The Hanged Man's Tale, page 30
“Didn’t I tell you!” Maurice chortled. “Didier! His right foot is a cannon—twenty-five meters out, and the goalkeeper never had a chance.”
They both looked up as Mazarelle walked into the room.
“Please, boss.” Jeannot gave a weak grin. “Save me from his mighty Elephants.”
Maurice gave the bed a gentle swat with the magazine.
“Young man! You may be a hero, but don’t push it.”
The captain turned to Mazarelle. “His taste in teams is a tragedy.”
Mazarelle shook his head.
“He’s not much for listening to orders either.”
Jeannot’s face, a pale color, suddenly started to turn red, as he fumbled for something to say.
“But I thought you would need me. I had to help. Right?”
Mazarelle lifted an eyebrow, and gave Jeannot a little poke in his bandaged right leg.
“You tell me.”
With a sharp intake of breath, the lieutenant winced, and tried to change the subject. “What about…what about the rest of the ripoux? Where are we on that?”
Maurice looked up. “Those other phone records you asked for, they came in this morning.” He handed Mazarelle the envelope.
Mazarelle peered inside, then ambled over to the hospital window and looked out.
“Well,” he said after a long moment, “Vachère is dead and Luc isn’t talking. So we seem to be out of luck.”
Maurice and Jeannot didn’t know what to say.
Mazarelle finally gave them a little smile.
“But,” he said, “I do have one idea.”
* * *
—
It was a local patrolman, stationed in front of a bank in the Fourth Arrondissement, who gave him the tip he was looking for.
“Sure,” said the officer. “You might want to try this bar not far from here. Chez les Jumeaux.”
“Jumeaux?” Mazarelle was surprised by the odd name. “As in twins?”
“Exactly.” The patrolman nodded. “It’s his favorite after-hours hangout. Very close to the canal. It’s a bit of a joint. And not easy to see your way around in there either. The lighting must have been done by Toulouse-Lautrec.”
The bar was packed. Peering in the window, all Mazarelle could see was the press of bodies and a thin haze of smoke.
Inside the bar, the atmosphere was even more murky. Mazarelle tried to make out faces in the crowd. It was not easy.
But the bartenders were hard to miss. Tall. Blond. And not just one. Two. Both dressed exactly the same way. Identical red and white silk scarves. Black knit sweaters. Mazarelle chuckled to himself. So Chez les Jumeaux really was a bar run by twins.
But where was his man?
Scanning the room, Mazarelle finally spotted the tall figure in the rear booth in the corner, bent over his drink. He was alone and not looking too cheerful. I bet he’ll look even less pleased, thought Mazarelle, when he sees me and guesses why I’ve come.
Mazarelle made his way through the crowd and approached the booth at the back. Its occupant looked up, surprised to see him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Théo Legardère sneered. “You’re ruining my happy hour!”
Mazarelle eased his bulk into the booth. And reached over to smell the scotch that Legardère was drinking.
“The Macallan twelve year?” Mazarelle asked. He turned the bottle around to take in the label, and nodded. “Sherry Oak Single Malt.”
Legardère frowned and waved him away. Mazarelle ignored the gesture. He was on a roll.
“Crisp, sweet. Hints of vanilla and tropical fruits.”
“Oh, please, Mazarelle. Spare me the damn Michelin Guide.”
“Well, one thing any guide would tell you.” Mazarelle pointed at the single-malt label on the face of Legardère’s scotch. “That’s a pretty pricey bottle.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t know you could afford to drink that on what they pay you guys. Seventy-five euros a bottle. You must have some major action on the side to be able to afford such fine scotch. Then again, I always figured you had to be pocketing something extra.”
“You’re dreaming!”
Legardère couldn’t stand Mazarelle’s snarky tone. He loved his watch, his car, his scotches. Who was this rumpled bear of a man to poke fun at him? Now three drinks in, he started to simmer, spluttering in a furious mix of alcohol and raw anger.
“I’m as clean as you are, Mazarelle, and a damn sight better cop to boot.”
Mazarelle’s expression made it clear he didn’t share his view.
“So you can stuff that in your pipe! They should have sent me to 36,” Legardère grumbled, “not you, dim bulb!”
Unfazed, Mazarelle looked slowly around the bar, all the time in the world, and turned back to Legardère with a wide-open expression, just chatting with a friend.
“You know they arrested Luc, right?”
Most people would have missed the flinch, especially in the dark corner of this bar. Mazarelle caught it.
Legardère waved his hand.
“So what does that have to do with me?”
“Two people were killed, Théo. Including one of our own. You knew Guy.”
Legardère drew himself up in the booth.
“I had nothing to do with any murders. That’s nothing to do with me.”
Mazarelle twisted the bottle in his hands.
“What you may not know, Théo, is that Luc rolled over.”
“Rolled over? I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes. He told me you were in it up to your neck. The ripoux. You and your friends. Even if you didn’t do the murder. You know something.”
Legardère took a long, slow sip of his expensive scotch. And smirked.
