After the Crash (13 page)

Malvina closed the window behind her. Then she unrolled the
dishcloth, which she had used to wipe every surface in the house,
from her hand and shoved it into her jacket pocket. Surely no one
would notice that a dishcloth from Grand-Duc’s kitchen drawer
was missing?

Proud of herself, she crept slowly through the small garden, so
that no one on the street would see her. She waited for two cars to
pass, hidden behind a corner of the house, then – when the path
was clear – she stepped over the low stone wall and out into the
street. It was fine: no one would ever know that she had entered
Grand-Duc’s house. She wasn’t stupid, in spite of what people might
think. She turned around. One last detail was bothering her. From
the pavement, if you looked carefully, you could see the broken
pane in the lower, right-hand window. She had smashed it in order
to open the window and let herself in. She shrugged. It wasn’t
important.

She walked quickly down Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. She
could not stay out in the open. The Vitral boy might arrive at any
moment.

She took a car key from her pocket and pressed the red button
that unlocked the vehicle’s doors remotely. Her car was so small,
she could find a parking space almost anywhere in Paris – in this
case about fifty feet from Grand-Duc’s house. It was not the most
discreet of cars, but Vitral had no way of knowing it was hers.

Malvina hid as well as she could, hunching down in the driver’s
seat of her Rover Mini. There wasn’t much space, but if she kept
her head low, a passer-by might think the car unoccupied. Malvina,
on the other hand, commanded a clear view of the entire street
– through the windscreen and in the rear-view mirror. Assuming
Vitral came from the Corvisart metro station, he would walk up
from the end of the road without passing the Mini, but she would
be able to see him. Perfect.

She wriggled around until she was able to get her hand on
the Mauser L110. She put it under the driver’s seat, within easy
reach.

Only one thing still bothered Malvina: there were too many
people about, particularly in that bakery about fifty yards away.
Too many witnesses, although most of them were not close by. She
remembered her grandmother’s words: ‘Watch him, follow him.
But don’t do anything else. Telephone me as soon as you see him.’
Malvina’s hand crept under the seat and touched the Mauser, as if
to check that it was still there. The feel of the cold metal reassured
her. Given that she was twenty-four years old, was she still obliged
to obey her grandmother?

Lylie had been wearing that ring, with the pale sapphire, the
colour of her eyes. So Nicole must have given it to her for her eighteenth birthday, two days ago. His grandmother had respected the
terms of the agreement with Mathilde de Carville. She had not
mentioned it to anyone. Not once. Not even to Lylie.

Marc now knew what that meant, what a terrible confession it
represented for his grandmother.
He had to call her, talk to her. Right now, though, finding Lylie
was his priority. With his free hand, he typed out a short text:
Lylie,
call me back FFS!
He decided he would send her another text in an hour if she
didn’t reply, that he would keep pestering her until she gave in.
Where could she be? He thought again of the miniature aeroplane in his bag. Was she being serious about going far away? It was
possible . . . Now she was eighteen, Lylie had the financial means to
go anywhere she liked. She could even stay there for years.
Weaving between his fellow travellers, Marc went over in his
mind the last words he had read in Crédule Grand-Duc’s notebook.
Lylie’s bank account. Mathilde de Carville’s gift. The old woman
had known what she was doing. As the years passed, Marc had
become convinced that it was simply the money that had created
that gulf between him and Lylie, giving rise to those abnormal feelings, the unnatural attraction that could not possibly exist between
a boy and a girl who shared the same blood.
The money explained it all. And yet, deep within him, a voice had
always whispered that, ultimately, the money made no difference.
The voice was right. Because now he had the proof that his
grandmother felt the same way he did, even if she had never said
anything about it.
Lylie was wearing the de Carvilles’ ring.
His grandmother had confessed the truth when she gave it to her.
Lylie was not his sister. They were free.
Marc felt uplifted by a kind of euphoria. He hopped onto the
train heading towards Nation. Five stations until Corvisart, and
then a short walk to Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, where Grand-Duc
lived.
Time to read a few more pages . . .

This is the point where I make my entrance. At last!
Crédule Grand-Duc, private detective.
I took my time, didn’t I? And undoubtedly missed all the action.

