3.25 p.m.
Sener reached rue de la Procession, parked on a pedestrian crossing again and disappeared into the Immigration Office. Romero parked in his turn, just anywhere, and walked towards the 205. From the inside pocket of his jacket he took out a little file that he had modified for his personal use a few years ago when he was an adolescent in Marseilles. He glanced at the second hand on his watch, bent over the boot of the 205 with a very preoccupied air and tinkered with the lock, which gave way. He checked: forty-five seconds. Good. Despite lack of practice it could be done in less than a minute. He had one regret, however: his range was still very limited. French cars, Volkswagens … He would have liked to try American or Japanese cars. He’d never had the opportunity. The boot was empty. Romero closed it again and went back to sit in his car once more. Another hour-long wait. He was really fed up.
4.35 p.m.
Sener came out of the Immigration Office with Martens. I could have taken a bet on it.
And they went off on foot. Romero followed them at a distance. They turned right, then left, stopped at Martens’ Renault 5, got in, drove off and left Romero behind.
7.30 p.m. Passage du Désir
When Romero came into the general office Santoni was beginning to describe his trip to Munich. He had found only ten or so young Thai girls who had been through Paris.
‘In Switzerland and Germany there’s a whole network of specialized cabarets and the girls don’t usually stay longer than six months in the same town. They have no money, never go out into the street, always travel from one town to another with a minder who holds their identity papers. After three or four years, when they’re “old”, they join the “normal” prostitution network or else they’re given an air ticket to fly back home. The police and the owners of the nightclubs pretend to believe they’re twenty years old, as stated on their passports, but the clients don’t get it wrong, and it’s really paedophiles who frequent those clubs. It saves them the expense of travelling to Thailand … The clubs are never empty. Enough said. Of the ten or so children who went through Paris seven had “worked” for the Club Simon and they identified five of the members. The retired Superintendent was the most assiduous. No comment. An entrepreneur, Lamergie, who’s already admitted having made use of them. Two deputies. And Kashguri. But he never had sex with them. He watched while other men did. Obviously I took statements in the official way. But in a few months’ time it will certainly be difficult to find those girls. There. It’s all in my report and the statements are attached.’
‘Good work, thank you. Here, as far as the mannequins are concerned, we’re marking time. Thomas will tell you about it. Have your weekend off, you’ll need at least two days to get over all that Swiss-German cleanliness.’
*
Daquin remained alone with Romero.
‘I’ve already had a call from Marinoni. The woman he followed from the Brasserie Flo went up into the Berican workroom in passage de l’Industrie.’
Romero was very surprised.
‘Could she be Paulette? Moreira’s friend?’
‘It’s possible. Marinoni’s still over there. And what about you?’
‘Sener went to see Martens at the Immigration Office and I lost track of them when they left in Martens’ car, after 4 o’clock. Before that I took a look, unofficially of course, into the boot of Sener’s car. It was empty. Has Marinoni spoken to you about the FNAC plastic bag?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t go in to question the staff at the Brasserie Flo. I was waiting for the green light from you. If those two are good clients the owners could possibly warn them.’
‘You did right. Forget Flo. We’ve better things to do. Romero, tomorrow it’ll be the Berican workroom.’
*
In front of Daquin was a telex sent to him during the afternoon by the head of the Drugs Squad. The reply from the wife of the director of the French Institute for Anatolian Studies. Fifty or so names. Personal remarks against some of them. Grumpy. Dirty. Good-looking. The director’s wife had enjoyed herself. Only one name meant anything to Daquin: Kutluer. Already middle-aged. Pity.
And then, right at the end:
‘At the last Erwin dinner I had long discussions with a woman whosename isn’t on the list, because she was only passing through, Erwin toldme. Anna Eerie. She’s beautiful, intelligent and cultured. And I don’tknow her address.’
Madame, one day I’ll go to Istanbul to thank you.
20
7.30 a.m. Passage de l’Industrie
The weather was cool and fine, a delightful spring. Romero stretched his legs. He was glad to be sitting outside a café with Lavorel, after an average night spent in the arms of an average blonde. Lavorel had brought the file on the Berican workroom which he had put together quickly the day before: records of trading, taxes, social security. Paulette was Paulette Dupin, manageress of the company for the last five years, living at no. 44 in rue Gallieni at Villemomble. The workroom was flourishing and seemed slightly more on the level than most of those in the Sentier. Berican, director of the workroom, had been in the passage de l’Industrie — a large three-room suite — for eight years and for the last five he had even owned it, which was highly unusual. He declared five salaried staff and paid regularly the social security contributions due on their behalf. In view of the size of the apartment this was many fewer than the numbers actually employed. He made a profit, paid a small amount of VAT and taxes. In what proportion, that was another story.
Romero went to telephone Daquin. No more was known yet about the woman they’d followed yesterday. She’d spent all afternoon in the workroom but Marinoni had lost sight of her about 8 o’clock. She had come out of the workroom and taken a taxi, leaving him behind. No more assignments than yesterday. He said so long to Lavorel.
He decided to take a look on the spot. No. 2 passage de l’Industrie. There was a plaque at the foot of the dark staircase: Berican, second floor right. A smell of leather all the way up. On the second floor right, from behind a standard nineteenth-century bourgeois apartment door came sounds of intense activity, voices, footsteps, the throbbing of machines, with a foreign language radio in the background. A glance through the staircase window seemed to show that the apartment ran along the side of the passage. Lavorel climbed the staircase at no. 4 passage de l’Industrie. On the second floor left there was probably another workroom. No plaque, no name, but the characteristic sound of machines. It surely communicated with the other, useful in the case of an unexpected visit by the works inspector.
What should he do now? Lavorel was a bit short of ideas. Two Pakistanis arrived with their hand-trucks. They climbed up to Berican’s place and came down with bulky packages wrapped in white plastic and secured with broad strips of brown adhesive tape. After going up and down three times they had loaded their trucks to the limit. The Pakistanis forged ahead with remarkable skill along the crowded pavements, the two inspectors following. Delivery was made to Berelovitch, a garment manufacturer in rue du Vertbois and the two Pakistanis left again. Inside the shop two men had begun to undo the packages, taking out leather jackets and placing them on hangers. They were checking, counting. Lavorel went in.
‘I’d like to try on that jacket.’
‘Sorry, monsieur, but we don’t do any retail selling at all.’