He went into the study. Very welcoming. There, too, a french window, the balcony, Paris beyond. The three walls furnished with shelves in light wood, running from top to bottom, full of books. In the middle of the room, a huge English desk, with a green leather top, behind it a matching leather armchair, and in front of the window a small two-seater sofa in fawn leather. It must be really pleasant working here. He went to the bookcase: nineteenth-century novels, Russian, English, American. Classical Greek tragedies, Arabian and Persian poets in bilingual editions. All in meticulous rows. On the desk, Doris Lessing’s Children of Violence. Daquin whistled between his teeth. Took out a book, then another, opened them, leafed through, put them back. Hardly any dust. It was no dead library. Persian poets? Rare, even so. There were about thirty titles. He opened them one after another. And there on the flyleaf of a bilingual anthology of Court poetry, he read a date: 27 January 1958, and a dedication: ‘An unforgettable meeting’. It was signed ‘O’. He experienced a curious feeling. A sort of jealousy. He slipped the book into the inside pocket of his jacket. To bring him luck?
The last two shelves, as he did his complete tour of the room, were empty. Also empty, or almost, were the drawers of the desk. If there had been bookkeeping records here, there were no more. Lavorel would have to find something else. The apartment was arranged in a mad sort of way, and nowhere were there any photos. No mementoes of the past. No old letters, old keys, nothing whatever. The lady must have had a difficult relationship with her past.
Daquin walked around the apartment for a while longer. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. In fact he couldn’t bring himself to leave: night fell in the absent woman’s apartment, and it was fascinating. Ashtrays everywhere, even on the edge of the bath: she was a heavy smoker. All were impeccably dean. Two large porcelain ashtrays with ads on them: Hostellerie du Bas-Bréau, at Barbizon.
In the kitchen, not much in the cupboards, nothing that suggested gourmet cooking. One thing however made him smile: she used the same coffee as he did. He must remember. He’d offer her a cup when he had her in front of him in his office. It was almost 7 o’clock, he must go. He wasn’t tense enough any more, not on tenterhooks. It was becoming dangerous. He must close the door in the kitchen, listen carefully to all the noises from outside before going out, simply pull the door to behind him, go down the stairs, wait for the concierge to be distracted, that would never be for very long, and calmly walk out into the street. Then, once outside, a short walk in the fresh evening air as far as the Seine, and a stroll up to square de l’Alboni. What an exhilarating day.
7 SUNDAY 9 MARCH
10 a.m. Deauville
A spacious apartment on the seafront. Two policemen rang the bell. No answer. They rang again … A man in his fifties came and opened the door in his dressing-gown. Obviously disturbed. And very surprised to find the policemen.
‘Good morning, monsieur. The Paris Drugs Squad have asked us to check whether Mademoiselle Lamouroux is really here.’
The man turned to Virginie, who was wrapped in a bath towel and standing petrified in the middle of the sitting-room.
‘Someone’s asking for you, delightful girl.’ Said with irony and a touch of malice.
Virginie came to the door.
‘Mademoiselle, you should have notified the Drugs Squad of your change of address. Don’t forget to report tomorrow at the 10th arrondissement police station, by nine a.m. at the latest. Thank you, monsieur. Excuse us for disturbing you. Have a nice Sunday.’
12 a.m. Villa des Artistes
Daquin went home to change, after a pleasant evening at the house of his friend, who was a TV producer, and a rather good night with a little blonde actress — the real works — who absolutely had to know how a superintendent — a real commissaire — made love. She was so tanked up that he wasn’t certain she would remember who he was now.
Message on the answerphone. Soleiman’s voice: ‘I’ve been trying to get you. Call me.’ No date, no time.
Daquin dialled the only number he had, the Committee one. Soleiman picked up the phone on the second ring. There was the hum of conversation — probably Turkish — in the background.
‘I’ve phoned several times. You weren’t at home all night.’
Daquin burst out laughing.
‘Eh! You jealous?’ A vexed silence. ‘Ten, this evening, at my place. OK?’
‘Fine.’
*
Daquin’s asleep on the sofa in the living-room when Sol arrives. He opens one eye, grumbling. Sol signals he’s going up to the bathroom. When he comes back down, wearing a brand-new white dressing-gown, that fits, and which was left for him on the edge of the bath, Daquin’s awake and drinking coffee. He puts the full cafetière on the low table in front of him.
‘I’ve made some lasagne for you. It’s in the oven. I’ve already eaten.’
Soleiman goes to get his meal, and some cutlery, then sits beside Daquin on the sofa.
‘What’s happened to you? Have you been fighting with thugs?’
Daquin’s upper lip is swollen and he has a bruise on his left cheek from a blow.
‘Yes and no. I was playing rugby this afternoon. We were the weaker side and we suffered throughout the match. So you could say the other side were a bunch of thugs …’
‘I’ve got some important things to show you.’
‘Go on.’
From his dressing-gown pocket Soleiman takes out the four photos that Daquin gave him. On the back of each are names, initials, dates. The four men arrived in France almost at the same time — during the summer of 1979. All their papers are in order, residence permits, work permits. Three of them were members of the office of the Association of Lighting Technicians, when it was set up in September. Then, in January, when the workshops were opened, they left the association office to look after their management. But they can still be seen quite often where the association hangs out. There wasn’t any falling out, more a specialization of duties.
‘That confirms what we thought about the links between the extreme right and drugs. And that gives us a lead to follow up. How and why have these four got their papers?’ Daquin leans back deeply into the sofa and draws Soleiman against himself. ‘Move a bit closer. I’m very tired. I feel like being affectionate. Tell me, where are you living now, and what on?’
Soleiman suddenly stiffens and stands up.
‘Why d’you ask me that. To fill up your police reports?’
Smile. ‘Come here. Good God. There’s no police report on you here in France. Sol, there never will be. I’d never write a word. You’re mine, but mine alone. I asked you this question, simply because it interests me. And since you’re mine, I’ve a certain amount of responsibility towards you.’
‘You haven’t made a report on me?’
‘No.’
Soleiman sits down again.
‘Not even one with a false name?’
Smile. ‘No.’
‘When this business is over, no one will know that I’ve given you information, and I shall be truly free again?’
‘Of course. It’s what I told you right from day one, isn’t it?’