The hanged mans tale, p.7
The Hanged Man's Tale, page 7
It was sounding less and less likely that Babo was involved. Unless he and his men had stood around outside the café, unseen, waiting all night for Alain to emerge. Babo was the kind of man who might explode and get into an argument. But a carefully planned ambush with a weapon? That seemed beyond him. Mazarelle just wished he knew where Berthaud had spent the missing hours.
As if on cue, the phone jangled on the desk. It was Jeannot, all enthusiasm, like a golden retriever with a ball in his sights.
“Chief, we’ve got it!”
With car horns blaring in the background, Jeannot was calling in from the streets of the Twentieth Arrondissement. He described how Maurice had come up with the license plate number for Alain Berthaud’s car, and then put the information about the victim’s missing automobile out on the police internet circuit. In less than two hours, the 2002 Mercedes-Benz C-class sedan was spotted, parked in a glum, graffiti-marked stretch of town near the Porte de Vincennes. A local aubergine—the meter maids not so affectionately known as “eggplants”—had seen a vehicle answering the description on the rue des Maraîchers, between the Hôtel Beauséjour and Le Moderne, two fleabags where guests didn’t stay long and the sheets were rarely changed. Jeannot had already raced over to check it out.
“It’s the car for sure,” enthused Jeannot. “Perfect match on the ID.” There was a pause as he walked around to the driver’s side window.
“I think there’s something on the headrest. It looks like…it looks like a little blood. Whoa…I’m gonna take a closer look.”
“Stop!” Mazarelle’s voice cut through like a foghorn. “Do not move. Do not touch anything.”
“But, chief…”
“You know the drill. The Police Scientifique. Call them in now. Get them over there right away to check it out. Ask them to see if there’s any usable DNA.”
“Okay, okay…”
Jeannot sounded so glum, Mazarelle took pity on him.
“So, without touching anything…tell me what you see.”
“Well.” Jeannot started to rally. “There’s not a lot of blood. Surprisingly little in fact. Doesn’t look like it’s from the driver. Maybe a little on the seat. But it’s definitely there behind the headrest and a little on the backseat.”
“Any signs of a struggle?”
“Not really boss, sorry.” He paused. “The car is pretty much empty. Only a bottle of water and a box in the driver’s side door. It says ‘balles’ on it. No, ‘balles à blanc.’ Blanks. That’s strange. Hard to tell from this angle.”
There was a silence as Mazarelle thought and stroked his mustache.
“The driver’s seat, where is it?”
“What do you mean? It’s in front of the wheel.”
“No, no. Is it even with the passenger seat?”
Jeannot peered in through the side window.
“Actually, it’s much farther back than the other one.”
“Ahhh.” From Mazarelle, a slow contented sigh.
“What? What does it mean?”
“Think about it, detective. How tall was Berthaud?”
“Average, I guess. Why?”
“And the distance from the seat to the pedals?”
“It’s kind of far…Oh, putain!” The light finally went on for Jeannot. “It would never have been there normally. It must have been shoved back.”
“And why, Jeannot?”
“Because maybe there was some kind of struggle. Like someone was choking him, and slammed the seat back.”
“And so that means…?”
There was an awe-inspired silence, as all the pieces began to click into place for Jeannot just as they had for his boss minutes before.
“This is definitely the crime scene.”
“Okay.” Mazarelle punched a button on the phone. “I’m putting you on speaker so Maurice can hear.”
“There’s nothing ordinary about this one.” Mazarelle jabbed his finger down at the sepia file on his desk. “This murderer. Whoever he was, he knew his trade. Played his weapon the way Heifetz played his fiddle. He must have been hiding behind the driver’s seat, waiting for Berthaud to return to his car. And then, without warning, killed him from behind.”
There was no sound at all from Jeannot and Maurice. They knew their boss well enough not to interrupt when he got on a roll.
