At 09.37, they enter the Occidentale des Banques Suisses building. They come out again at 10.25 with two suitcases. Photo. At 10.32, barely five minutes’ further on, they walk into the Banque Commerciale de Genève. Photo. A wait. Then they come out again at 11.40, without the suitcases. He’s carrying a leather briefcase. Photo. Two taxis are waiting for them. The cops follow that of Françoise Michel to Cornavin Station where she boards the TGV for Paris at 12.15.
On arrival at the Gare de Lyon, and while Noria watches Françoise Michel in the taxi queue, Levert telephones Macquart.
‘Drop it for now, we know where to find her. Come back to my office straight away, with your photos.’
‘Move it, Ghozali. We’re letting her go, Macquart’s waiting for us, no time even for a sandwich.’
In Macquart’s office, Levert, Noria and the three superintendents study the photos spread out in front of them. The ones taken by Noria first. Clumsily framed and a bit fuzzy. ‘You’ll have to learn,’ was Macquart’s only terse comment. Then the others, taken by Levert, that morning, in the street outside the banks. These are unarguably clear.
‘Without a shadow of a doubt, that’s Moricet. Well known to the police, as they say.’
‘Formerly of the Élysée special unit and the secret services.’
‘A security mercenary who works for the Saudis.’
‘I’ve heard that he’s also closely linked to the Syrians.’
‘Yes, them too. He’s not proud.’
‘A killer. Wanted for murder in several countries.’
‘But not in France.’
‘In any case, a big fish,’ concludes Macquart. ‘With a man of his ilk in the picture, as well as the suitcase probably stuffed with dosh, and the Tribune article, this clearly puts matters in a different league from Chardon’s little schemes.’
Everyone sits up. Macquart seems mentally elsewhere.
‘It all comes back to arms trafficking. And that’s not necessarily good news for us. We’re not in charge of that side of things.’
After accompanying his companion of the previous night to the municipal archive Laurencin, clearly not sorry to part company, heads for rue de Belfort, in a working-class district. Naturally, at number 29, there’s no trace of the Michel family, and the current owners have no recollection of them. Laurencin sets off on a tour of the shops. Bakery-cum-patisserie, a cheese seller, a butcher, but none of them had been there during the war years. He grabs a sandwich and a beer.
At the end of the street is a hardware shop. Laurencin pushes open the door, setting off an irritatingly shrill bell. The shop is long and narrow, dark, apparently containing a workshop at the back, from which comes the sound of a hacksaw and the smell of burnt iron. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, massive counters propped across chests of drawers in the middle of the room, and just about everything everywhere. Tins of nails, screws, nuts, washers, spanners, tools, taps, watering cans, casserole dishes, stepladders, planters. Hanging from the ceiling, amid the brooms, are feather dusters, real ones, with real feathers, and a bunch of leather straps. Laurencin wants to touch everything, he feels as though he’s stepped into the dream childhood he never had. An old man makes his way towards him from the back of the shop, all smiles, wearing a grey dust-jacket, a beret and safety boots. Laurencin bangs his right hand on a corner of the counter to make sure he’s not dreaming.
They exchange formalities, then Laurencin says:
‘I’m trying to find out what happened to a certain Michel who lived at number 29 during the war, and his daughter Antoinette.’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, but you know, I was a prisoner of war for five years, and then, in ’45, I left for Australia …’
Laurencin glances around: ‘Australia …’
‘Oh yes, I was a cowboy for several years, then I came and settled here, with my wife, who’s Australian. Does that surprise you?’
‘Depress me, you mean. If you can’t tell me about the Michels, who in this neighbourhood can?’
‘Doctor Méchin, at number 35. He took over his father’s practice, years ago now, and he’s never left rue de Belfort. If anyone remembers your Michel, it’ll be him.’
Laurencin thanks him and goes back up the street, finds number 35 and Doctor Méchin’s surgery. The waiting room’s crowded, he has a spot of bother with the practice secretary. The doctor won’t be free until early evening. ‘Let’s say at around seven o’clock, at the Café de Belfort just down the road.’ Several hours to kill. Laurencin goes back to the hardware store for a chat with the veteran cowboy.
At Security headquarters, Macquart is given a warm reception by Superintendent Lanteri, who is very interested in the photos of Moricet and the names of the banks visited by Françoise Michel. He reveals a few nuggets of information in exchange. They’d found papers on Cecchi implicating Bornand directly in the Iranian arms deal, an operation for which the SEA was seemingly merely a cover. (Any connection with the suitcases full of notes? Possible, but not obvious, it still remained to be proved.) Bornand, who was at the Perroquet Bleu at the time of the murder, had been questioned in this office, that very morning. For the moment, it is officially recognised that those papers were false, and that Cecchi had been planning to use them to blackmail Bornand. Cecchi’s stool pigeon, a certain Beauchamp, head of security at the SEA, has been arrested. He’s a friend of Chardon’s. It’s possible that he’s mixed up in Cecchi’s murder.
‘It’s a very complicated case, involving a great many people − potential dynamite.’ Lanteri taps the table with his fingertips. ‘And we’re in sole charge of it.’
Macquart nods and waits. Lanteri goes on: ‘For reasons that escape me, Bornand seriously has it in for the Paris Intelligence department.’
‘I read the article in the Bavard Impénitent.’
‘So did I, but that’s not all. After leaving here, Bornand went to the Interior Ministry where he used all his influence to push for the disbanding of the Intelligence Service again.’ Another pause. ‘If the Iranian arms case is closed, if he recovers his full freedom to manoeuvre, he can cause you real damage.’
‘And will he recover it?’
‘It certainly looks that way. The plane vanished in thin air, Flandin dead of a heart attack, Cecchi murdered. What about Beauchamp, do you know him?’ Macquart nods. ‘He’s ready to bargain anything for his freedom and a new start in life … He was associated with Bornand in the past, and probably holds quite a few trumps.’ Lanteri sighs. Bornand’s one of those people who are indestructible. Always ready to bounce back.
Macquart goes back to Intelligence headquarters, to get on with some dreary routine paperwork. In a corner, Levert and Noria are writing their reports and filing the photos. Still no news from Laurencin. Macquart gets a coffee from the machine and eats two chocolates. Got to nab Bornand as quickly as possible, it’s him or us. What do I have left? Fernandez, if he’s still alive, if I can find him. Chancy. And the names of the Swiss banks. Given the Security department’s position, for the time being, the only way to use this information is an anonymous letter. But who to send it to? Not to the Bavard. Too close to Bornand and they wouldn’t publish it, or not soon enough. To the magistrate investigating Cecchi’s killing? It depends who’s in charge of the case, and besides, the prosecutor may well refuse to delay the hearing. No obvious link with Cecchi’s murder. And no other investigations running. Switzerland? That might be a good idea, Switzerland …
The pair of them are sitting at a small round table. Laurencin has ordered a coffee and the waiter brings the doctor half a bottle of Beaujolais without being asked.