So she moved next to him to look at what he was doing. The effect was extraordinary. He reacted so strongly to her presence that his pulse beat in his neck as if he were running a hard race. She herself was stunned by what she saw. “That’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s so beautiful. It looks like a Leonardo. It’s magnificent.”
“It’s derivative,” was his modest answer, “and there’s no demand for such things now.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Élodi told him. “We’re in barbaric times. What is supposed to be and is no longer art has fused with publicity like a dead tree wrapped in ivy, and anyway, you don’t find your own voice ‘til you’re older.” (Jules had said these very words to her.) “If you do find it early, it will likely be insufficient – unless you’re Mozart.”
“Are you a musician?”
She nodded. “Cellist. Just a student.”
“I’m a student. Given your appearance, I would think you were a lawyer, or a banker. Maybe you were ENA, and are high in a ministry.”
“Really? Why?”
“Your elegance.”
“Oh no, I’m not like that. My apartment is the size of a broom closet.”
“My apartment,” he said, remembering what it was like. “Let’s see, the bathtub is in the living room, as is the kitchen, as is the bedroom and the hall. But really, you look like you live in Passy in a penthouse of a thousand square meters.”
“No,” she said. “No penthouse, no bank, no ministry, no money. This is my best dress.”
“Why did you wear your best dress to the park on a day when it’s likely to rain? If I may ask. Sorry.”
“You may ask, and you needn’t be sorry. Although I don’t know why, I wanted to look my best. And I don’t have many others.”
The air was full of electricity, light, and shadow. She felt an excitement she had never felt. Unlike what she had experienced with Jules, it was divorced entirely from sadness and obligation. The whole world seemed to be opening before her with a benevolence, excitement, and ease – as in the most beautiful music. She had waited too long, and now it started to rain in huge drops, almost the size of grapes, spread few and far between, but that was all right. The wind picked up, and lightning echoed north of Paris. Élodi and the art student left together to find shelter. And they would stay together, for the rest of their lives.
August
BECAUSE THEY HAD come up with nothing, Duvalier and Arnaud decided upon a tactic they had been taught in training and that they and every recruit had hoped never to use. If everything you have is unavailing, the foundation of your investigation must be faulty. Therefore, you remove the strongest support, as upon it the rest of the edifice depends. In the bridge murders, the strongest element was negative. The DNA evidence ruled out all the suspects, including, most recently, Jules. What if the blood that had pooled on the bridge deck had come not from the perpetrator or any of the victims but from someone else? The blood at the bottom of the stairs didn’t match the blood on the deck. The killer rode the second victim down to the Île aux Cygnes as if on a sled, but even if he left no blood on the way, had he stopped bleeding enough so as not to leave a trace on the second victim, or a trail as he ran? The forensics people had grid-searched a meter on each side of his path as reported by the witnesses and police, and found not the tiniest droplet.
Ignoring the DNA led to an even deader end, so they started over, which involved viewing the surveillance tapes and investigating more thoroughly each member of the rowing club who might have been physically able to mount the attack, take to the Seine, and survive. That it was a rowing club meant that nearly everyone was strong enough to have done so. They combed databases and started the long process of re-interviewing their prospects, from the top of the list down, even though, purely from intuition, they had drawn redlines under four of the names. They wanted to take these – of which one was Jules – as they came, so as to disallow a bias and yet not disallow anyone who might seem unlikely.
They started in May, alternating the numbing review of tapes (though these were hard drives, they still called them tapes) and doing interviews. Often they walked to the interviews, for exercise and to be in the open air, and so that they could have lunch in various interesting restaurants and sit in parks afterward, as they read the paper, discussed the case, or just took in the sun. Sometimes they did necessary shopping. They knew the case so well that they could read one another’s thoughts about whatever passed before them.
