Cemetery of Swallows (34 page)

Callas was delighted. A scoop plus a personal attack, what a dream! Above all, keep it going:

“It is also said that the superintendent's behavior has been strange. He is supposed to have taken hallucinogens and participated in other hypnosis sessions. What do you think of that, as a judge?”

“One must never anathematize anyone. I am concerned with the facts and nothing else. Countless remarkable political figures have been besmirched by malicious rumors. Let us be very careful. But be assured that there will be no weakness on my part. If a mistake has been made, at whatever level of the police hierarchy, I shall be merciless. We cannot tolerate the slightest deviant conduct that would endanger justice in our nation. Superintendent Amédée Mallock, to whom, I repeat, our country owes so much, will probably someday have to explain certain excesses that are, rightly or wrongly, attributed to him. And I have no doubt that he will do so, and, I hope, as soon as possible. In the meantime, he continues to enjoy my complete confidence.”

“So why don't you replace him?”

“I am only a simple judge, Monsieur Callas.”

“Well then, what advice would you give him?” the journalist persisted, praying for the comment that would create a polemic.

“Perhaps to show more humility. He is a public servant, and as such he has to be irreproachable. He should get into line and not open himself up, as he usually seems to do, to so many rumors because of behavior that is more than controversial. A friend told me in detail about the hypnosis sessions, and it's quite appalling.”

When Mallock finally decided to turn off the TV, he had lost any calm he might have gained. He was used to being attacked by jerks. But that didn't mean he liked it, or found it amusing.

In his view, there were more serious things than having to endure a few snubs on television: it was what they implied more generally. Even all tarted up, the true and the just interested no one. Idiots, hypocrites, windbags, lobbies, and the corrupt gathered together in the great liars' fair. There they exchanged rumors and gossip, personal promotion and propaganda, without having to fear anyone.

“What good does it do to curse imposters?” Amédée whispered to Mallock to try to calm him down.

There was at least one positive point in the interview with the judge. He now knew where the newspapers were getting their information. It was Maître Pierre Parquet who had confided in his friend Judge Judioni.

“Damn it!” he cried out loud as he picked up his telephone.

After all, he'd warned Jack. It's dangerous to annoy a hibernating bear.

Outside, between two waves of intense cold, it had begun to snow again, timidly. The little sparse flakes fell in silence, one by one, like paratroopers dropping behind enemy lines. Mallock adjusted the collar of his overcoat. The asphalt was covered with a thick layer of ice and people were walking with their feet spread wide apart like penguins on an ice floe. The superintendent did not regret having chosen to add crepe soles to his equipment.

To forget the judge's wounding remarks, Mallock forced himself to keep his mind busy. First of all, he had to assess the whole situation regarding Manuel Gemoni. And start by going back to the very beginning of the investigation. Hadn't he left something by the wayside? A lead, a comment, an expression on Manu's face? He concentrated, and the snowflakes stopped falling, the sound of cars disappeared, and the capital evaporated. When the outside world reappeared, he was about to cross the Seine.

Two things had come back to him.

What Manu had said at the end of their first conversation: “He seemed to recognize me when I attacked him.” Mallock hadn't remembered this phrase because at the time he couldn't explain it. He'd put it in the big pile of “nonsense.” That was no longer the case. He could either choose to adopt, once and for all, the hypothesis of reincarnation, and find in this recognition a kind of confirmation on the part of Krinkel himself upon seeing his victim again, sixty years later, or he could decide to remain in the rational, and then he could justify this remark by pointing to the obvious physical resemblance between Manuel and the late Jean-François Lafitte. Mallock sighed. How could they have done such a thing to him? A case in which all the clues led systematically to opposite conclusions.

His thoughts were interrupted by an urgent appeal from his eyes, which were clamoring for his attention.
Come see, Mallock
.

In front of him was the frozen Seine, with a barge caught right in the middle. A little farther on, at the foot of Notre-Dame, there was a tour boat, partly crushed by the pressure of the ice and without a single windowpane intact. When the ice thawed, it would sink immediately. Great, one fewer!

