The Hanged Man's Tale, page 5
All around, the crowd was still shoving, still yelling as if nothing had happened.
“Thieves! Killers. String them up. Send them home.”
Mazarelle ignored the blood trickling down his arm. He kept his hand clamped on Babo’s shoulder.
“You coming?”
9
As the door slammed behind him, Mazarelle pushed Babo forward. “Putain,” he said to the sergeant inside. “They are out of control.”
“They’re worried. Can you blame them?”
Dabbing at the blood on his forearm, he pushed Babo toward the officers on duty. “Put him in garde à vue.”
He ripped off the sleeve of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound, tying the knot with his teeth.
Babo kept staring at him. For such a loudmouth, he didn’t seem to have much to say.
Coudert had heard the commotion. Coming down the stairs, he took in the scene by the door, his detective, the officers clustered around the Romani.
“Babo,” he said with a little smirk, “what trouble are you in now?”
“You know him?”
“This guy? You bet. If you’d been here longer instead of vacationing in the Dordogne, you’d know him too.”
Watching the officers take Babo away, Mazarelle stifled his first response. Coudert was his boss, after all.
“So what’s his story?” he asked.
“Old Babo?” Coudert gave a grim smile. “He’s one of the usual suspects. Find a crime anywhere around Montmartre. Pickpockets. Breaking and entering. His gang is probably in on it. He’s got a record as long as”—Coudert stopped midsentence—“as…” The comparison seemed to defeat him. He waved a dismissive hand. “You know those guys. It was only a matter of time before he went down for something bigger.”
“Hang on,” said Mazarelle. “He’s only in for questioning. We haven’t even—”
“Sure, sure. Don’t worry,” said Coudert. “He did it all right.”
He headed back up the stairs to his office. Over his shoulder, he tossed back a bouquet of praise.
“Nice work, Mazarelle. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
10
The camera flashes were already going off as Mazarelle entered the conference room.
Up front, behind a hive of microphones, Coudert and Fabriani wore self-satisfied smiles, basking in the warm glow of the camera lights. The room was packed, and loud. It was surprisingly crowded with print journalists, wire service stringers, video shooters—the whole motley collection of the fourth estate. Now they were all focused on Coudert as he rolled through his statement.
“…to announce the arrest of Babo Banderas.”
Scanning the room, Coudert spotted Mazarelle by the side wall.
“And here’s the detective who made it all possible. Commandant Paul Mazarelle. The ace who solved the Dordogne murders. The man who’s brought the tarot card murderer to justice.”
The flashes grew more intense, more insistent, as they turned toward him—an explosion of light and heat.
“Wait,” said Mazarelle. “What?”
“No need for modesty, Mazarelle. This strange killing is cleared, off the books. Paris can sleep well at night again. Thanks to you.”
Mazarelle was baffled.
“What are you talking…” he said quietly, almost to himself. “It’s not…”
The reporters had no time for hesitations. They had already pivoted back toward the two bureaucrats. They had questions.
“Is this a crime wave?”
“Is this a trend?”
“Is France safe?”
Fabriani stepped up to the microphones. He held out his hands for quiet. “We understand. It’s been an upsetting time here in Paris. A dangerous time.”
He looked around the room, giving the cameras time to focus in on him.
“We’ve had an attempted assassination. A strange murder. No wonder our citizens are concerned. It feels as if things may be slipping out of control.”
He drew himself up to his full six foot one inch frame. Tall, and he knew how to wear a suit. The charcoal pinstripe. The burgundy tie.
“But we are here today to tell you that your national police are on the job.”
He slammed his palm down on the lectern.
“We stand guard at the gates. We are here to protect you. We’re here to enforce the law. And we will not fail.”
The staccato rhythms set off a new crescendo of flashes.
Mazarelle had seen enough. Walking out of the conference room, shaking his head, he spotted Maurice coming from the other side of the hall.
