The Hanged Man's Tale, page 15
“Berthaud’s financials were a lot of nothing, except this.” He pointed to the spreadsheet on his screen. “You see what I highlighted?”
Mazarelle nodded, scratching his chin. “So our man bought something at a gun store…Strange.”
“In his line of work I’ll bet he had no shortage of enemies. Maybe he was scared for his life?” suggested Maurice.
“True, but why now? Alain worked as an investigator for decades. And this amount of money…Thirty-two euros? The only gun you can buy with that is a water pistol.” Mazarelle shook his head, trying to put together the pieces.
“There’s something else.” Maurice broke the silence. “Berthaud didn’t have a license for a firearm. He never got one.”
Mazarelle’s gaze shifted from the spreadsheet to Maurice, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “So what you’re saying is, whatever he was doing here, it was on the q.t.”
Maurice nodded. “That’s the idea.”
Mazarelle affectionately smacked Maurice on the back, sending shock waves reverberating through his bones. “Excellent sleuthing, Maurice. Let’s go get some answers.”
* * *
—
The sun was just beginning to shine over the tops of the buildings in the Twentieth Arrondissement when the two of them arrived at the Armurerie Austerlitz. The local shopkeepers were still trickling into their shops. The metal gate stood resolutely covering the gun shop’s front entrance, but that didn’t deter Mazarelle. He pounded against the metal barrier with his huge mitts, the clang echoing through the urban canyon. Maurice scanned the area uneasily. He never saw the point in causing a scene, even when it was on official business. Better to keep your head down and focus on the work. As if by consensus, the neighboring merchants had suddenly decided the sidewalk outside their shops needed tidying. They pretended to sweep as they stole suspicious sidelong glances at the African and his companion outside the armurerie.
Mazarelle caught the looks. “Don’t worry.” He smiled at Maurice. “They’ve probably never seen anyone so handsome before.” He turned back to the store.
“Allllô!” boomed Mazarelle, shaking the barrier with both hands. Maurice finally joined in, pushing an open palm against the gate.
Then, a stir of movement. Or at least there seemed to be. It was still dark inside the store, but the feeling of being watched from within the inky blackness chilled Mazarelle like a winter gust. He smacked the gate once more, and hard.
The shop door behind the grate flew open, revealing a long and lean man with graying hair, his body all sinew and bone.
“Can’t you idiots take a hint? We’re closed. Closed. Fuck off!”
Maurice stepped back. Confrontation was not his strong suit. Mazarelle, on the other hand, lived for moments like this. He calmly reached into his pocket to retrieve the small leather wallet where his ID was housed.
“You know, my friend, I sincerely wish we could fuck off.” Mazarelle’s tone was cordial. “After all, the farmer’s market is open. But as you can see, we are here on official business.”
The shopkeeper’s face softened, taking on a shade of embarrassment.
“Why didn’t you say you were police?” he mumbled as he hastily unlocked and lifted the metal fence.
“Just trying to be discreet,” said Mazarelle, throwing Maurice a wink.
The skinny shopkeeper gestured for the pair to follow him into the store. Inside, under the posters of bin Laden in the crosshairs, the space was crowded with all manner of weaponry. Crossbows, knives, truncheons, ropes, and of course guns. Lots of guns. New ones, antiques. Personal defense, hunting. The sheer amount of stopping power on display boggled Maurice’s mind. The shopkeeper settled down on the stool behind the counter.
“So what can I do for you two? I take it you’re not here to purchase.”
Mazarelle grinned. “Not unless you’re selling information.”
The shopkeeper’s face twisted in confusion. He shook his head.
“Listen, I already told you guys everything I know.”
Now it was the commandant’s turn to be confused.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know—I thought you all worked together.”
Staring at the shopkeeper, Mazarelle waited for an explanation that made sense.
“Some cop was here a few days ago, looking through the security footage.”
Mazarelle turned to Maurice, who shook his head. Other cops? As far as Mazarelle knew, his unit was the only one pursuing this case. Maybe something federal? Or was someone inside the BC trying to mess with him again? He turned back to the shopkeeper.
“Do you remember the name?”
The shopkeeper’s blank expression told him. He’d have more luck if he’d asked for the names of the prime ministers of France’s Fourth Republic. The only answers he was going to get were on the security tape.
“I’m going to need to see that footage.”
The shopkeeper nodded.
“One more thing.” Maurice pulled out his printout of the spreadsheet, and pointed to the highlighted item. This was his turf now.
“Can you tell us what this purchase was?”
“Sure, huh…That’s funny…”
The shopkeeper paused.
“What?” urged Mazarelle.
“No, it’s just, this purchase happened on July ninth…Same day your buddy was asking about.”
Energy coursed through Mazarelle’s veins like liquid fire. This was not a coincidence. Coincidences didn’t exist. He recognized the distant scent of truth and locked on to it, like a great white sensing blood in the water a mile off.
But Maurice was even faster. “The purchase records, if you don’t mind.”
The shopkeeper nodded, and began clicking around on the desktop computer by the register. He grunted a few times as he scoured the records, finally singling out the desired line item.
“Okay, for thirty-two euros? It says here a box of twenty-two caliber blanks.”