Mathilde de Carville entered my office, in Belleville, on Rue des
Amandiers, the day after her meeting with Nicole Vitral. She wore
nothing but black, as if she had poured all of her sadness into her
clothing. I think that meeting with Nicole Vitral took a lot out
of her. She had taken the decision herself, without consulting her
husband. Mathilde felt humiliated by her trip to the seafront at
Dieppe, but she had understood that it was a necessary sacrifice
if she was to have any hope of persuading Nicole Vitral to give
way. Nicole Vitral had to feel more powerful than her, otherwise
she would never have agreed to open a bank account in Lylie’s
name.

Never again, Mathilde must have sworn after that meeting; never
again would she humiliate herself in such a way. She had eased her
conscience, but it had cost her dear: much more than a cheque for
one hundred thousand francs per year. So, after that meeting in
Dieppe, Mathilde’s heart had frozen. By the time she entered my
office, she was not much more than a polite, well-dressed ice cube.

She walked towards me.
‘I have heard a lot about you, Mr Grand-Duc . . .’
She introduced herself. Vaguely, I made the connection with the

‘I have been told, Mr Grand-Duc, that you are discreet, tenacious, patient and meticulous. Those are the very qualities I am
seeking. My proposition is very simple: I want you to go over every
minute detail in the Mont Terri case file, one by one. And to find
more information, if there is any.’

Back then, although I was only one of many private detectives in
Paris, I was beginning to earn something of a reputation for myself.
Over time, I had solved every case that had been given to me: the
casino affair on the coast, plus a few others. Like a boxer who has
fought only nobodies and therefore won every match, I had never
tasted failure, and thus I believed myself invincible. I had no idea
why this woman had chosen me. But, after all, why shouldn’t she?
It didn’t really matter: I was not going to let this opportunity slip
away.

Mathilde de Carville came closer. I remained seated. I am not a
big man. At a rough guess, I would say she was nearly two inches
taller than me. I sat up straight in my chair and put on a serious
expression.

It will take time . . .’
‘I have not come here to bargain with you, Mr Grand-Duc. You
can take or leave my offer. I do not think I will have much trouble finding another detective, but I also believe you will accept my
terms. Beginning today, you will receive one hundred thousand
francs per year, for eighteen years, until Lyse-Rose, my granddaughter, if she is still alive, becomes an adult. The end of September,
1998, in other words. The thirtieth, not the twenty-seventh, as that
is what the judge decided.’
One hundred thousand francs a year! Multiplied by eighteen!
There were so many zeroes, I couldn’t even count them. They lined
up in my mind like pearls on a necklace. Eighteen years of guaranteed salary. It truly was an offer I could not refuse . . .
Except that . . . Even if my stupid first name, Crédule, means
‘naïve’ or ‘gullible’, I still needed more details.
‘What exactly do you require of me, madame, in return for such
a handsome salary? Would I have to pay you back if I hadn’t found
anything after eighteen years?’
‘Mr Grand-Duc, you are not under any obligation to get results.
However, I do demand that you do everything you can to solve the
mystery. I want no stone left unturned: every clue, every theory,
must be thoroughly investigated. I am offering you enough time
and money to ensure that is the case. If any evidence exists proving
the identity of the survivor of the Mont Terri crash, I want you to
find it. And let me be perfectly clear, Mr Grand-Duc: I want to
know the truth, whether or not it is to my liking.’
I felt as though I were standing on the edge of a cliff.
‘And you think that such an investigation will take . . . eighteen
years?’
‘You will be paid for eighteen years. Consequently, you have
eighteen years to discover the truth. I do not expect you to devote
yourself exclusively to this case during that time. I am simply providing you with the necessary means to solve it: time and money.’
‘What happens if I discover the truth after five months?’
‘Do you really not understand, Mr Grand-Duc? Have I not been
sufficiently clear? You will be paid for eighteen years, no matter
what. This will be a gentlemen’s agreement. All I demand is that you
do everything in your power to discover the identity of the survivor.
That is all that matters to me.’
She leaned down towards me, the wooden cross hanging from
her neck suspended in the air just above my nose.
‘Of course I reserve the right to break our agreement at any
moment, if I have the feeling that you are not upholding your end
of the bargain. If I sense you are taking advantage of the situation. But that won’t happen, will it? I have heard you are a man of
honour . . .’
No contract . . . Can you imagine? I seemed to be dealing with a
mad old woman who didn’t know how to spend her vast fortune. It
was a miracle. But how far was she prepared to go?
‘I’ll have to go to Turkey,’ I said. ‘Perhaps for a long time.’
‘In addition to your salary, all your expenses will be paid . . .’
Dare I risk asking for more?
‘I . . . I don’t speak Turkish. It will be difficult on my own . . .’
‘If it is necessary to the investigation, you may hire employees.
Their expenses will also be paid.’
I had my own reasons for asking the question. Already, I was
planning – at least to begin with – to work with a guy I knew from
a couple of months I’d spent in Central Asia. Nazim Ozan was
the only person in France I knew who spoke Turkish, and whom I
trusted, more or less.
Mathilde de Carville wrote me a cheque – for the then vast sum
of one hundred thousand francs – and left my office looking as
gloomy as she had when she arrived. I felt as if I had won the jackpot, without even having bought a ticket.