“Is he running for something?” Mazarelle asked.
The captain nodded sagely. “Some people bloom under the lights…like a tulip in the sun. Have you ever seen the tulip tree of West Africa? The Nandi flame?”
“If only they spent that energy on the investigation,” said Mazarelle.
Maurice had something for his boss. He was carrying a computer printout, several pages long. It was Babo’s record.
Mazarelle stood still as he read it.
Leafing through the pages, he saw no shortage of arrests. And convictions. Robbery. Breaking and entering. Multiple counts of receiving and selling stolen property. Confirming Coudert’s comments.
But with each turn of the page, Mazarelle seemed less and less content.
“Look at this. What do you see?”
He handed the printout back to Maurice.
“A lot of time in jail?”
“Sure, sure. His record is long. But in all that time, Babo has no record of violent crimes. Look…” His index finger jabbed the page. “No weapons charges. Never used a gun or a knife. Not even an assault.”
“So?”
Mazarelle shook his head. “He’s got a temper, but he’s never even been booked for a fistfight. He’s an easy target. He just doesn’t feel right for this.”
Maurice looked back at the conference room. His eyebrows slowly raising. His mouth opening.
“But…”
Maurice pointed back over his shoulder.
“They just…” His voice trailed off.
Mazarelle said nothing. He was focused on the printout.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Maurice.
Still no answer.
“But if it’s not him, then…”
Mazarelle looked up.
“Exactly,” he nodded. “That’s the job.”
PART TWO
11
The headlights sliced through the thick sheets of rain hurtling down from the sky, the all-terrain tires gripping the cracked pavement of the one-lane road, sliding out on the curves. Behind the wheel, the driver stared into the downpour. His beat-up Jeep had seen better days. It could use a new paint job as well. If he ever got back home.
Paris had gone well—a mission accomplished on the backstreets of the capital. Just a few scratches to show for it. But now, here in the south, under the unseasonable rainstorm battering Provence, the tension was slowly building in his nerves.
He was not a religious man, choosing to put his faith in his own skills rather than robed prophets. But on this miserable night, he had to admit there was a certain wisdom in the actions of Noah. Here was a man who knew the way of the world—that land could be shaped, beasts could be tamed, but when the heavens opened, there was little else to do but sit in a wooden box and wait it out. Yes, life was formed from water, but to go back to it, to be consumed by it—that meant an icy darkness one was unlikely to return from. He’d done it once before and survived, but had no desire for an encore performance.
He hammered his foot against the accelerator, his car negotiating the serpentine road, as the four-wheel drive Jeep rocketed onward. On nights like this, the narrow country road between Marseille and Avignon, low on lights and overgrown with vegetation, was usually deserted, but tonight was different—tonight the universe seemed intent on testing him.
Blocking his way, the yellow Bentley’s bloated body dominated the road ahead, cruising along at what, in the most generous of terms, could be described as a crawl. These yuppie fucks! Ever since the age of the internet had begun, his most treasured routes, his most prized hideaways were quickly becoming tainted with money and privilege—and worst of all, the people that came with it.
The Jeep driver thumped his horn with a clenched fist. If this jackass dawdling in front of him would learn how to drive or simply get the hell out of the way, he might get back home some time before the Rhône, flooded and roaring alongside the road, carried him off. Closing the gap between the cars, he brought his Jeep up behind the Bentley Arnage, practically brushing bumpers, and laid on the horn again, this time flashing his high beams for good measure.
Up ahead, the driver was silhouetted in the light. Some sort of Saudi type. A dishrag on his head. Foreign plates on the back of the car. Moving at a snail’s pace. This was what money did. It made you feel superior, as if the rest of the world was playing by your rules and not the other way around. He beat his horn like a drum, the staccato rhythm exploding through the air like the rifle volley of the FAMAS he had carried for so many years.