“So what? I might have given a few tips to a couple of newspapers. Maybe I helped a few buddies out with information from time to time. Everybody does it. If they paid us anything near what we’re worth, it would never happen. So what?”
Mazarelle smiled. He slowly opened his jacket to reveal the mobile phone, on and transmitting.
“So what, Théo? So what is you’re going down.”
Legardère looked around with a startled expression. An expression that quickly hardened into raw anger. Incensed, Legardère slammed down his glass, and stormed out of the booth, heading for the front door of the bar. Mazarelle watched as Théo flung open the door, to find Clay and Alembert, the two Internal Affairs detectives, on the sidewalk outside waiting for him. The boeuf-carottes had been listening to the entire conversation.
Legardère pulled up short.
“This is ridiculous,” he fumed. “You’ll never prove anything. There’s no evidence. No one will believe you. I’ve got years, I’ve got decades on the force.”
Coming up behind him at a leisurely pace, Mazarelle took in the end of his rant. Without saying a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out Claire’s thin black ledger. He held it out in front of Théo Legardère’s eyes.
“Evidence?” He smiled. “We’ve got evidence. With your name all over it. And the payment amounts too.”
Legardère stepped back, stunned. Clay clamped his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. Alembert was reaching for the handcuffs.
“Wait,” said Mazarelle.
The two boeuf-carottes looked over at him and nodded. They knew what Mazarelle had in mind.
“Théo. You know how this works. We need the information. Just tell us who’s behind the whole operation. You can trade.”
Legardère shook his head and kept his mouth shut.
“C’mon, Théo. You don’t want to go down alone for this, do you? Why should you bear the weight for all your friends?”
Legardère gave a snort, and kept walking. “I’m not rolling.”
But Mazarelle kept pushing. “It’s Coudert, isn’t it? It has to be Coudert.”
That brought Legardère to a sudden stop. His head swung around. He fixed Mazarelle with a fierce expression. “Did you say Coudert?”
“Yes. The man behind the ripoux. Right?”
Legardère glared at Mazarelle.
“Coudert,” said Mazarelle. “It has to be. He’s the one who tried to sideline the investigation. The one who’s high enough up to make it happen.”
Legardère’s grim face suddenly cracked into an open grin.
“Some detective!” He shook his head incredulously. “How did you ever make it into the BC?”
Mazarelle pushed again: “You don’t have to cover for him.”
Legardère chuckled. “Just amazing. It’s been staring you right in the face for years. You had no idea. You still don’t.”
Mazarelle watched Legardère being hauled off by the boeuf. And as they disappeared around the corner, his quizzical expression abruptly changed to a broad smile—the satisfied smile of a winner. He had started with two suspects. Now he was down to one. The main one. And the jealous Théo hadn’t even noticed.
Well, he had his target. But this was where things would get dangerous.
74
The next morning, Mazarelle awoke feeling badly rested and irritable. Still in his pajamas, he paced back and forth in his apartment, his limp worse than usual, his back in knots. Even after showering and shaving, he was still unable to settle down, unable to enjoy the morning coffee he’d just prepared.
Sure he was glad that Vachère was gone, glad that Luc and now Legardère were headed behind bars for most of the next decade. The boeuf-carottes and the Paris anti-fraud squad had even caught up with a handful of the low-level members of the ripoux. But, all through a long night’s broken sleep, Mazarelle had been worrying that the one ultimately responsible for the tarot murders might not suffer any consequences. Because to take him down—that would be the biggest, riskiest proposition of all. And there didn’t seem to be anyone willing to face the challenge.
Unless, thought Mazarelle, I get off my goddamn ass and do something.
Rather than waiting until he got to his office, Mazarelle placed the call from his mobile phone.
“J’écoute,” mumbled the man on the other end, still half asleep. “Who is this?”
Mazarelle identified himself. “I need to talk to you today.”
“I didn’t know you had this number. What’s it about?”
“There are some loose ends in the Berthaud case. I could really use your help.”
“Loose ends? I thought the case was closed. Finished.”
“Not quite,” said Mazarelle, surprised that the word had already spread. “Can you stop by the BC today? Or I would be glad to come to your place.”
“No, no!” said the man on the other end, now wide awake. “I’m busy this morning. Here’s a better idea. Why don’t we meet this afternoon at my club. Six rue de Ponthieu. We can share a good cognac. Say three o’clock?”
“Perfect. See you there.”
* * *
—
The day had started out damp. A light drizzle all morning. But by mid-afternoon Paris was sunny and steaming hot. Mazarelle, wearing one of his coolest shirts—a Cuban guayabera—took the arcade from the Champs-Élysées to the narrow rue de Ponthieu. He had overheard descriptions of the club’s expensive elegance and its highly restricted members list. Mazarelle, of course, had never been invited inside until now. But he was ready for a high-stakes game.
At the door of the Aristo Club, the uniformed host looked Mazarelle up and down, narrowed his eyes, and asked for an ID. Mazarelle complied. Inside the entry hall, the host insisted on offering the commandant a selection of loaner jackets. His choice—navy or navy. Frowning, Mazarelle shook his head and without waiting strode through the doorway to the main room of the club. Claude Fabriani was already seated, smoking a cigar.
