That’s the thing about the obituary page. You always know there is a story behind a story—all the hidden complexities that make a life a life. You also know that, one day, your life too will be summarized in a few hundred words . . . if you’re lucky. Death is the great leveler. Once you’ve crossed over into that realm of nothingness, your story only really stays in the minds of those closest to you. And when they too vanish . . .
Nothing matters. And because of that, everything matters. You have to counter the insignificance of what you do with the belief that, somehow, it does have import. Otherwise what can you do but despair and think, When I’m dead, none of the forces that drove my life—the anger, the neediness, the ambition, the search for love, the regrets, the terrible mistakes, the futile pursuit of some sort of happiness—will count for anything.
Unless death isn’t the end of everything.
This is the death certificate from the medical examiner in Budapest—signed after he performed the autopsy on Madame Kadar . . . But you still insist that Madame Kadar is alive?
I didn’t know the answer to that question anymore.
The cell door opened again. A new officer entered.
“The inspector wants to see you now.”
I pulled on my jeans and ran my hands through my grubby hair. The officer coughed loudly, a signal for me to hurry up. Then he took me by the arm and led me back upstairs.
Coutard was seated by his desk, smoking. My passport was next to the ashtray. Inspector Leclerc was standing by the window, in conversation with Coutard. The talk stopped as soon as I was brought into the room. Coutard motioned for me to take a seat. I did so.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Well, you won’t have to spend another night as our guest.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you are no longer a suspect.”
“I’m not?”
“It’s your lucky day: we found the murderer of Monsieur Omar and Monsieur Attani.”
“Who was it?”
“A certain Monsieur Mahmoud Klefki . . .”
“Never heard of him.”
“A diminutive man with what seems to be a permanent scowl. He works for your landlord, Monsieur Sezer. Perhaps you met him?”
Of course I did. Many times. Only I knew him as Mr. Tough Guy.
“Once or twice, in passing.”
“We found the knife used to murder Omar in Klefki’s chambre, as well as the hammer with which he attacked Monsieur Attani. The blood of both victims matched that found on the respective weapons.”
“Did Klefki confess?”
“Of course not—and he cannot begin to explain why the hammer and the knife were hidden beneath the sink in his room.”
Leclerc came in here: “Murderers can often be overconfident—or stupid—when it comes to disposing of the weapons. Especially if they are arrogant enough to believe they can escape detection.”
“Did he give you any reason for the attacks?”
“How could he—as he continues to deny them? But we did discover that his employer, Monsieur Sezer, was having a long-running dispute with Attani over the protection that Sezer charged for the bar Attani owned. And in the case of Monsieur Omar, we have heard rumors that he had borrowed a significant sum from Monsieur Sezer—which he was supposed to be paying back, at an exorbitant rate of interest, on a weekly basis. So we will also be charging Sezer with ordering the two murders. With any luck, we can turn Klefki against his employer—in exchange for a fifteen-year sentence, rather than life imprisonment . . .
“So, Monsieur Ricks—you are free to leave. But if you could tell us anything else about Monsieur Sezer and his various business enterprises . . .”
“Why would I know about such things?”
“Because we know you work for him.”
“That’s not true.”
“There is an alleyway on the rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, near the corner of the rue des Petites Écuries. You have been spotted going in there most nights.”
“By whom?”
“As I told you yesterday, I ask the questions here.”
“I use the place as an office.”
“Yes, we found your laptop when we raided it yesterday.”
“You raided it?”
“Another question, monsieur. If it is merely your office, why is there a television monitor on the table where you work? A monitor connected to a television camera on the street.”
“Yeah, that was there when I rented the office.”
“Rented it from whom?”
“Sezer,” I said, knowing full well that if I mentioned Kamal’s name, they would start asking questions about how I knew the late owner of my local Internet café and whether I had any thoughts on why his body was discovered some months back in a Dumpster near the Périphérique. Anyway, Sezer would back me up here, because he didn’t want it known what went on downstairs . . . though I was certain that the cops had already raided the place and were now trying to see how much I knew.
“What did you pay Sezer for the office?” Coutard asked.
“Sixty euros a week.”
“Not much for an office.”
“Well, it’s not much of an office.”
“And you worked there on your novel . . .”
“Most nights from midnight until dawn.”
“But on the night that Omar was murdered . . .”
“I was having writer’s block, so I went for an all-night stroll.”
“You didn’t mention this when I first questioned you.”
“Mention what?”
“Mention that you were at your ‘office’ before taking your all-night stroll.”
“That’s because you didn’t ask me.”
Pause. A quick glance between Leclerc and Coutard.
“It’s rather convenient, you being ‘out walking’ the night Omar was murdered.”