“Imagine…” Mazarelle continued. “Berthaud climbs into the car, and slips in behind the wheel. And suddenly—the rope, or cord, whatever, out of nowhere. He never sees it. It comes from the back seat, around his neck. Before he knows it, he’s yanked backward. He struggles to get away. Manages to scrape his attacker, perhaps with the keys he’s holding. But he’s pulled up and back—halfway out of his seat. The rope bites into his neck.”
Jeannot couldn’t help himself. “But he must have tried to get away.”
“Of course. He’s struggling like crazy. He’s almost standing in his seat. His face is pushed up against the moonroof. He’s looking out at the night sky—out into the infinite darkness—as the last breath leaves his body.” Mazarelle shakes his head.
“Putain, chef. That’s amazing.”
“It’s a theory for now, Jeannot. Get PS over there right away. And get them to send us a full report. The only lead this guy seems to have left behind was those few drops of blood.”
“All right,” Mazarelle told Maurice as he hung up, “I’ve got to go downstairs in a little while. I’m about to be squeezed by Coudert. See what else you can come up with. The patron wants progress. And I need to stall him. Allons-y!”
17
Later that afternoon, Mazarelle walked over to his old commissariat in the Fourth Arrondissement to interview Guy Danglars. According to the eyewitnesses, he was one of the last people to see Alain Berthaud alive.
The offices had been rehabbed recently, but the fluorescent lights still made everyone look pale. Striding down the old hallways, Mazarelle was struck by how much he had changed since he was stationed here, while for all the renovation, the buildings basically stayed the same.
Peering inside offices up and down the hall, Mazarelle found no sign of Danglars. He sighed. It seemed as if Guy hadn’t come to work again. He must have called in sick. Mazarelle supposed he’d done too much celebrating like his pal Fournel.
Looking in the doorway of one last office, he was surprised to see Émile Coluche—a familiar face but not necessarily a friendly one, or one he cared to see. Coluche appeared equally as startled to see him. And even a little annoyed. They had a history together.
When Coluche first joined the commissariat, he’d quickly gained a reputation for being a cocksman. Though married, he was always seen with some woman other than his wife. At first Mazarelle was amused by his frequent meetings with Coluche and his different lady friends, until one day he ran into him with Martine, Mazarelle’s own wife. It had only been a meeting at a bar, but Mazarelle became angry, said nothing, and kept his distance. Then, after Martine’s death from cancer, Coluche hadn’t even sent a card with a word of sympathy.
On this occasion, the past was like a mephitic smell in the room. But Coluche was too much of a smoothie to let it interfere with his social face and glib tongue. There weren’t many men his age who looked as good as Émile Coluche. Even his hair—the thick glistening blond waves that had long ago started to thin out—seemed to have undergone a renaissance. It was as if Coluche knew the sort of thing calculated to tick Mazarelle off. And, as for Danglars, Coluche had no idea where he was.
“I thought you were all through with us, Maz. What are you doing back here?”
Mazarelle explained that his new case involved a murder in the neighborhood.
“Oh, right,” Coluche acknowledged. He’d read about it in Le Monde. “Sometime, when you get a minute, I’d like to talk to you about that.”
Taking out his pipe, Mazarelle lighted up and exhaled contentedly. “Sure. No time like the present. Let’s talk.”
Coluche hesitated, licked his lips. Not so eager after all.
What the hell, Mazarelle decided. It might be fun to push.
“So—you saw that article in Le Monde? What was that about betrayal? A warning? Do you have any idea who’s being warned? Any sense what that’s all about?”
Coluche nodded. Then lowering his voice to a funeral-home murmur, he whispered one word, “Ripoux.”
That wasn’t what Mazarelle had been expecting. “What are you talking about?”
Inside the world of the police, ripoux meant one thing. Crooked cops—the dangerous, twisted kind every real policeman hated. The slang term came from flipping pourri, the word for “rotten.” And there was nothing as rotten as a dirty cop.
Coluche looked up and down the hallway.
“Listen, Mazarelle—there’s things…something a little strange going on here. And, with Berthaud’s murder, they may have gone too far. Who knows who might be next?”
