“Of course, otherwise you would not be here.” Separt beamed again.
“Of course,” said Dominique. She was a good trainee police officer. But Barclay wondered how she would have talked her way out of it if Separt had asked for identification. They’d considered the question on the way over here. Considered it, and come to no solution.
“We’ll handle it when the time comes,” she had said, leaving it at that.
“But you are one of the lucky few,” she was saying now, “who not only have their car stolen, they also have it recovered.”
“So I understand. But it’s an old car.” He shrugged. “It would not have been a catastrophe if the car had disappeared from my life forever!”
“You reported the car missing quite late, I believe?”
“No, not late, just before midday, I think.” He chuckled again.
Dominique managed the faintest of official smiles. “I meant, monsieur —”
“Yes, yes, I know what you meant.” Another shrug. “I reported it stolen when I realized it had been stolen. You’ve seen the parking around here, mademoiselle. A nightmare. I had parked the car around the corner in Rue des Fêtes. It was not visible from the apartment.” He laughed, gesturing towards the huge windows. “Unlike most of the motor vehicles in Paris.”
She smiled a cool smile, scratched on the pad with her pen. “You were ill, is that correct?” This much they had read in the Calais police report.
Separt nodded. “I wasn’t out of the apartment for four days. Some sort of bug, I don’t know exactly.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Doctors?” He wrinkled his face. “I can’t be bothered with doctors. If I get better, I get better; and if I die, so be it. I’d rather give my money to tramps on the street than hand any over to a doctor.”
“And the tramps might give you a more accurate diagnosis,” added Dominique, causing Separt to collapse into a laughing fit, which then became a coughing fit. He rose to his feet, shaking his head.
“You are making my day, believe me,” he said. “I must write that down. It’s a good idea for a cartoon. Give the money to the beggars instead of the doctors, and the beggars give you a diagnosis — on the state of society’s health.”
Barclay and Dominique sat silently while he went to his worktable and wrote something on a sheet of paper, which he then tore from its pad and pinned to the wall.
“You know,” he called, “my best ideas come this way — from other people. I feel a little guilty sometimes, I do so little work myself.”
When he returned, he chose the chair rather than the floor, sinking into it and crossing his ankles. Now that he was seated on a level with her, Dominique relented and released the pressure on her knees.
“So the car could have been taken anytime during those four days?” she asked.
“That’s right. I went outside on the fifth day, and I was puzzled at first, I wondered if I’d parked it where I thought I had. I walked around all the neighboring streets. No sign. So I called the police.”
“This was on the first of June?”
“Was it? I’ll take your word for it.”
“According to the records it was.”
“Then it was.”
“But your car’s outside now?”
“And as rusty as ever. There are a few scratches on it that weren’t there before. Well, to be honest, maybe they were there before — it’s hard to tell.”
“Nothing missing from the car?”
“No.”
“And nothing there that wasn’t there before?”
He laughed again. “You mean, did the thief leave me anything? No, not a sou.”
“Why do you think someone would steal a car from this arrondissement and take it to Calais?”
Separt shrugged. “Joy riding. They may have been all over the place, and just run out of petrol there. Or maybe they were considering a trip to England, but changed their minds. Something like that, I imagine.”
Dominique nodded. “On the whole, monsieur, you’re happy to have your car returned?”
Separt gave this a little thought. “On the whole, I suppose I am. Not that it would bother me unduly if someone stole it again... Listen, I’m being rude, can I get you a glass of wine?”
“That’s very kind, but we’ve already taken up enough of your time. We appreciate your talking to us like this.”
“Not at all.”
Dominique rose to her feet. Barclay rose, too. He was glad they didn’t have to drink anything. His head still ached from the pastis. Separt seemed disappointed that they were leaving so soon.
“When the survey is complete,” Dominique said, “I may have to return with a few final follow-up questions... without my colleague here, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, yes?” said Separt. “You’ll be welcome anytime, believe me.”
Barclay had never seen anyone chatting up an on-duty policewoman before. Trust the French. Separt took Dominique’s hand and brushed his lips against it. Then he shook Barclay’s hand warmly. A few words of English came to the cartoonist.
“Er... good luck, chum. Have a nice day.”
“Merci,” said Barclay. He waved a hand around him. “You have a beautiful home.”
Nodding, grinning, laughing to himself now and then, the cartoonist showed them out of the apartment. When Dominique and Barclay were alone in the lift, and it had started its descent, he turned to her.
“Seemed like a nice chap,” he said.
“And genuine?”
“Not entirely.”
“A complete fake. He was worried as hell, that’s why he kept laughing like that. Nervous laughter.”
“You think he knows something? So what do we do now? Keep a watch on him?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Better than that, I would like to bug him. But I don’t think my superiors would allow it.”
“Why not?”
“Separt’s politics. If a bug was discovered, the left would have a... what do you say?”
“A field day?”
She nodded. “A field day.”
Barclay had a thought. “What if you didn’t bug him?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know how to make a listening device?”
“No.”
He nodded. “What if someone created a bug of their own? Not the French security service. Maybe the British.”
She gasped. “You’re mad. If it got back to your superiors...”
“Or if it got back to your superiors that you’d helped me...”
They were both silent for a moment, considering these thoughts. Then Dominique turned to him. “What would you need?”
“A shop selling electronic parts, an enthusiast’s shop. And entry to Separt’s apartment, preferably when he’s out.”
“We can find such a shop,” she said. “As for entry to the apartment, did you notice, he does not have a burglar alarm?”
“I didn’t notice, no.”
She nodded. “And only two locks on the door. It shouldn’t be difficult. After all, I got into your hotel room, didn’t I?”
“I thought you said...?”
“The manager? No, he told me your room number. I went upstairs to see if you were in. You weren’t, so I opened your door.”
“Where did you learn tricks like that? Part of the training?”
She shook her head. “My father taught me,” she said quietly. “A long time ago.”
One phone call to a friend who was a “buff,” and Dominique had the address she needed. The shop was a wonderland of chips and processors and wiring and tools. The assistant was helpful, too, even though Dominique had trouble translating some of Barclay’s requests into French. She wasn’t sure what a soldering iron was, or what it might be in French. But eventually Barclay had just about everything he needed. It wouldn’t be craftsmanship, but it would do the job.