“I thought you’d found your murderer already?”
“Yes, we have. It was just a passing comment, that’s all. But I would like to know if you were acquainted with your neighbors in the building where you maintained your ‘office.’ ”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Do you have any idea of what sort of business was going on in the ‘office’ on the ground floor?”
“None whatsoever. Do you?”
Another look from Coutard to Leclerc.
“We raided the place last night,” Leclerc said. “The downstairs office—it was more like a small warehouse space—was empty. But it looked like it had been cleared out, with haste, only a few hours before we got there. Our forensic team did discover traces of blood in the wood floors and the walls, as well as several large electrical cables . . . the types often used for cinema lights. There was also a stage-like area in the center of the space, with a few pieces of furniture and a bed. The mattress had vanished, the headboard on the bed had been washed, but there were still microscopic particles of blood imbedded in the wood grain.”
Coutard came in here.
“Our belief is that the downstairs premises were used to front several activities—including the making of pornographic and snuff films. You know what snuff films are, don’t you?”
I nodded—and remembered the night the body was dragged out as I peered out of my doorway. But if I had been the night watchman for a snuff film operation, why didn’t I hear other bodies being carted away?
“We have been aware, for some time, that these sorts of films have been shot in this quartier. We just didn’t know where. Now we have reason to believe it was in the same building where you were writing your novel.”
“That’s news to me.”
“And that is bullshit, monsieur,” Coutard said. “You were the guard on the door; the man who vetted everyone who came and went there. That’s why you had the monitor on your desk.”
“I never knew what was going on downstairs. I never used the television monitor. As far as I was concerned the buildin
g was empty.”
“We also found traces of cocaine and laxative in the kitchen area of the downstairs space,” Leclerc said. “So a drugs operation was also working out of the same premises. And forensics turned up traces of gelignite as well.”
“Gelignite is a plastic explosive,” Coutard said. “A favorite of bomb makers. And still you had no idea of the activities taking place directly below you?”
“Absolutely none.”
“He’s a liar, isn’t he?” Coutard asked Leclerc.
“I’ve no doubt he was the night watchman,” Leclerc said, “but he could have been kept in the dark as to what was going on downstairs.”
“I think he knew everything.”
“I knew nothing,” I said.
“We weren’t speaking to you.”
“You have no proof I knew anything,” I said.
“Monsieur,” Coutard said, “I can legally hold you for another twenty-four hours . . . which I will be most willing to do if you are disrespectful to us again.”
“I mean no disrespect,” I said.
“Curious man, Monsieur Ricks,” Coutard said to Leclerc. “You know about the circumstances that brought him to a chambre de bonne in our quartier?”
“I read the dossier, yes.”
“And do you remember from the dossier that there was a man in authority at the mediocre college who orchestrated Monsieur Ricks’s downfall?”
“Wasn’t that the same man who ran off with Ricks’s wife?”
“Absolutely. And during the course of my further investigations into Monsieur Ricks’s background yesterday, I discovered a fascinating new twist to the extraordinary narrative that is Monsieur Ricks’s life. I typed in the name of the college at which Monsieur Ricks used to teach. What was it called again?”
“Crewe College,” I said.
“That’s it. Anyway, among the many entries listed was a news report from a local paper. It seems that the dean of this college—a Monsieur Robson—was dismissed from his job just a few days ago when it was discovered that he had an extensive child pornography library on his computer at work.”
“What?” I said loudly.
“You heard me. According to the paper, it’s quite the scandale. Your ex-wife must be appalled.”
I put my head in my hands.
“He looks upset,” Leclerc said.
I wasn’t upset. I was suffering from a massive dose of disbelief and horror as I recalled the remnants of an exchange I had had with Margit only a few days earlier.
So, she said to me, what do you think would be an appropriate payback for all the harm he perpetrated?
“You want me to fantasize here?”
“Absolutely. The worst thing that could happen to the bastard.”
“You mean, like discovering that he had a huge collection of kiddy porn on his computer?”
“That would do nicely.”
“Oh my God,” I said under my breath.
“I thought he’d be pleased to hear such news,” Coutard said to Leclerc.
“Yes, you would have expected him to applaud such a downfall.”
“Unless he feels guilty about it.”
“But why would he feel guilty?”
“Perhaps he himself planted the pornography on the gentleman’s computer.”
“Unlikely . . . unless he’s one of those highly skilled hackers who can tap into somebody’s hard drive.”
“Maybe he asked a friend to do it for him?” Coutard said.
“Yes—maybe he has a very malicious friend.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Leclerc said. “I mean, the man is also sleeping with a dead woman, so why shouldn’t he also have an avenging angel?”