Not what Mazarelle was expecting at all. It was like kicking over a rock and finding a den of snakes.
Clearly on edge, Coluche said, “I’m no mouchard, Mazarelle—” Even for a smooth talker like him, the code wasn’t anything to play around with. The blue wall of silence. First year recruits, fresh out of the national police college, knew—you keep your mouth shut. You messed with that at your peril.
“Come on, Émile,” interrupted Mazarelle. “What the hell’s going on here? What does it have to do with the murder of Berthaud?”
“I’m not sure.”
But now Mazarelle had his teeth into it, and he wasn’t letting go.
“How about a guess…?”
Coluche had folded his arms across his chest, holding on to his sides, as if to keep himself intact. And quiet.
“Money?” asked Mazarelle.
A long sigh…And then…“Big money. Among other things.”
“How so?”
“Look—it’s still a rumor as far as I’m concerned, but they’re saying that there are people at a few commissariats who are working the deal. Selling out to the highest bidder. Not that many, but you don’t want to mess with them. Word is there’s a lot of cash on the line. Maybe something political too. There are folks here with a lot to lose.”
“Which folks?”
Coluche’s eyebrows went up as if the sky was the limit. “I don’t know exactly. I can’t say. I’d only be guessing.”
“But the rumors…” Mazarelle prompted.
“The rumor…” Coluche paused, and sighed again. “The rumor is there are people here who have a business that’s thriving. And it seems they intend to keep it going no matter the cost—even Alain Berthaud’s life for one.”
Tantalized, Mazarelle wanted to know more. “Where did Berthaud fit in? Can you give me any specifics? Who’s buying what? Who’s selling?”
Coluche had reached the end of the line. “No.” He was emphatic. He shifted uneasily in his seat. “I don’t really know anything useful. And even if I did I’ve got zip to tell. I’ve kept my nose clean and out of other folks’ business. That’s the way I intend to keep it. Not to mention my pension. I’m not greedy like some people around here.”
“Like who, for example?”
Coluche stood. “Another time.”
As he left, Mazarelle thought, I’ll be back. He wondered if Coluche would in fact be able to stay clear of Internal Affairs—the boeuf-carottes. No surprise that most cops didn’t like them—but especially dirty cops.
As for himself, Mazarelle saw trouble. When Coudert gave him the hanged man case and warned him about stepping on toes, Mazarelle had thought it was a no-brainer to keep away from his old colleagues. Now, after what he’d heard from Coluche, Mazarelle wasn’t so sure.
18
Mazarelle was still chewing over Coluche’s last words as he headed for the doorway. On his way out, he almost ran into a figure hurrying in. Looking up, he was startled to see Guy Danglars. Guy’s face when he saw Mazarelle was anything but welcoming.
“I heard you were here looking for me.”
“Good to see you too, Guy. I could use a little help,” Mazarelle offered confidingly. He steered his old colleague down the hall into the open break room. Pouring a couple of cups of coffee, he offered one to Guy, and took a sip. His face puckered up.
“Ooh…still industrial strength,” he said. But Guy didn’t seem to notice. He was on to his third mouthful.
Looking down at the liquid as he swirled it around in the cup, Mazarelle asked gently, “What can you tell me about the other night…two nights ago…at the Café Arielle with Luc and Alain Berthaud? What were you doing?”
“Working on my headache.” He grimaced. “I heard you were handling Alain’s murder for 36.”
Mazarelle said, “That’s why I’m here. Anything you can tell me?”
“When you come right down to it,” Guy had to admit, “there isn’t much.” Guy took a couple more chugs and finished off the rest of his coffee.