An arm shot out the Bentley’s driver side window, middle finger raised skyward and jabbed high into the low-hanging black clouds overhead. The Arab’s sausage-shaped finger adorned with a thick golden ring, emerald fixed in the middle, taunted the Jeep driver. It was a dare: Do something.
You want to play games, huh? His anger boiling over, the Jeep driver yanked his steering wheel to the left onto the muddy shoulder, throttling the engine to life and pulling up next to the Bentley’s driver’s side. He could feel the skidding of his back wheels, sliding closer and closer to the roaring banks of the river.
With a sudden violent jerking turn, he threw the Jeep’s steering wheel to the right, slamming into the driver’s side door of the Bentley, replacing the snooty Arab’s smirk with a look of true alarm. The cars skittered and swerved alongside each other, zooming down the road.
He drew his front tires even with the Bentley’s rear axle, delivering the fatal blow, smashing the Jeep’s nose into the Bentley’s back tires.
The Bentley’s tires screeched and lost all traction, careening into a nearby ditch.
The rain was still coming down hard. The Jeep driver pulled off the road, and lifted the hood of his black sweatshirt over his head. It was time to send this towelhead back home.
The hooded man reached the Bentley’s driver’s side door and bent his head down to eye level with the heavyset Saudi, who sat shaking, quivering in his seat. He fumbled in his pockets, bringing out his wallet and thrusting it in the Jeep driver’s face.
“Please! I have money! Take my money!”
The hooded man stared back coldly, his hatchet features unmoving, taking in the wood grain, the beige leather, the Tintin comic on the passenger seat—a gift no doubt for Saudi Junior—as the rain beat out a rhythm of chaotic fury on the roof of the beached Bentley.
Then, from the Jeep driver’s lips, a slow, nasty grin.
12
On Monday morning, when Mazarelle lumbered up the 148 steps to the fourth floor at 36 Quai des Orfèvres, Maurice and Jeannot were already in the office. Serge, the department’s young part-time intern, had arrived earlier and was busy at one of the file cabinets. Up here, where the work got done, their space looked like some forgotten corner of an attic—desks jammed together, dingy off-white walls, cardboard boxes of files heaped in the corners, all under a sloping mansard roof.
Maurice had the sports pages spread across his desk, and he was wagging his finger at Jeannot.
“You watch for him,” Maurice insisted. “Didier Drogba. He’s majestic on the field. He only plays for Guingamp now, but Olympique de Marseille will surely sign him soon.”
“Come on!” Jeannot smiled. “The Ivory Coast?” The only thing cops liked more than solving cases was giving each other a little grief. And when it came to his team, Maurice was such an easy target for teasing.
“You don’t know, Jeannot. We are the best. The best in all of Africa. The mighty Elephants.”
Jeannot couldn’t resist. “And what exactly have you won, again?”
“Aha. My young friend, you reveal your ignorance. We won the African Cup in 1992. A glorious day in Abidjan.”
“One time in fifty years. Okay. But even then…didn’t it go to penalty kicks?”
Maurice slammed the sports section shut. “Perhaps we should focus on our work.”
Mazarelle, meanwhile, had been staring at the front page. Chewing on the end of his pipe. Annoyed. Something was bugging him.
“Look at this…”
He flipped the page around toward his men. The headline read: “Arrest in Bizarre Tarot Murder Case.”
Mazarelle began reading aloud: “ ‘Police announced an arrest in the strange killing of Alain Berthaud, sixty-one, co-owner of the private investigation agency L’Agence AB, found dead last week in the Canal Saint-Martin. Babo Banderas, forty-two, a Romani with a history of petty crime, was charged in the murder that has shocked Paris—’ ”
Mazarelle broke off. “They have the card. They even have its history. Listen to this…‘Another remarkable feature of this unusual case: the tarot card Berthaud had in his jacket. It bore the sign of the Hanged Man. According to an anonymous police source, it was likely meant as a warning.’ ”
He shook his head, and went on to the sidebar: “ ‘The hanged man image predates even the invention of tarot cards in the fifteen hundreds. In Italy, this type of image was called a pittura infamante. It was a picture of someone guilty of betrayal—shown hung for it from a gallows upside down—’ ”
“Seriously?” Jeannot broke in. “They really used to hang people upside down?”
