13
10 a.m. Passage du Désir
‘We’ll begin rather at random with some of the businessmen, and some politicians.’
Thomas and Santoni listened and scribbled notes, relieved that Daquin was taking matters in hand.
‘We’ve nothing against a man who frequents whores, of whatever persuasion. So, a priori, we must go softly-softly. But our aim is to throw light on the murder of a Thai child, committed on 29 February last by a certain Icarus. So they must give us their pseudonym, tell us what they were doing on the evening of the 29th, what they could see, if they went into the Club Simon that evening … if they wouldn’t mind. And as we’re obstinate creatures, we’d also like to know if they know Virginie Lamouroux, in what circumstances they’ve kept her company, if they’ve used her to procure girls or drugs … We’re going to contact them by phone. Obviously, they’re not obliged to agree to meet us. But we can say to them that we’re making inquiries about the murder and rape of a child, and if it comes to having to obtain rogatory letters in order to get them to talk to us as witnesses, we’ll be considerably less discreet. Here are the lists of names to phone. Is everything dear? Get to work.’
*
Once he was on his own, Daquin began with Lestiboudois. Not at home. He was playing golf at the International Club du Lys at Chantilly. Telephone call to the clubhouse.
‘M. Lestiboudois has just arrived.’
‘Put him on to me. Superintendent Daquin here.’ All it needed was a mention of the Club Simon to obtain an appointment. At 1 p.m. in the Lys club house.
‘I shall be coming with one of my inspectors.’
‘I’ll wait for you in the hall. Obviously, I shall make you stay for lunch. I’ll book a table right away.’
*
And now, Kashguri. Why resist his curiosity to get to know him? Kashguri was in the directory, and answered the phone after the first ring.
‘Monsieur Kashguri? Superintendent Daquin of the Drugs Squad here. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘I’m working. What d’you want from me?’
‘We’ve just arrested M. Simon for aggravated procurement. You appear on the list of his regular clients.’
‘It’s not illegal.’
‘I know that as well as you do. But I’d like to ask you a few questions on the running of this private club.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘I shall ask for letters rogatory from the judge and obtain them and demand your presence in, shall we say, a more official manner.’
‘Very well, I’m looking at my appointments diary. I can come to see you on Wednesday next at 10. I’d prefer it if I came to you. Where should I go?’
‘I’d rather see you at an earlier date.’
‘That won’t be possible. And, even if you go through the judge, it won’t be any quicker.’
Daquin allowed some time to elapse.
‘Wednesday at 10, at the 10th arrondissement Local Squad police station, passage du Désir, Paris 10th, Commissaire Daquin’s office.’
He hung up, and sat motionless for a while, staring fixedly at the phone. It wasn’t going to be easy.
1 p.m. Rue Piat
A whole morning waiting in a police Renault 5 in front of Martens’ place: an old building, with little renovation done, just above Belleville Park. Undoubtedly, one of the prettiest views in Paris. Radio, crossword, a whole morning was a bloody long time. Martens came out of his place, on foot, sober and classically elegant in suit and tie. A few dozen metres on he went into a restaurant on the corner of rue Piat and rue des Envierges. Greeted like an old customer. Table reserved by the window. He ordered a bottle of champagne. A ravishing young woman arrived, with raven hair and very dark eyes. A warm vivacious face. She took off her long grey coat and underneath was an extremely clinging, extremely orange dress. Romero whistled in admiration. Lunch was washed down with a fair amount of booze, and apparently very happy. Outside it was chilly and miserable, nothing to eat. Romero asked himself, was this really the job I should have taken up?
They went back. Arm in arm to Martens’. This guy was a bastard — a lucky bastard. Romero took advantage of the slack period to have a sandwich.
1 p.m. Chantilly
With Santoni, unmarked car, destination Chantilly. Daquin didn’t take long to spot the car following them. It wasn’t a Citroën this time but a Peugeot 405. The tailing was well done, more discreet than the day before. The traffic was thicker though.
Daquin stopped outside a tobacconist’s, noted the 405’s number when it passed by him. Then he continued to the Club du Lys, without bothering about it any more. Santoni hadn’t noticed anything.
They arrived at the Club du Lys. Daquin hated golf clubs. His childhood came back to him sickeningly. All those weekends when he’d been left on his own in luxurious, pseudo-English venues. Stop, now. Think of something else. One migraine a week was enough.
Lestiboudois spotted them and walked towards them. A small, good-natured man with white hair, amiable and rotund, in a beige wool and doeskin jacket over a dark brown sports shirt and matching velour trousers. He guided them towards the dining-room. A reserved table, a little apart, near a big bay window. White table-cloths, muted service. Aperitifs? Daquin ordered a margarita, Santoni a whisky, like Lestiboudois.
Daquin sat down, his back to the bay window, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the artificially green golf links and the meticulously shaped yellow bunkers. He remembered a Sunday when he was a child, at the golf club bar in St Cloud, his father in an immense leather armchair, drinking whisky and going over the match he’d just played, blow by blow, with a human warmth he reserved exclusively for this sport.
He’d scored eight above par, as a Sunday amateur, who normally reached a score of between fifteen and eighteen. The match of his life. And all this while his mother was dying from the effects of a clever cocktail of medicines. When they returned home she was dead. And little Théo always thought his father knew. That’s why he’d played so well that day. And I was used as his alibi, Daquin thought.
Lestiboudois placed his hand on Daquin’s forearm.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine, Monsieur Lestiboudois. To be perfectly frank with you, I have a bit of trouble imagining you romping in front of the cameras at the Club Simon.’
‘You’re quite right. I’ve never lain on one of those beds.’
The maître d’hôtel arrived. ‘Mixed grills. With a chilled Saumur.’
‘Explain to me then, why pay out all this money every month?’
‘I run the export department in a big French firm which sells cosmetics and beauty products.’
‘We know.’
‘As such, I have to entertain foreign customers who come from the whole world over to sign very big contracts with us. Paris has a certain reputation. When they get here, they want …’ hesitations, shame? ‘Let’s be clear, they want ass. Places like the Folies Bergère, the Crazy Horse, don’t match up to our customers’ expectations any more. They may be OK for a Chrysler dealer from Iowa or Danish peasants, but not for the type of person we’re dealing with. The specialized networks of call-girls for businessmen, who provide very pretty girls, multilingual, able to accompany other clients to dinners or the theatre and sleep with them afterwards, they’re quite good. We use some of them. But the Club Simon, believe me, is an inspired idea. We found some superb models there, models our clients have sometimes already seen as photos in magazines, who can give the illusion of being a bit amateur. And then, this kind of secret, members only, pseudonyms, a key, it’s exciting. And the video … they leave with it and they’re enchanted. A really personalized souvenir — and not corny — of Gay Paree. Some, who’ve come several times before, arrive with their own video tape recording, with a list of credits already prepared. I think the Club Simon has helped us clinch several enormous international contracts. A good investment.’