“It all started out well,” Guy told him. The three of them having a good time. The wine drinkable and flowing nonstop, like the chatter and the jokes, and the talk about the old days. Guy admitted that he always liked a party. Plus the two partners seemed to have worked out some business differences before he arrived. So Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, les trois amis, celebrated with their glasses high and swords sheathed just in case. The noise and festivity making it almost impossible to distinguish between pinchbeck smiles and the real thing. Even after Luc’s sudden departure when he began feeling lousy, the two of them were still carrying on as if there’d be no tomorrow until the café finally emptied out. Maybe 12:30 or 1:00 a.m.
“By then,” Guy said, “there were only a few cars left outside, including Berthaud’s new black Mercedes. I asked Alain whether he was going to drive that monster in his condition and he laughed. He was plainly potted. I explained that I’d left my car parked near the commissariat and could use a ride back to pick it up. Alain said, ‘Now you’re talking,’ threw open his car door, and shoehorned me into the passenger seat. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat and drove me back. That’s it!”
Asked by Mazarelle what time he got home, Guy placed it roughly at somewhere before 2 a.m.
“Interesting,” the commandant said. “Anyone see you come in?”
“Really?” Guy’s eyes flared. “So you’re checking up on me now?”
Mazarelle shook his head.
“Talk to my concierge. She never sleeps.”
“Look”—Mazarelle tried to placate his old colleague—“my guess is that you were probably the last one to see Alain Berthaud alive. What do you think?”
“How the hell do I know?” Guy’s face appeared to have broken out in an angry raspberry rash. He didn’t care for the conclusive way Mazarelle was tracking “his murder suspect” right up to Guy’s doorstep. Guy had no idea where Alain went after he dropped him off. “Probably sitting in on an all-night poker game in Little Asia,” he offered. “Or maybe he went to visit a girlfriend there. Who knows where the hell he went? You tell me.”
Mazarelle knew when he was being stonewalled. He headed for the door. But on the way out, he stopped for one last question.
“Which reminds me,” Mazarelle said, “was Alain ever married?”
Guy, like any Frenchman, seemed to have been born knowing how to blow out his cheeks when putting absurdity in its place. “Was, yes. But that’s a long story.”
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“It ended about a year ago. A wedding full of dreams and promises. Followed by a bitter divorce. The word ‘acide’ doesn’t do it justice. Olga, his wife, a pediatrician, actually charged him with molesting their only child—Danielle, a sweet ten-year-old kid. But child abuse was only the beginning. For his part, Alain charged her with being une droguée. Cocaine. They loathed each other.”
“Which one got custody of the child?”
“Neither. The maternal grandmother has Danielle.”
Guy wagged a finger at Mazarelle.
“If you’re looking for a motive…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
19
When Jeannot had tried to visit Madame Berthaud’s office, he was told the doctor was too busy to see him. Too many runny noses and broken arms. Jeannot, being much too nice, let that stand. So Mazarelle decided to make the appointment himself. Either Berthaud’s ex would free up some time, or she could spend the day with him at the police headquarters. She promptly booked an hour for him in Neuilly.
For a high-class neighborhood, the doctor’s waiting room looked as if it had been ransacked. Framed pictures from Beauty and the Beast dangled from the chipped and shabby walls. Brightly colored Lego pieces were sprinkled all over the floor like Chinese firecrackers. Torn Tintin comic books covered the end tables.
Madame le médecin was a tight little package. Although she claimed not to have seen her former husband in ages, she was still primed to go off at the mere mention of his name. He had been ducking his alimony payments for months. She was furious that her lawyer couldn’t find his money. So none of it would be going to their daughter, Danielle. The only legacy he left her was a lifetime of suffering from his abusive treatment.
“That’s why I hate him so!” the doctor exclaimed. When she heard he’d been murdered, she didn’t blink. The only thing she couldn’t believe was that she hadn’t been the one who did it. She said, “I’ve no idea who killed him, but whoever it was I owe him a serious debt of gratitude.”
Mazarelle wondered if she might owe the killer some money as well. She certainly wasn’t big enough to have killed her husband all by herself—let alone to have hung him upside down. And under Mazarelle’s prodding, she retrieved the paperwork that showed she had been at the hospital with a ten-year-old patient that evening.