The shopkeeper looked up to Mazarelle inquisitively. Maurice furiously scribbled the new details in his notepad. Mazarelle nodded, trying not to let his face betray his surprise. Blanks? What the hell was Berthaud doing with blanks? Especially if he didn’t have a gun.
He was hoping for clarity from this visit, but instead he seemed to be going down a rabbit hole. Maybe Madame Mireille was right. The more he learned, the less he understood. Maurice brought Mazarelle back to earth.
“And the tape. Can we see that now?”
“Right, of course!”
The shopkeeper turned to the cabinet behind him, revealing a wall of labeled VHS tapes. He scanned the tapes, then stopped, squinting and shaking his head. He double-checked, thumbing through them again before letting out a low whistle.
“I don’t know where it is, but it’s not here.”
“Well, it didn’t just walk off, did it?” Mazarelle snapped back.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Looks like it did.”
The lead was so close that Mazarelle could almost feel it in his hand. And now he was being told that it didn’t exist. No. That was not going to fly.
“Fine, then we’re confiscating all the tapes. Official evidence in a murder.”
“A murder?! What murder? You can’t do that!”
Maurice could see the situation deteriorating as Mazarelle’s temper began to flare. Usually the chef was immensely patient, but in the face of a perceived slight or injustice? His cool vanished faster than an ice cube in the Sahara.
“We most certainly can!”
“It’s private property!”
The two men were face-to-face now.
Maurice stepped in, gently inserting himself between them. It wasn’t always easy to keep Mazarelle focused, especially in moments like these.
“What about backups?” he interrupted. “Is that something you do?”
“Backups?!” the shopkeeper spat back reflexively. And then his sour expression suddenly changed.
“Backups…”
* * *
—
After getting past the initial embarrassment of the incident, the three men now sat shoulder to shoulder in front of a VCR and small TV in the back room of the armurerie, scrubbing through the footage in question. On-screen, the customers moved through the store in hyperspeed, picking things up, putting them down, walking in, and walking out. Overall, it seemed to be a fairly quiet day with only five or so interactions. Finally the tape arrived at the time stamp corresponding to the time of Berthaud’s purchase. And sure enough, there he was, in grainy black-and-white. Alain Berthaud, still alive, buying a box of blank rifle rounds for a gun that he didn’t own. The hanged man, back from the grave. There had to be more.
“Happy?” asked the shopkeeper.
“Can we rewind or fast-forward a bit? I want to see what else he was doing in the store.”
The shopkeeper sighed and scrubbed backward. On-screen Berthaud moved in reverse, a sort of jerky moonwalk, as he browsed the armurerie’s wares. Nothing there. Then zooming forward, past the purchase at the counter, he was suddenly in another corner of the store, examining hunting apparel…with another man. This other man looked familiar too…but from where? The two seemed to be talking, but both men kept their gaze fixed down on the clothing. Then something seemed to pass from Berthaud’s hand to the stranger’s, and then into the stranger’s pocket.
“Wait! Press play here.”
The shopkeeper did as requested. Now playing at normal speed, the context of the situation crystallized for Mazarelle. A clandestine meeting of some sort. It was clear Berthaud had been waiting for the stranger, but what were they talking about? There was no audio. Both men wore grim, masklike expressions. Then the handoff. Something from Berthaud’s pocket went to the stranger, but it was too grainy to make out.
“Do you have any other angles?”
The shopkeeper let out another sigh.
“You know this is a business, right? I need to open at some point…”
“The sooner you show us the footage, the sooner we’re gone, mon frère,” replied Mazarelle.
The shopkeeper grabbed a VHS sitting next to him and swapped it with the one in the VCR, fast-forwarding to the time code in question, and pressing play. From this angle Berthaud’s face was in almost complete profile. Mazarelle shook his head. This was going to be pointless. But then the stranger entered frame and Mazarelle’s jaw dropped. He looked over to Maurice, who had the same stunned expression.
“That’s that guy…” stammered Maurice.
Mazarelle nodded.
“That’s…what’s his name?”
The commandant took a deep breath.
“Max.”
The tape kept playing on-screen. From this angle you could see the exchange more clearly. Money. A wad of bills passed from Berthaud to Max. Maybe something else too. More muted discussion, and then Berthaud was gone from the camera.
Max stood still in frame, counting the bills that had been passed along. And then he turned to the aisle with the hunting rifles.
Mazarelle turned to face the shopkeeper. “You know who that is, right?”
The shopkeeper shrugged. “Yes, of course.”
“The Chirac shooter. Here in your shop. What did he buy?”
The shopkeeper looked squeamish, a grown-up caught with his hand in a nasty cookie jar. Finally he said, “Ehh, a rifle, what else?”
Mazarelle stood and abruptly ejected the tape from the VCR, being sure to grab both VHSs. “We’re keeping these,” said Mazarelle as he passed the tapes to Maurice and strode out the door. His mind was spinning. He needed fresh air.
The narrative Mazarelle had been building—the timeline of Berthaud’s last days—had just been blown apart. A veritable humpty-fucking-dumpty of a situation.