“That’s what it says. They thought it was even slower and more painful than a regular hanging.”
Mazarelle tossed aside the paper. “A Gypsy. A tarot card. They’re all done.” He shook his head. “The reporters like him for it. The crowds in the street like him for it. Our boss likes him for it. Everyone just wants to string the Gypsy up and move on.”
Jeannot shrugged. “It’s hard to feel sorry for him. What about that fifteen-year-old girlfriend?”
“This isn’t a popularity contest. There’s a lynch mob inside and outside. And if we don’t do something fast, they’re gonna convict him of a murder he may not have committed.”
“Is he not guilty?” asked Maurice. “The patron certainly thinks so.”
“He’s guilty of all sorts of things. But this?” Mazarelle offered up his palms. “Hard to tell. He’s a jerk. But that’s not illegal. If it was, half of this building would be in jail.”
“Still, why push so hard?” asked Jeannot. “Especially when no one else wants us to?”
Mazarelle rapped his knuckles on the table. “That’s when you have to push.”
“After all”—Maurice still wasn’t convinced—“didn’t the patron say to wrap up the case?”
Mazarelle smiled. “Of course we will. The right way. We’ve got at least a few weeks to pull together the evidence for the trial. Let’s see what else we can find.”
The morning meeting was a daily ritual—a chance for all of them to get up to speed. Mazarelle ran them through the details of his interview with Berthaud’s partner, Luc Fournel, and Luc’s claim that on the night of the murder he’d gone to the emergency room at the Hôtel-Dieu. Said he’d spent the night there.
“Convenient,” exclaimed Jeannot.
“True,” said Mazarelle. “The guy always was a slacker and sleazy on the job. And there’s still something off about him. But his story checked out. The docs said he came in sick, threw up, and slept it off all night in the hospital. That’s a pretty good alibi.”
Jeannot said he’d visited Alain Berthaud’s bachelor apartment in the Marais and revisited his office at the Agence AB. It seemed to him that neither the apartment nor the office had ever been lived in. Or worked in, for that matter.
“The apartment was like an anonymous hotel room.” He sounded amazed as he described it. “No dirty dishes or clothes. Nothing. It was bizarre. The office had only that one messy pile of papers on top of the desk that we initially picked up—all useless. Nothing in the desk drawers.”
Maurice nodded. He was the one who’d gone through that pile of unsorted papers.
Mazarelle glanced down at his aide’s densely written pad of notes. Maurice had the sort of neat, tight, crabbed handwriting that could put more words on a page legibly than almost anyone else he’d ever met. Mazarelle’s own penmanship was inkblot prone and stain splattered since elementary school. His thick fingers and large hands couldn’t make his letters toe the line.
Maurice, always less comfortable talking than writing, wet his lips, took a deep breath, and straightened out his tight blue sport jacket.
“First, the cash. I’m only getting started. We cannot be sure where it’s coming from yet, but there seems to be a lot of it floating through the Agence AB.”
“That could be a motive right there.” Jeannot jumped in. “Right boss?” Mazarelle waved Maurice to keep going.
“Second, I pulled Berthaud’s phone records. One thing is clear. He was making—and receiving—multiple calls from one number in the days just before he died. It wasn’t a listed number. Looks like some kind of burner phone.”
Mazarelle nodded thoughtfully.
“A lot to consider…” His voice trailed off. “Time to get going.”
13
Mazarelle’s appointment was with a locksmith, up in the narrow park that ran above the first Saint-Martin Canal tunnel. The old man was grumbling as he came walking up, munching on half a baguette. A worker for decades on the edge of retirement, as crusty as the bread he chewed.