“Ah, Mazarelle,” he said. “I see you’re dressed in your usual high style—”
“I might say the same for you, Claude. You must have a meeting later at the commissariat.”
“That’s true, mon cher—but in this case…”
Fabriani gestured around them.
“The members of our club have all agreed to maintain certain standards…Ah—never mind! Sit down, Mazarelle. You can share some of our pleasures here.”
Fabriani signaled the host, who arrived promptly with two snifters and a bottle of Rémy Martin XO Excellence. He poured a shot for each of them.
“Superb,” said Mazarelle, savoring the rich taste of the brandy. Unlike the poor copies of paintings on the walls, the cognac was the real thing.
“I thought you’d like it. So what’s with your loose ends? Coudert told me the case is closed.”
Mazarelle raised an eyebrow. “Claude—you’re an intelligent man. A man of experience. You understand how things work.”
“Good of you to say.” Fabriani took another sip of his cognac, a puff of cigar.
“So maybe you can help me. Do you really believe that Vachère decided all by himself to assassinate Berthaud and Guy? And if so, why?”
“Aha!—Twenty questions?”
“No, Claude.” Mazarelle put his glass down. “No games—I need a serious answer.”
“Okay, I’ll try. Wasn’t he more of a serial killer. A madman?”
“He was a killer all right. But he was following orders. He said so himself.”
“But, Mazarelle—” Fabriani shrugged. “Jacques Vachère was your villain, not mine. You were the one who brought him down. You’re the one who’s getting the honors for it. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about who was responsible for those murders?”
“Claude, I’ll tell you exactly what I believe. I’m sure that Vachère killed Berthaud and Guy. He was brutal and efficient. But he wasn’t the one who issued the orders. He was being used. When it came to those murders, he was just the tool—the weapon. Someone else picked the targets and called the shots.”
Mazarelle was warming to his story.
“What personal reasons could a former paratrooper living in the South of France have had to travel to Paris to murder two people he didn’t even know?”
“A coincidence?” said Fabriani, stretching and leaning back in his chair. He nodded to the host, holding up his glass.
“Will you have some more, Mazarelle?”
Mazarelle waved the bottle of cognac away. He was too focused on what came next.
“It’s more than a coincidence that the two men killed were both deeply involved with matters being investigated by Internal Affairs. Matters that put the ripoux in danger.” Mazarelle nodded emphatically. “That’s not a coincidence. That’s a motive.”
Fabriani watched the waiter pour him a second glass, then took a contented sip.
“Okay, that’s intriguing. But I don’t really see how I can help you.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Claude. Here’s how you can help.”
Mazarelle took a deep breath.
“There was a lot going on in the commissariat in the Fourth. Guy Danglars and Théo Legardère both worked there. Luc Fournel used to work there too. All were members of the ripoux. They all worked for you. Plus you knew Luc’s connection to Vachère. You were the one who told me the story.”
Mazarelle fingered the mobile phone on and set to record in his pocket. It had worked once before this week. Now to bring it on home.
“There is no way all of this could have happened without your knowledge, is there?”
Fabriani took another puff on his cigar, and raised an amused eyebrow.
“All of what?”
“The ripoux, the murders.” He tapped the table with his index finger. “You were at the center of it, weren’t you?”
Fabriani gave a slow nod, as if thinking through Mazarelle’s points.
“Interesting. But I don’t hear any evidence. So really, it’s only a theory, right?”
He didn’t seem fazed. He had just been accused of masterminding a series of crimes. He would have been more upset if someone had taken away his cigar.
Mazarelle felt himself starting to simmer. He tried again.
“The Fourth is your commissariat. You’re aware of everything that goes on there. Everyone knows that.”
Fabriani leaned forward in his armchair with a grin.
“Bien. So let me play along with you in this game. Let’s imagine, for example, that someone in my commissariat did somehow suggest a useful course of action to Luc Fournel—mind, I say suggested, not compelled—someone who knew about Luc’s influence over that maniacal Romanian friend of his from their early days in the Legion together. And imagine that Luc then asked that friend to commit those expedient murders…to get rid of a few problematic people who had trouble keeping their mouths shut. Even if you did believe all that…even if you believed, say, that I, myself, played that supreme role in all this—”
Mazarelle could only nod. It was a brazen confession of sorts, but uttered with the ironic self-confidence of someone who knew it could never be used against him. Mazarelle’s mobile phone was recording it all, but there wasn’t anything usable there. Fabriani was too smart for that.
“Believed without a shred of evidence…”
Mazarelle raised an eyebrow.
The commissaire wasn’t finished. “But why would I, for example, be involved in such a sordid scheme? What interest—financial or otherwise—would I have in any of that? You know my friends in government. You know, Mazarelle, that I’m a very rich man.”
“No—I don’t know that. What I do know is that it’s your wife who doesn’t need any further sources of income. But has she been less than generous lately?”
It was a wild guess. Mazarelle had no reason to believe that Juliette was disaffected with her husband. It was clear, however, that he’d touched a raw nerve.
