At 12.32, Cecchi’s BMW arrives. He emerges from the left rear door. And from the right rear door, Beauchamp …
Fernandez is stunned, his mind working overtime: Cecchi and Beauchamp know each other, the Tribune de Lille, it’s them.
… They exchange a few words, laughing, over the roof of the car …
Flandin too?
… the BMW slowly moves off and the two men walk over to the doorman and stop to greet him …
What about the sabotaged plane? Bankrolled by arms dealers? His hand squeezes the trigger, the bullet hits Cecchi in the head. A second one shatters the neon Perroquet Bleu sign. Beauchamp and the porter fling themselves to the ground, Beauchamp, writhing in his efforts to extricate the revolver which is stuck in the folds of his coat, shoots in the direction of the metal shutter. Men come rushing out from the bar, bent double, the porter gesticulates helplessly, two or three minutes of total confusion.
Fernandez is already far away. Without waiting to check whether Cecchi was well and truly dead, he grabbed the gun and the bouquet, dashed for the door and was in rue Henner inside forty-five seconds. Within three minutes, he’s melted into the crowd thronging boulevard de Clichy. He walks to place Clichy, still clutching his flowers and the concealed gun. Too late for the last metro. Above all no taxis. He disappears down the back streets between Clichy and La Fourche, at random. A black Peugeot 205, a discreet model which he knows well. One and a half minutes to pick the door lock, efficient as ever, and he drives away from the neighbourhood to the wail of police sirens coming from a few blocks away.
Wednesday 11 December
At seven a.m., Macquart, freshly showered and shaved, goes out to buy the papers at the Gare du Nord, ensconces himself at the Terminus Nord and orders a large café crème and croissants. He skims the dailies. Nothing of interest. Then picks up the Bavard Impénitent — the ‘impenitent gossip’ — the satirical weekly that comes out on Wednesdays. And there, on the front page, a short, prominently positioned article, carrying the byline of the paper’s regular leader writer, André Bestégui:
The Intelligence Services aren’t stool pigeons.
Friday, 30 November, a high-class prostitute is murdered in Paris. Some customers have nasty ways. And her body is found in the vicinity of the La Villette construction site. Why not? It’s as good a place to die as anywhere.
The Crime Squad’s investigating: that’s their job, and on the whole they do it well. They quickly identify the last man to have seen the woman alive, a certain Chardon. Bad news. Chardon isn’t just anyone. He’s a gossip columnist, but that’s not his only talent. He can also spice up his stories with photos of his society subjects in compromising situations, which he uses for his own ends to supplement his income. In short, most journalists earn their living by publishing, while he earns his by not publishing.
Displaying a hopeless lack of judgement, the Crime Squad pursue their enquiries and at Chardon’s home they discover a stash of Lebanese heroin that has come via French-speaking sub-Saharan Africa. Well, well, private preserve, private hunting ground, here we go again.
But that’s not the end of the story: Chardon doesn’t work for himself, he’s in the pay of the Intelligence Service and the Paris Préfecture, who use his reports and his photos for their own ends. But the murdered prostitute worked for Mado, the madam whose clientele is made up of the rich and the powerful and has been for over a decade: politicians, businessmen, high-profile visiting dignitaries. And Mado … as you’ve guessed, is on the payroll of the Paris Intelligence Service. Is this internal gang warfare within this venerable institution?
The Crime Squad would very much like to question Chardon more closely. Only the problem is, his bosses confess they have no idea where to find him. And Mado’s lips are sealed.
Exit the Crime Squad, Intelligence is leading the dance.
Political police, corrupt police, a society has the police force it deserves.
Macquart swears twice, pays his bill and jumps into a taxi to get to the office as fast as possible.
There, he finds messages from Levert and Laurencin: the investigation is following its course, nothing special to report. And another from Patriat, the chief of the Crime Squad section in charge of the Fatima Rashed murder: ‘Get yourself over here as soon as possible.’
Just the time to set up a meeting with the big shots from the political police in Intelligence at ten o’clock, with only one item on the agenda: the article in the Bavard Impénitent, and Macquart drops into his neighbours at police HQ, at 36 quai des Orfèvres.
Patriat receives him with two men from his team. Their expressions are weary and drawn.
‘It’s been a tough night. Cecchi was killed at around half past midnight, outside the Perroquet Bleu …’
Macquart doesn’t need to feign surprise.
‘… my team was very grateful for your assistance over Chardon.’ Patriat pauses. ‘Mado accuses you of being behind the murder. Apparently you summoned her to your office yesterday and allegedly threatened her by saying she wouldn’t last a month if Cecchi were killed.’
‘Likely story.’
The first meeting of the day in Macquart’s office is somewhat gloomy. The general feeling is that Bestégui’s article is remotecontrolled by Bornand; everyone knows of the connection between the two men.
‘It’s Bornand’s declaration of war on the Intelligence Service.’
‘It looks like it.’
‘And do you have any idea why, over and above his visceral hatred for all the official police departments?’
‘No, not really. The fact that Chardon’s on our payroll doesn’t seem a strong enough reason. And we weren’t the ones to open hostilities …’
‘An attack on Mado in the same article is a first in this kind of paper, which has always gone easy on her … After all, the journalists use the same sources as we do …’
‘The same day as her man gets a bullet through the brain. Does that seem like a coincidence?’
‘Who shot him?’
‘No idea.’
‘Something to do with taking control of the Bois de Boulogne gambling club maybe?’
‘It’s always possible, but we haven’t heard a thing.’
‘In any case, we didn’t put a bullet in his brain, but the accusations against Mado … that’s a very crafty move. If it’s war, it’s possible that Bornand’s hand is behind them in an attempt to drive her out. And that is going to make our case massively harder going.’
‘And it’s also possible that Bornand’s behind Cecchi’s murder too, why not? He’s capable of it. Could Fernandez be involved?’
Macquart responds to the barrage of questions. ‘I’ve got people out looking for him, I still think he’s our best bet. But no sign of him. He appears to have vanished into thin air, like Chardon. That’s a lot of disappearances.’ A silence. ‘Right, I need to take a step back and try and fathom this out. I’m waiting for news from my team. No need to give up hope, or to rush into things. Shall we go and have a sauerkraut at L’Alsace à Paris, along with a decent bottle of wine?’
Françoise Michel comes down at 09.17, still accompanied by the same man. Photo. (This time it’s Levert who has the camera.) They pay for their rooms, then leave on foot, taking the lakeside road. She’s carrying her big shoulder bag. She takes his arm and they walk fast. The weather is sunny and cold, with Mont Blanc clearly visible above the lake.