neighborhood that she hated. He ran down the stairs of her building two at a time and came out on the Avenue Amélie-les-Bains. All he had to do was turn to his left. Then he saw Jacques a hundred meters away, talking to a little man with a paunch.
Molina quickly introduced them to each other:
“Charles Mercader lives on the third floor of this building, and he loves to do crossword puzzles on his balcony.”
The man stroked his mustache with satisfaction.
“Monsieur, please tell my colleague what you told me.”
Charles Mercader folded his pudgy hands on his belly and gladly obliged.
“The other day I was sitting on my loggia when I saw a car parked just below take off as if it had been the start of a Formula 1 race. The guy made his motor scream and then his tires squealed on the pavement. At the next corner he turned in the direction of the Saint Paul church, and almost immediately afterward, I heard what sounded like a collision. I thought it was probably just a fender bender, and I went on with my crossword, but about ten minutes later I heard the sirens of the emergency vehicles. Then I went down to see. At that moment, I obviously thought that driver must have caused the accident, but I was wrong: it was a van that had hit a scooter. And what’s more, the boy, poor kid, died.”
Molina kept him from launching into extended lamentations.
“And what could you tell my colleague about that car?”
“It was a little white Clio with Spanish license plates.”
Molina smiled happily, very pleased with his witness.
“I know a little Sévérine who is going to be very proud of her dad.”
Sebag closed his eyes and imagined his daughter’s delighted face. But strangely, he didn’t feel relieved. Molina was showing more joy.
“Moreover, we discovered this testimony by working on Martinez’s murder,” he exulted. “Cardona won’t be able to accuse you of trying to make him look bad, and so you don’t owe him anything! He’s going to be very disappointed, that asshole.”
Charles Mercader’s mustache quivered and its extremities turned down. Molina’s remarks worried him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I’m not going to have problems, am I?”
“No, absolutely not, Mr. Mercader, you’ve been great. Everything suggests that your driver was the cause of the accident that led to that boy’s death. His parents will be happy to know the truth.”
The tips of the witness’s mustache rose with astonishment.
“Do you really think so? A little old man like him?”
“What?” the two policemen said in unison.
“You saw the driver?” Molina asked.
“I saw him before he got into his car. I was leaning on the railing of my balcony. Don’t tell my wife, but let it be said in passing that I was smoking a little cigarette when I saw the old geezer walking. Actually, I shouldn’t call him an old geezer, he must be about my age, but all the same, he was more bent over.”
“Pardon me for asking, but how old are you?” Molina asked.
“Seventy-two,” Mercader replied proudly. “And I can tell you that I get around much better than he does. He seemed to be wanting to run but couldn’t really do it. Age affects us all differently, doesn’t it?”
Sebag abruptly cut him off.
“Where was this individual coming from?”
“The Avenue Amélie, like you. He turned this way, coming from the right. Just as you did.”
“And you’re sure it was a Clio?”
“Absolutely! I’ve been driving one for the past ten years. If I couldn’t recognize one it would be serious, wouldn’t it?”
Sebag, puzzled, took out his notebook and wrote down this latest information. They took the witness’s statement, had him sign it, and drove back to headquarters.
It took them half an hour to cover the two kilometers between Moulin-à-Vent and the city center. For the past few months, Perpignan had suffered from traffic jams worthy of a regional capital. In particular, it was very congested around the train station every evening. Sebag was tempted to leave his partner to his sad fate and walk the rest of the way to headquarters, but instead he just asked him to turn off the radio so he wouldn’t have to listen to the buffoonery that was broadcast at that hour.
Jacques reluctantly switched off the radio so Sebag could concentrate on the
ir case. But he wasn’t able to fit together the way he wanted to all the new information they’d gathered that day.
They finally pulled into the parking lot at police headquarters. They’d hardly entered the building before Molina insisted that they go immediately to “say hello” to Lieutenant Cardona. Sebag didn’t want to annoy his partner, but he sensed that it wasn’t a good idea.
They found Cardona sitting in his office, smoking a cigarette next to a partly opened window.
“Well, here are the Perpignan police’s ace inspectors! The ones who claim to solve all puzzles, including the ones that don’t exist.”
“You don’t know how right you are,” Molina replied.
He summed up in a few belligerent words their meeting with Charles Mercader. Cardona thought for a moment before answering.
“Do you think I’m a fool, or what? That’s your big news?”
“Our witness saw the car the van driver is talking about,” Molina argued.
“Your witness saw a car, sure, but he didn’t see the accident.”
“You’re quibbling,” Molina retorted. “He saw a car roar off in the direction of the accident. Then he heard the collision.”
“Hearing isn’t seeing. Your witness saw the car but not the accident. My witnesses saw the accident, but not the car. It’s stupid!”
“Only one of your witnesses was present at the time of the accident,” Sebag broke in, “the others got there just afterward. And from where he was standing, the single eyewitness couldn’t see the car coming from the right toward the van.”
Molina continued:
“And don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence that Mercader happens to have seen a white Clio with Spanish plates exactly like the one the van driver described?”
Far from seeming convinced, Cardona let a mocking grin spread over his lips. He opened a drawer and very slowly took out a file. He slammed it down on the desk.
“And can you tell me where it says in this file that your famous Clio had Spanish plates? I’ve got the report on the interrogation of Pascal Lucas right here. Go ahead, find me any mention of Spanish plates!”
Molina was struck dumb and turned to his partner.
“Pascal Lucas didn’t mention it in his first interrogation,” Sebag explained. “He gave me that information.”
Cardona pounced.
“And he gave it to you in a casual conversation that you were not supposed to have with him, didn’t he?”
“That’s true, but it doesn’t diminish the importance of that information. You can’t just set it aside like that.”