In the first days of August, with Paris largely empty of the French, they persevered automatically. Most of their subjects had left the city, everything was slow, they were almost forgotten, no one was looking over their work, and it was so hot that the birds sang less. Finishing in the middle of the afternoon of August 10th, a Monday, they returned to the office in a half-trance after the blazing light of the street. Dead leaves littering the parks because of heat kill were a reminder that fall would soon bring bright colors and cool wind.
Arnaud went off to splash water on his face, and as Duvalier, not even trying anymore to think of the case, sank into his chair he noticed a manila envelope on Arnaud’s desk. When Arnaud came through the door, Duvalier told him that something had arrived from his commissariat.
Arnaud sat down. “Probably changes in regulations. They’re always pestering us with crap like that and more things to do.” Leaning back in his chair, he opened the envelope the way one deals with the tenth piece of junk mail in a stack, his chief concern being to avoid a paper cut.
“What’s this?” he said as an envelope fell out, and a note from the commissariat. The envelope had Turkish stamps on it. “What is this?” he asked Duvalier, holding up the envelope.
“‘Türkiye Cumhuriyeti.’ That’s just like Arabic – jumhuriyatu: meaning republic.”
“And this building?”
Duvalier looked at the picture of a building on one of the stamps. “I don’t know, but it says ‘Askari Yargitay,’ and ‘a hundred years.’ It’s the hundredth anniversary of Askari Yargitay. Askari were soldiers. Yargitay I think is a court. Maybe it’s some sort of military court. So what? That’s just a stamp. What does the note say?”
“It’s from Koko,” Arnaud answered, displeased.
“Who’s Koko?”
“He’s the idiot who …. They can’t send him on patrol so they keep him at the office. He does secretarial work. I don’t know how he got through training. The second or third day he was on duty, he was sitting in a patrol car and he shot himself in the thigh and calf.”
“Through the thigh and into the calf?”
“No, two shots.”
“How can you shoot yourself by accident, twice?”
“He said he thought someone had shot him so he shot back. He limps, of course.”
“He says, ‘My dearest Arnaud ….’”
“What’s his native language?”
“French. ‘This letter came to you about two weeks ago from the DGSI, with no explanation. I left it on your desk but you never showed up so I’m sending it. They opened it and sealed it with the kind of tape you try to fix tears with when you mistakenly tear a letter or something. I didn’t read it. No one did. Hope to see you soon, Koko.’”
“Maybe you should try to transfer to this commissariat,” Duvalier said.
“Maybe I should.” Arnaud cut through the tape but before he took the letter out of the envelope he read the postmark. “It came into France in the middle of April. This is August, so it’s undoubtedly urgent.”
In the envelope was a letter and a folded receipt from a restaurant in Paris: Chez Renée, 14 Boulevard Saint-Germain. Arnaud swept his eyes to the bottom of the letter. “It’s from Raschid Belghazi. He was cleared to travel. He wasn’t at all a suspect.”
“I’ll be he went to Syria,” Duvalier said. “Am I right?”
“Yes. What does this say?” He passed the letter to Duvalier.
“It says ….”
“I thought you didn’t know Arabi
c?”
“I know enough to know this. It says, ‘La Allah illa Allah, wa Muham- madu Rasul’ Allahi. La qanun illa ashariyatu.’ ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the prophet of God. There is no law but the shariya.’” He handed it back to Arnaud.
“And this?” Arnaud turned the letter and held it up for Duvalier to translate.
“‘In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate.’ The Arabic handwriting is pathetic, like a five-year-old’s – not that I can do much better.”
The rest was in French. Arnaud read, haltingly. He hadn’t much practice reading aloud, in that he was a policeman and he had no children. “He writes: ‘By the time you read this, I hope I will be a martyr. The caliphate is growing. In your lifetime France will be Muslim. There will be no unbelievers. Notre Dame will be a mosque of Allah, and the only book will be the Holy Quran.
