‘Yes, very well. He’s the Social Affairs attaché at the embassy. And we work in the same place, in the annex at boulevard Malesherbes. Would you like me to introduce you?’
‘No, not really, I’ve come across him in the course of my work.’ A moment’s silence. ‘It might be embarrassing if he knew I’ve been asking questions about him.’ Romero felt bogged down. ‘Yildiz, would you like it if we had dinner together? It would be much easier to talk about all this in a normal voice.’
‘Yes. I’d be delighted.’
‘What about this evening, at eight-thirty at the Hippopotamus in boulevard des Italiens?’
‘I’ll be there, Romeo.’
Romero hung up, very ill at ease.
11 a.m. Orléans
Attali, who’d only ever known Algiers when he was a little kid, then Marseilles and Paris, didn’t feel at home in the unhurried half silence of the real provinces. Monsieur Lamouroux was a chemist in rue Jeanne d’Arc, Orleans’ main street. He’d perhaps go and see him in a while. But for now he had an appointment with Madame Lamouroux, waiting for him at home in boulevard de Verdun, a short step from the station. A broad tree-lined boulevard, almost deserted at this end of a rainy morning. A large, affluent-looking, turn of the century house, surrounded by a small garden. No buzzer, a real bell instead. A charming woman opened the door and waited for him at the top of the steps. In her fifties, smiling, permed grey hair, little dark brown suit, pink blouse. Attali would have liked to protect her from her wayward daughter. She took him into the salon, obviously anxious behind her smile. She’d had no news for several days, but this wasn’t out of the ordinary, so why the police?
‘As I said on the phone, we’re looking for your daughter as a witness in an important and dangerous case. She’s no longer living at her usual address in Paris and hasn’t shown any sign of life to anyone since Friday. It’s possible that she would have tried to disappear when she understood the kind of business she’s become involved in. It would be better for her if we’re the ones who find her first.’
‘And what sort of case is it?’ A very small voice.
‘Drugs and procuring. Minors are involved.’
‘Virginie! She’s such a serious, gentle girl. Our only daughter. She writes to us every week. And comes to see us once, even twice a month.’
‘When was the last time she came?’
‘On 6 March. She came for dinner and left the following morning.’
‘Did she mention a trip abroad she’d just made?’
‘No. Not at all. She told us about her studies. Everything was going very smoothly. She seemed certain of finishing soon.’
Her room had flowery wallpaper with bunches of roses, pink curtains at the window, a pink flounced bedspread, a single bed, fluffy animals. A small veneered desk and shelves full of books: Storiesand Legends, a collection of Classics on one side; Balzac in the Pléiade edition, Stendhal, Flaubert, on the other. Attali gazed, transfixed. He remembered what Sobesky had said: so it was no pure and simple lie. VL was simultaneously a well-mannered student from the provinces in this pink bedroom and a drug-ridden procuress in the Club Simon. He had a flash of intuition: if she had a secret, it was here he was going to find it, in this young girl’s bedroom, to which she’d come on 6 March, when she returned from New York.
‘Madame, would you give me permission to have a bit of a look through your daughter’s room?’
‘Certainly, inspecteur. But don’t make it untidy. I shall leave you. I’m going to prepare lunch. Will you stay and have some with me, inspecteur?’
He began with the desk. Bank statements. Orléans branch. Her income from modelling apparently, between 6,000 and 7,000 francs a month, in several payments. ‘She poses for fashion shots, she pays for all her studies, you know. She never asks us for a sou.’ Nothing else. The expenses of a young girl in Paris. A few fairly old letters. Attali made a note of the correspondents’ names. A small address book: all in Orléans and surrounding districts. Attali took it even so. Leave nothing to chance. School photos, holiday snaps of course, her first date perhaps. Nothing which seemed to have any bearing on her life in Paris.
He returned to the desk drawers, nothing was stuck underneath. The fluffy animals he examined one by one, felt them, found nothing. He lifted the mattress, gently tapped the walls, feeling faintly ridiculous, opened the windows, shook the curtains, opened books, searched the bedside table — it was empty.
Discouraged, he sat on the bed. Lay down, as if taking a nap, did some hard thinking. Imagined VL, sleeping here. Stretching out her arm, switching on the bedside light. It had a deep pink shade, a very beautiful light. He looked at the pedestal of the lamp: a cylinder of translucent glass filled with different coloured marbles. He turned off the light, unscrewed the fitting on which the bulb was mounted, tipped up the glass marbles on to the bed. And there, hidden amongst all the marbles, were cut diamonds. About twenty of them. He couldn’t possibly have got it wrong. With his heart beating, he sat for a moment thinking. Then he left the room, leaned over the banister of the stairs, listened to the sounds of cooking and crockery coming from the ground floor, and called Madame Lamouroux.
She came upstairs quickly, looking anxious. He placed a hand on her shoulder and asked her to come in. She took a diamond in her hand, looked at it, gave it back.
‘Is this my daughter’s?’
‘Yes, and, what’s more, I found them inside the bedside lamp.’ She was completely thrown.
‘Madame Lamouroux, I don’t understand any more than you do what these diamonds are doing here. If I go through the normal legal procedure to have them valued, not only is that going to take time, but everybody’s going to know about them. That would do your daughter no good when she returns.’
‘I really don’t want my husband to know anything about this.’
‘Bring the diamonds, and come with me to Paris. We’re going to question a number of people. As soon as we know what these stones have to say, you can come back here with them, and I’ll continue my investigation. It’s quicker and more discreet. Don’t you agree?’
‘How many days will it take?’
‘I really don’t know. Say two at the most.’
‘Leave me a bit of time to get ready. We’ll go in my car after lunch …’
3 p.m. Villa des Artistes
The instructions were clear. Today, tomorrow or later, a stranger would introduce himself into Commissaire Daquin’s house, stay for ten minutes or so and leave. He would be left to do what he wanted and would then be followed. Absolute discretion was required. It was, in principle, an easy job, at the beginning at least. The estate had only one entrance, through the porch of the building on avenue Jean-Moulin. Daquin’s house was being watched from the stairs of the building by Inspector Conrad, two other inspectors were waiting for his signal in the avenue to start the tail.
The estate was very quiet, seemed deserted. A smallish man, very broad shouldered, black hair cut short, went through the porch, down the pathway between the houses, stopped in front of Daquin’s door. It was obvious he had the keys. Conrad sauntered out into avenue Jean-Moulin, that being the agreed signal which would put Inspectors Allard and Zanetta on alert, a few dozen metres away, and came back into the estate. Hardly was he under the porch when he heard a woman screaming. It seemed to come from Daquin’s house. His initial reaction was to pull out his revolver. But that was absolutely not on. The instructions were clear: whatever happened, the ‘target’ must not suspect he’s being followed by cops. He began to run, heard windows opening behind him in the building which overlooked the estate. The door of the house was half open now. Without slowing down Conrad pushed it. Carried in by his thrust, he knocked against a body, slipped and went head first. And was given a thwack by a perfectly tailored cuff at the base of his skull, without him ever even seeing his aggressor. He crumpled, lights flashing before his eyes.