For the first time, my names seemed to fit. I was credulous to believe
that this investigation would be my springboard to fame and fortune. And, for three days, I celebrated my good luck like a Grand
Duke, spending as much as I liked, safe in the knowledge that my
extravagance would not cost me a centime, because I could claim it
all as expenses.

How could I possibly have imagined, in that moment, that I had
fallen into a bottomless pit? That the light that had attracted me
was leading me towards the void?

Rue Jean-Marie-Jégo climbed steeply, rising by about a hundred
and fifty feet, until it reached Butte-aux-Cailles: a picture-postcard
little street that made you feel you were walking up to a village
square, with its church, its town hall, its bar and its
boules
pitch
shaded by plane trees. All this in the middle of Paris. Marc knew
vaguely that Butte-aux-Cailles was supposed to be one of the few
remaining Parisian ‘
quartiers
’; he had come here one evening for
a drink at the Temps des Cerises. A bourgeois faux-hippy student
– the kind that Marc loathed: probably the son of a diplomat –
had explained to him that this hill was protected from the property
developers because the underground limestone quarries made the
construction of tall buildings impossible. The one thing Marc had
retained from that conversation was that it cost an absolute fortune
to buy a house here.

Marc climbed one last set of steps and came out on top of the
hill. Still holding tight to the guard-rail, he picked up his phone
and sent another text to Lylie.

The same as before:
Lylie. Call me back FFS!
Afterwards, he checked his messages. Nothing.
There weren’t many people around on Rue de la Butte-auxCailles, with the exception of customers at the bakery, which was
apparently the only place open on the street. The restaurants still
appeared to be empty. Marc walked past the houses until he reached
number 21. There, he found a small, one-storey building, set in the
middle of a pretty little garden, about sixty square feet in area. It
was the kind of tiny house that would have looked ridiculous in the
French countryside, but here, in the centre of Paris, it was the pinnacle of luxury. A detached house, a bungalow, with a little garden
of its own. Even bearing in mind the one hundred thousand francs
per year he had been paid by Mathilde de Carville, such a house
seemed beyond Grand-Duc’s means.

The pale green shutters were closed. Just in case, Marc rang the
bell, situated between the slightly rusted yellow letterbox and the
security gate that needed a new coat of paint.

No reply.
He waited a minute, and rang again. Still nothing. Puzzled, he
ran his hand through his hair. Grand-Duc was not at home. He
took a closer look at the house, and the garden, searching for inspiration. He walked back to the street.
And then he found it.
On the right-hand side of the house, the corner of one of the
window panes was broken. With a bit of luck, he might be able to
get his hand through, grab the handle and open the window. Marc
looked around: no one in the street was paying him any attention.
He jumped over the low stone wall and went over to the window.
He put his hand on the frame and, to his great surprise, it opened.
The window had been merely pushed shut.
For a moment, Marc was taken aback by this strange confluence
of circumstances, this curious lack of security in a private detective’s
home. But only for a moment. A second later, he was inside GrandDuc’s house.