“I bet he also believes in Santa Claus.”
“And the Easter Bunny.”
“And Snow White . . . who was once his mistress.”
Coutard began to laugh. Leclerc joined in. I didn’t look up at either of the inspectors. I kept my head in my hands.
“The man has no sense of humor,” Leclerc said.
“Don’t you find any of this funny, Monsieur Ricks?”
“Am I free to go now?” I asked.
“I’m afraid you are.”
Coutard pushed my passport across the desk.
“You need help, monsieur,” he said.
To which I felt like saying, I’ve got all the help I don’t want.
But instead I picked up my passport and gave the two inspectors a quick nod of good-bye.
“We’ll meet here again,” Coutard said as I turned to leave.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Trouble is your destiny, monsieur.”
EIGHTEEN
I HIT THE STREET. I hailed a cab.
“Rue Linné,” I said.
As soon as I reached Margit’s address, I punched in the code and charged up the staircase to her apartment. When I reached her door I held down the buzzer. No reply. I banged on the door. No reply. I banged again and called her name. No reply.
“Goddamnit, Margit—open the fucking door.”
Without thinking I threw my entire weight against it. There was a bit of give around the lock, but it still wouldn’t open. I stepped back and attempted another flying tackle. No further give, but my right shoulder suddenly hurt like hell. I ignored the pain and charged at the door again. There was a loud crunch as it splintered free of the lock. Gravity carried me into the apartment. I stumbled and landed on the bed, breaking my fall with my hands. I immediately began to cough, courtesy of the thick layer of dust that covered everything. I raised up my hands. They were coated with gray powder. I looked at the bed, upon which I had made love so many times with Margit. Soot enveloped the pillows, the blanket, the sheets. I stood up, dusting off my jeans. I walked into the front room. All the furniture was buried under dust. Ditto the little kitchen. The windows were opaque with grime. There were cobwebs in every corner of the room. The carpet was covered with rodent droppings. And when I opened the door of the side room—the room that Margit’s daughter called her own—I jumped back in horror. Three rats were huddled together on the floor, picking at the corpse of a dead mouse.
Then, suddenly, from behind me came a voice.
“Get out.”
I spun around. Standing in the living room was a diminutive man of around sixty-five. He was gray, stooped, and holding a hammer in one hand. He glared at me with a mixture of anger and fear. His hand started to shake as he raised the hammer.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“No one.”
“Do you know Margit Kadar?”
“She’s dead.”
“That can’t be—”
“Get out now.”
The hammer trembled again.
“Margit Kadar lives here,” I said.
“She lived here. Until 1980, when she went back to Hungary and died.”
“No one has lived here since then?”
“Look around you. Do you actually think someone lives here?”
“I have been coming here twice a week for months.”
“I’ve never seen you—and I see everybody who comes through the front door.”
“You’re lying.”
The hammer trembled again.
“I’m calling the police,” he said.
“What sort of fucked-up game is going on here?”
“You’re crazy.”
He turned around and started to walk quickly toward the door. I chased after him. When I grabbed his shoulder, he spun around and swung the hammer at me. I just managed to duck out of its path, catching the concierge by the other wrist, then yanking it up behind his back. He squealed in pain.
“Drop the hammer,” I said.
“Help me,” he yelled to no one in particular. I yanked his arm harder. He squealed again.
“Drop the hammer now or I’ll break your fucking arm.”
The hammer fell from his hand. T
he concierge began to whimper.
“There’s forty euros in my wallet, if that’s what you’re after.”
“All I’m after is the truth,” I said. “Who lives here?”
“Nobody.”
“When did you last see Margit Kadar?”
“In 1980.”
“Liar.”
“You have to believe me—”
“The apartment is always clean, always—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why haven’t you seen me before? Why?”
“Because I never have. Now will you please let me go.”
“Did you know about the murder she committed?”
“Of course. It was in all the papers. The man who ran over Zoltan and Judit.”
“You know their names.”
“Naturally I know their names. They lived here.”
“With Margit?”
“I don’t know why you are asking these mad questions. This was Margit’s apartment. When she lost her husband and daughter, she went crazy and killed the driver of the car that killed her family. Then she fled back to Hungary, and the next thing I heard she was dead.”
“And since then . . .?”
“Since then? Nothing. The apartment remains unused. The bills get paid, but no one has ever come in here. Until this afternoon. Please, monsieur . . .”
I suddenly felt as if the world was spinning in front of me. I was in a reality that might not be a reality that still might be real. Dust and cobwebs and mouse shit and rats. And yet, just a few days ago when I was here . . .
“I don’t understand,” I heard myself saying.
“Please, monsieur, you’re hurting me.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 60