What did Alain Berthaud have to do with Max? It didn’t make any sense. Max was a nut—a loony who tried to kill the president. Maybe Berthaud leaned pretty conservative when it came to his views on immigration. Maybe he had right-wing friends, but he was nothing like this neo-Nazi fruitcake.
Still, Alain had clearly funded the purchase of Max’s rifle. They had the tapes to prove it. The question was why? And who was trying to make it all disappear?
41
The trip back to the station was long and silent. As Maurice drove, Mazarelle looked out the window at the passing trees—lindens, chestnuts, honey locusts flashing by. Maurice knew his boss’s rhythms. Best to keep quiet and keep out of the way.
The new lead was a lot to absorb. At first it seemed overwhelming, but slowly, gradually, Mazarelle sensed that it was reinvigorating him. Until the visit to the armurerie, he’d been feeling as though he were wandering in a dark hallway, groping around for an exit. Now suddenly things looked different. He could see the start of a path. And some trapdoors as well.
He had been thinking this case was about the ripoux. Magazine payoffs. Rumored beatings. The warnings. From Luc to Guy to his mystery passenger, everything seemed to tie back to the dirty cops. But now this.
Twelve days before his death, Alain Berthaud had met Max at the gun shop. What was the link? Unfortunately neither one could tell him anymore. But maybe the evidence could.
Back at his office, Mazarelle’s first call was to the Archives Nationales. A most urgent affair, he said. He needed access to any remaining evidence from the Chirac assassination attempt. Of course he didn’t mention his own name. He used Coudert’s.
The official on the other end of the line knew the answer without hesitating.
“No, not possible.”
Everything was already classified. The case was closed. The suspect was dead.
Mazarelle hesitated. Then thought he’d try another approach.
“Even for Commissaire Fabriani’s office?” he asked. There was silence on the other end of the phone as the man weighed his options. He could nip this in the bud himself, but he knew better than to annoy one of Fabriani’s friends. He asked for a number where his caller could be reached, curtly informed him that he would see what he could do a little later, then abruptly hung up. But when later came, it was not the news Mazarelle was hoping for.
This time it was a conservateur on the phone. He hemmed and hawed, trying to let this assistant of Fabriani down softly. However the bottom line was that not even a chain saw was going to cut through all the layers of bureaucratic red tape required to gain access to the materials from the Chirac incident. It was “tout simplement impossible.”
As far as Mazarelle was concerned, the situation was ludicrous. They had in their possession evidence that could help solve a homicide, his homicide, and they were stonewalling him. Stonewalling justice. Why? Was something in the Chirac file top secret—too classified for his eyes to behold? It was such a ridiculous idea that Mazarelle laughed. If not for him France would be talking about Chirac in the past tense.
Now, as Mazarelle sat at his desk stewing over the file, he could not help feeling as if Berthaud himself were mocking him. This entire case was upside down. Starting with the hanging. The tarot card. A botched assassination attempt. And to top it off, an innocent man was sitting in jail.
The commandant hunted around in his desk, finally retrieving his meerschaum pipe and tobacco. He opened the bag of Philosophe and took a deep whiff of its smooth blend. A nice puff would help get the juices flowing. He could feel it. Taking a kumquat-sized pinch of tobacco, he stuffed it into his pipe and lighted it, inhaling deeply. The smoke flooded into the deepest nooks and crannies of his respiratory system, the murky tendrils poking and prodding around his innards, doing its own investigation. Mazarelle wondered what secrets lay within his body. On second thought, given his years of smoking, drinking, and eating well, he probably didn’t want to know. He exhaled in a prolonged dragon’s puff, the smoke hanging over his desk like a thick fog.
As he brooded, Mazarelle’s gaze settled on the shell suspended in its Lucite case sitting on the edge of his desk. Good to be reminded—he was the one who had foiled that assassination attempt! He was still at the top of his game. So what if he was in the mud right now? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t unstuck himself before. And right there was the proof. He put his pipe down and picked up the framed cartridge.
Spinning it around, side to side, he watched the light dance off the Lucite. He gave it a half twist.
Max the shooter. Alain the detective. Both at that store. Both dead now.
He gave it another twist. A new direction. The Lucite gleamed.
What was the connection?
He knew about Alain Berthaud’s link to the Défense National group. And here was Max with Alain. It wasn’t a huge leap to assume they all shared the same extremist views. Anti-immigration. Anti-Moslem. Anti-Semitic. Anti-everything. And pro-violence. It was disgusting. But it didn’t make them all assassins.
As he examined the framed cartridge, his mind wandered back to the other question that had been bothering him. Why had Alain decided to meet Max in the gun store to begin with? He could have given him the money anywhere else. Somewhere more private. Unless there was something he needed there. But all he himself had purchased was…
Unless…Mazarelle shook his head. The idea was too crazy.
He put the framed cartridge down and sat back in his chair, turning the thought over in his mind. And as he did, he remembered the Hanged Man card. With this case in particular, the craziest leads seemed to be the most fruitful. If only he could get his hands on the Chirac evidence. He just needed…
He looked back to the framed memento of his heroic act, and the gears clicked.
He caught his breath. He potentially had the only piece of evidence he needed.