“No, of course not,” Cardona laughed. “Lucas didn’t tell me everything, but naturally, he told you the whole and exact truth. That guy is drunk all day long. He found a sucker willing to believe anything at all, so he started saying what worked for him. But look out, Sebag, that guy’s making a cuckold of you!”
Cardona’s bad faith had annoyed Sebag and this last comment electrified him. To his great surprise he felt his blood boil in his veins. He realized that it was ridiculous for such a vulgar, common remark to have that kind of effect on him. But Sebag, who was ordinarily so levelheaded and so calm, was seized with a mad desire to take Cardona by the collar. He couldn’t resist. He reached over the desk, grabbed Cardona’s shirt and gave it a good quarter turn. Cardona tried to protest but Sebag’s closed fist was compressing his larynx.
“Listen to me, you asshole, we’ve just handed you a significant bit of testimony, and even if it may not be decisive, it’s important. It’s going to be in our file because we obtained it in the course of our investigation of the double murder. So it’s completely legal. Do you understand? LEGAL!”
His right hand hurt but he tightened his grip further and slowly lowered his arm, forcing Cardona to bend down over his desk.
“So I’m going to write an official note to the effect that I did in fact transmit this testimony to you. Now I advise you to take up the investigation again and this time carry it all the way through without neglecting anything. Because I’m also going to continue it. Whether you like it or not, that car exists and I might find other witnesses. If I do, I’m going to transmit the information directly to the big boss, have you got that?”
Bent over forward, Cardon tried to raise his head to give Sebag a black look. Sebag tightened his grip even further for a few seconds and then gradually let go.
Cardona sat up and massaged his neck. His cheeks were crimson, but his forehead was a little green. Pushing back a greasy lock of blond hair, he raised a threatening index finger.
“Never do that again, Sebag. Never.”
“I’ll promise you that, Cardona. But never talk to me like that again. Never.”
Molina silently followed Sebag to their office. Once the door was closed, he couldn’t help breaking into laughter.
“Damn, you really told that son of a bitch where to go!”
He put his jacket on the coat hook behind the door and then added more seriously:
“I think he was surprised by your reaction. I was, too, for that matter . . . ”
He waited for a response that didn’t come.
“I’ve never seen you like that.”
Sebag shot him a vague grimace.
“Did it make you feel better, at least?”
Sebag collapsed onto his chair. He put his feet on the desk and rested his arms on the armrests. Then he slowly nodded his head.
“A little, yes.”
“You see, that’s what I’ve been telling you for years: you’ve got to let yourself go sometimes.”
Sebag was watching the city’s streetlights come on. It was only 6 P.M., but they had just gone off daylight saving time and that had abruptly shortened the afternoons. He wondered if he should tell Sévérine about the progress of his investigation into Mathieu’s accident. After thinking about it, he decided not to. It wasn’t over yet, it was better to wait. And if she asked questions, he would limit himself to telling her that things were moving forward and that he now had hope of getting somewhere.
Images of white Clios and SEATs began to pass through his head. He tried to think about something else but couldn’t. The telephone on his desk rang at the same time as Molina’s. Jacques picked up more quickly. He didn’t say a word, just listening and grimacing.
“Shit,” he said soberly as he hung up.
“Is it serious?”
“Pretty. The president of the Pied-Noir Circle was attacked, with a knife. He’s been taken to the hospital. Before escaping, his attackers left him a note.”
Molina got up, grabbed his jacket, and put it on.
“The note said something like: “Death to Pieds-Noirs.”
“Shit!”
“That’s what I just said, yeah . . . ”
“It’s a good summary of the situation, in fact!”
CHAPTER 23
In a cubicle at the Perpignan hospital’s emergency room, Guy Albouker was grimacing in pain on his stretcher. His frightened eyes had withdrawn into their round, swollen pockets.
Sebag gave a questioning look to the young woman doctor, a petite brunette with wavy hair kept in check by a series of multicolored elastic bands. They knew each other by sight because they had encountered one another on several Sunday mornings while running errands in the area. The young woman’s name was written in black on her white blouse. Doctor Morgane Davier showed Sebag the wound on Albouker’s abdomen.
“The blade went in here. A few centimeters, no more. It didn’t hit any organ, just a little fat. In my opinion, the aggressor just wanted to scare him.”
“So far as that goes, he succeeded,” Albouker groaned.
The young doctor put her hand on his shoulder.
“I’m going to give you a prescription and sick leave for three days. Then you can go. Your wife has just arrived, she’l
l take you home.”
She held out her hand to Sebag.
“I’ll let you question him now. See you one of these Sundays, maybe?”
She went tripping off. Another patient was waiting for her. The nurses had mentioned an accidental wound caused by a chain saw. Sebag shivered.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Albouker said.
The wounded man was feeling better.
“And competent,” he added, caressing his bandage. “It looks to me as if she did that very well. I probably won’t have a big scar.”
Sebag turned to him.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I’d just left Mme. Chevalier. She’s an old lady who lives in Bas-Vernet and has belonged to our Circle for forty years. She’s sick at the moment and can’t leave her apartment, so I had gone out to buy three articles for her. I took them to her apartment and it was as I was coming back down the stairs that I was attacked. In the lobby; they must have been waiting for me.”
“They?”
“Two men, so far as I could see. But it all went so fast . . . ”
“What did they look like?”
“Medium height, both of them, about 5’9”, I’d say. One was heftier than the other, and had a beard. Under their jackets they were wearing sweatshirts with hoods.”
“Could you describe their clothes in greater detail?”
“The bearded one had a leather jacket and red sweatshirt, the other a cloth coat and a gray sweatshirt with a series of English words on it. Decorative words, not meant to have a precise meaning. You know the kind I mean?”
Autumn, All the Cats Return Page 21