“‘You gave me your card to tell you if I thought of anything. Now that I am waging jihad and will be a martyr I am proud to say that the three of us went to rob and kill a Jew. We found one on the bridge and beat him, but before we could cut off his head a man came from behind, the one you’re looking for. He was older than I said, and his description was what you said. He did yell something in German, but I don’t know what. I made a lot up because I didn’t want you to find him. Then he would have said that he saved the Jew, so I changed things. I threw our knives in the water and picked up this, which he dropped. Now maybe you can find him so he will die in prison at the hand of the brothers even before the armies of the Caliph enter Paris and clean it of all such filth when they come. And they will, God willing.
“‘Raschid Belghazi.’”
Arnaud and Duvalier were still for a moment before they turned their attention to the receipt, which they handled by pinching it at the edge. It was stained with blood.
“Get a plastic envelope,” Arnaud said.
“Why don’t you get a plastic envelope?” Duvalier asked.
“Because I don’t know where they are.”
“After all these months?”
“In which I haven’t had to use one.”
“They’re right next to the DNA pouches, in the cabinet,” Duvalier told him as he left, “the one near the copy machine.”
“Good to know,” Arnaud said, “for the next time we get a bloodstained restaurant check from Syria.”
When the evidence was encased, they examined it more carefully. In a rapid, feminine hand, it read: ‘Crécy, boeuf, eaux gaz 2g, saucis, pain, mousse choc 2, tasse, serv.’ The whorls of the letters looked like roller-coaster loops and pigtails, and after each entry was a number, the total being €83. Not surprisingly, the date was the same as the date of the murders, although the waitress had not written the year.
“Two people, Duvalier, one of whom is ours.”
“Maybe they paid with a credit card. Let’s go.”
“Later,” Arnaud said.
“Why Later?”
“I have to go to the dentist. The restaurant will be open in the evening. It might even be closed now.”
“All right. I’ll copy the check to show them, and give the original over for blood and prints. How can you wait? How can you stand it?”
“Because my tooth hurts. We’ve been at this for months. Nobody’s going anywhere. He says to eat fewer things with sugar. He’s right. I don’t even like it, really. It’s too sweet. I like flavor. I should be able to do without it, don’t you think?”
WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the restaurant it was early and almost no one was there. An old lady who had to have remembered the conquest and liberation of Paris was drinking red wine at a corner table. She wore a blocky black hat of the forties and, in the heat of August, a dark coat. Someone like that, both detectives sensed, whose husband was probably long gone, whose children, had she any, were old, and whose life had wilted, had reason to drink in a corner as she waited for nothing and knew it.
The head waiter’s pencil mustache made him look like he should have been in a silent film. As Renée’s husband or father, or whoever he was, approached them, menus in hand, they took out their identification.
“Is this familiar to you?” Arnaud asked, handing over the receipt.
“It’s our addition.”
“Did you write it?”
“No. Josette.”
“Is she still employed by you?”
“She’s right there,” he said, pointing to a woman polishing drinking glasses. All the two detectives had to do was pivot.
“Yes?” she said.
“Did you write this?” Duvalier asked. He handed her the receipt.
“I did.”
“What can you tell us about it?”
“It’s an order for two. Purée Crécy. We serve that in season due to the quality of the carrots harvested at Crécy. Boeuf Bourguignon, twenty Euros. Two Badoits. Saucisson de Lyon, fifteen Euros. Bread. Two mousses au chocolat. Tax. Service. You know, we don’t use carrots from Crécy, but no one can tell the difference. Perhaps I shouldn’t say that, because you’re policeman, but he didn’t know the difference.”
“Who?”
“The guy who ordered it.”
“Did he pay with a credit card?”
“Cash. We note credit cards.”
“Do you remember who he was?”
“Of course I do. He’s famous.”
“He’s famous?”
“Yes. I’ve seen him on television. Sometimes on the news, sometimes late at night. Once he was on for an hour, just talking. I don’t think I could talk on television for more than a second.”
“Who?”
