‘And I’ve found a good photo of Bertrand at a press agency. Shall I add it to the file I’m taking to Munich tomorrow?’
‘It’s an idea, but keep it out of the reports.’
*
Romero reported late in the afternoon. No developments anywhere. Except with Moreira. He’d telephoned to a certain Paulette asking her to supply false papers. His men had been so scared since the visit by the fraudulent works inspector that they would have to be replaced. Since this was happening rather sooner than expected the usual supplier had run out. Could she manage to arrange it? She would try.
Paulette’s telephone number was that of a Sentier workroom in the passage de l’Industrie.
18
8. a.m. Passage du Désir
Everyone in the office was studying something. Daquin was reading the papers. Libération led on the boycott of the ministerial regularization of Turks without papers.
There was some admiration for Soleiman.
Romero was drafting a report on the shadowing of Sener.
The telephone rang.
‘Théo?’
‘Yes, chief.’
‘Rouen have just called us. They’ve got a nameless corpse on their hands which might belong to you. Can you send someone to take a look?’
‘Why did they think of us?’
‘He looks like a half-breed and his clothes come from Istanbul. Contact Inspector Petitjean at the Central Police Station in Rouen.’
Daquin hung up.
‘Romero, that’s for you. Take the file of photos with you. It could be useful.’
9.30 a.m. Brasserie Lipp
The swing doors to the Brasserie Lipp were propped open and a deliveryman in blue overalls was bringing out crates of empty bottles and taking in full ones. Attali sat down on the terrace and glanced at the interior, endless mirrors, light-coloured ceramics and dark wood. A woman arranging a huge bunch of orange lilies. No customers. There was one waiter, all in black and wearing a vast white apron that reached down to his feet. He came up to Attali. Sounds of crockery and voices in the kitchens. Attali showed his identity card. The waiter went to find the person in charge, a respectable man wearing a grey suit, white shirt, dark tie.
‘I need to ask you a few questions about two customers, just routine.’
The two men sat down on the terrace, where the doors were still open.
‘Do you know Monsieur Bertrand and Monsieur Kashguri?’
‘Yes, they’re regulars.’
‘Were they here on Friday 29 February in the evening?’
The man went to fetch two thick registers from behind the till, beside the orange flowers. The first one listed the names of the waiters, by teams, along with their hours of duty. Each man had added his signature beside his name.
‘29 February. I was here that evening. I might as well tell you at once that I don’t have any very clear recollections.’
The second register contained the reservations.
‘29 February, Monsieur Bertrand had reserved a table for two at 9 o’clock.’
‘Why are all those reservations crossed out?’
‘We cross them out as and when the clients arrive.’
‘So if Monsieur Bertrand hadn’t come, his name wouldn’t be crossed out?’
‘Unless he’d cancelled by telephone. If a client cancels, we also cross out the name, since we don’t have to keep the table any longer.’
‘And do clients take the trouble to telephone if they want to cancel?’
‘Yes, our habitués here are careful not to let us down without warning,’
‘If Monsieur Bertrand had cancelled, would that have gone through you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t remember if he did?’
‘No. It’s three weeks ago now. Monsieur Bertrand comes several times a week. We have a hundred or so reservations a day. Three or four of them are cancelled. So …’
‘Could you ask the waiters who were on duty that evening to contact me on this number if anyone remembers anything?’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
Attali left. He already knew there would be no follow-up.
10 a.m. Passage du Désir
The interrogation of the mannequins began again. It was becoming routine. Thomas was working together with the same inspector from the Vice Squad. Daquin remained to one side, observing without saying anything. Maud Mathieu. The interrogation was dull but confirmed the statements made by Lamergie.
Daquin was bored. The presence of VL at the Club Simon on the evening of the 29th could be considered as established. Apart from that nobody knew anything about her. Everyone was marking time. I’ll stay for the last interview of the morning. Then I’ll go on to something else.
Enter Dorothée Marty, a tall, slim, dark girl. Hair cut square, dark and full, a huge fringe covering her entire forehead. Framed by this black helmet her face looked childlike and small. She’s graceful, thought Daquin, who had remained slightly absentminded. The interrogation began. Like the others. Daquin had to make an effort to concentrate. Then suddenly, at the question ‘Do you know Kashguri, have you had him as a client?’ her whole body became rigid. Her attitude and her expression froze.
‘Yes.’
‘Who found him for you?’
‘Virginie Lamouroux, like the others.’
‘Do you know if she was a personal friend of his?’
‘No, I never discussed that with her.’
Thomas went on to something else. Dorothée Marty relaxed and her attitude became normal again. The interrogation continued. Incredible that neither Thomas nor the Vice Squad inspector had noticed anything. Not good cops. Or else they didn’t care.
End of the interrogation. Dorothée Marty stood up, signed her statement and prepared to leave. Daquin stood up also. The two inspectors saw him open the door for the young woman and take hold of her elbow.
‘Does your superintendent try to pick up girls?’ the Vice Squad inspector asked Thomas. The latter shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he didn’t know and didn’t understand.
‘Mademoiselle, may I invite you to lunch? It’s the right time now and I’d like to talk to you a little in a completely informal way, obviously.’ Dorothée Marty looked surprised and hesitant. ‘Say yes. You’ve not much to lose, you have a Superintendent’s word for it.’
‘You know, I don’t usually eat lunch.’
‘I’ll take you to an Italian place that you’ll like. If you want, you need only have a cup of coffee.’
11.30 a.m. Rouen
Cold, tiled floor, smells. The body on a trolley. The face was uncovered. White complexion, swellings more or less everywhere. Unreal. Not a dead man, more like a mask.
‘Those are burns caused by the lime,’ explained Petitjean. ‘But we’ve had his face made up, identification will be easier that way.’
Romero put his briefcase down on a table, took out the set of photographs, leafed through them, picked out one of them and showed it to Petitjean.
‘OK. It’s him.’
‘Let’s get out of here.’
They walked up and down in front of the morgue. Romero had brought some little cigars, Italian ones from Tuscany, which he always took when he went to a morgue: they smelt worse than the corpses. He offered one to Petitjean, who refused it.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Not at all. Well?’
‘He’s a little Turkish dealer whom we’ve been on to for a couple of weeks, a certain Celebi.’
12.30 p.m. Da Mimo
Neapolitan atmosphere. Daquin was obviously an habitué. A small table at the end, with a red and white checked tablecloth. Daquin installed the young woman with her back to the room. For her he chose hors d’œuvres variés on a bed of vegetables dressed with oil and vinegar and for himself a pizza alla rughetta. Followed by grilled fish, chilled Orvieto as usual and for Madame, a mineral water.