She looked at them with contemptuous sheep eyes. They could see that she thought they were really stupid for not knowing the person she was thinking about. Then her expression changed to one of happy superiority. “François Ehrenshtamm.” She smiled as if to say, ‘What unbelievable idiots!’
Duvalier answered, “François Ehrenshtamm, really?”
“He comes in.”
“Do you remember whom he was with?” They were excited, because they were narrowing it down: Ehrenshtamm, perhaps, or his dining companion.
“Who he was with,” she corrected (she thought). “Different people. Sometimes alone.”
“But this time?”
She shook her head to say that she didn’t, and added a shrug of the shoulders as confirmation.
THE OVERWHELMING COLOR in François’ apartment was red. It was as if he and his young wife and the beautiful, blue-eyed, baby girl in her arms lived inside a rose in summer. It must’ve been on purpose, part of his philosophy – while one was alive, at almost any cost, to seek heat, warmth, blood, vitality, fecundity. Who else would paint walls deep red? It was simultaneously comforting, enveloping, and exciting – just full of life. The baby’s aquamarine-blue eyes against the red made Duvalier and Arnaud feel that they had exited the world they knew, and they envied the beauty and warmth of that into which they suddenly had come.
Like most famous people, whose many surpluses allow them to be generous, François welcomed his visitors graciously. He brought the two detectives into the living room – where immense bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling four meters high – and, because dinner was over, offered them dessert. The rules didn’t oblige them to refuse, so they didn’t. Young Madame Ehrenshtamm – the baby content in a sling in front of her and curious enough to turn her head to the guests each time her mother changed direction – brought chocolate mousse and tea.
“Your favorite,” Duvalier said.
Only somewhat surprised, because it was not exactly a wild guess, François answered, “Yes.”
“You like it at Chez Renée?”
“Absolutely.” Unthreatened, François waited for the line of questioning. He enjoyed the prospect, as he was used to questions, challenges, and verbal sparring, and justly thought himself at least the equal of even the most skilled advocate. He had triumphed once at a trial, emerging from hostile cross-examination the complete master
of the proceedings.
“And you like Purée Crécy?”
“I do, yes. It’s a childhood food, like madeleines.”
“Proust,” Arnaud said.
“Proust,” François echoed, not quite condescendingly.
“So,” Duvalier went on, “do you remember the last time you had purée Crécy, and mousse au chocolat at Chez Renée?”
“Not really. It must’ve been quite a while ago.”
“Last fall?”
François looked like it was coming back to him. “Maybe.”
“And your dinner companion had boeuf Bourguignon.”
“How do you know that?”
“We have witnesses and documentation.”
“You have witnesses and documentation? For my dinner at a restaurant?”
“Yes. We know the time and the date, that you were there. All we need to know is who was with you.”
“Why?”
“That’s the subject of investigation.”
Feeling that he had already done enough to damage Jules, François grew reticent.
“Who was it?” Arnaud asked.
“It was a long time ago. I often eat out with friends, colleagues, interviewers, editors.”
“Yes, but you know who it was.”
“How do you know I know?”
“Your expression. You’re covering.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I am. This is what we do. Sorry,” Duvalier told him, “but the penalty for obstructing an investigation is not nothing.”
“The investigation is not about something serious, is it?” Madame Ehrenshtamm asked.
“No,” Duvalier lied, “just a stolen car.”
Knowing that Jules could not be possibly have stolen a car, and with his own interest and that of his new family in mind, François told Duvalier who it was. But when he saw the stunned, pleasurable look on the faces of his guests, which, though they were professionals, they could not suppress, François knew that he had betrayed Jules once again.
DETERMINED TO DIE within a week, Jules had already made a partial step into another world. Had he felt a need to describe this, which he did not, he might have said that it was like heading out to sea with only a glance at the land left behind. The rhythm of the waves was smooth and reassuring. He had no fear. The music he heard, rising from a lifetime, was seductive and comforting. He had discovered that to die with a purpose made death far less daunting than merely to die at its whim.