After an amused glance, Amédée continued on his way and the course of his thoughts: the second thing he'd forgotten, Manu's blood test. The one he'd requested at the outset, the day when Julie came to see him. Since then, no one had spoken to him about it again. At the time, the hypothesis that Manuel might have been drugged had seemed to him one of the possibilities that shouldn't be neglected. The techniques of hypnosis, combined with substances that made it possible to compel someone to commit acts of violence without his assent, were not an invention of spy movies. An organization or an interest group could very well have carried out Tobias's murder by remote control. This was all the more credible now that they knew Krinkel's criminal past. But then why would they have chosen Manuel Gemoni for the job? That remained to be elucidated. Mallock resolved to inform himself regarding the results of this blood test as soon as he arrived at the Fort.

Then he caught himself grumbling, all by himself, out loud, as he walked alongside Notre-Dame. The drug hypothesis now seemed to him a little more plausible with each step he took. So simple and so obvious that he began to worry. What if his orders hadn't been followed? What if the Dominican Republic had kept the samples? What if they'd been lost somewhere between the Caribbean and 36 Quai des Orfèvres? What if they were out of date and couldn't be analyzed? What if the quantity was insufficient? And what if they hadn't been kept refrigerated . . . Damn, there's going to be hell to pay, the bear growled.

He had hardly arrived at the Fort before he ran into Julie.

“And the blood tests? Where are we with those?”

Julie opened her big doe eyes wide.

“What blood tests?”

Here, Mallock could have fired. The prey was trapped, looking right at him, in his crosshairs. The hunter's index finger was in perfect position on the trigger. All he had to do was pull: bang! Shoot a big one right between the eyes. But it was a little too easy, and frankly, little Julie didn't deserve such a fate.

So the bear in crepe soles lowered his weapon and explained patiently:

“Remember. When you came to see me about Manu the first time, I told you to ask for a blood . . . ”

“Oh, yes! Of course.”

Mallock's blood temperature fell below boiling.

“Don't tell me you didn't ask for the analyses?”

The rifle was up again, cocked, and Mallock felt ready to shoot once more.

“Of course I did. I didn't go to check the results, is all. But the Dominican authorities did send them to us in response to my request. In fact, we must have received the blood samples on the day you left to go over there. Since I didn't know what you wanted to do, I waited until you got back. And then, with all this hypnosis business I didn't think about it.”

“Neither did I,” Mallock acknowledged in fit of magnanimity. “After all, the main thing is to have the samples. We need a complete toxicological analysis. I want to be sure that Manu was not simply drugged.”

“I'll go down to ask them to do what's necessary, Boss. It'll go quicker if I talk to them in person.”

“Fine, I'll be in my office.”

Then he hesitated for a few seconds. Should he tell her?

“Julie, I'm going to call Jean-Pierre Delmont, the ambassador who dealt with your brother. I'm going to try to confirm this business about a second trial. I suppose you know about that?”

Julie's eyes filled with tears as she nodded.

“Take it easy. I swear I haven't had my last word. O.K.?”

As a response, Mallock received a sad little sniff. He was satisfied with that, and went on:

“By the way, call Bob, would you? I want him to come see me in my office.”

 

Mallock had some difficulty in reaching Santo Domingo. In the end, the ambassador called him back.

Delmont sounded embarrassed.

“Really sorry, Superintendent! That is unfortunately correct. Manuel will not escape a second trial. The Dominican authorities were inflexible. That was the sole condition on which they were willing to allow him to leave the island. That solution was ideal for them. They were afraid of being responsible for his death and all the tourist problems that would accompany it, but they also weren't prepared to let their territorial
cojones
be cut off. We'll let you have him, you take care of him, put him on trial, and afterward, back to square one.”

Mallock growled an oath.

“I wasn't involved in this,” the ambassador tried to explain. “It was between the president's office and the Quai d'Orsay. When we met, I can swear to you that I didn't know about it. If it's any consolation to you, I even threatened to resign. Obviously I thought I was far more important than I am. My attempt at extortion amused them and they didn't fail to tell me that. I was pretty annoyed, in fact.”

Even if he didn't have the heart for it, Mallock couldn't help retorting:

“You see, you're concerned about your
cojones
too.”

“You're not wrong about that, Mallock . . . Touché! I picked up the little fragments of my pride and brought out the heavy artillery. You know, Superintendent, one doesn't serve in a position like mine for long without having an opportunity to build up one's own collection of exotic documents and anecdotes, if you see what I mean.”

“I have a vague idea,” Mallock smiled into the telephone.

“It's thanks to that that I was able to negotiate those two exceptions.”

“Namely? I'd like to hear a confirmation from you on this point.”

“Well, if he is given the maximum sentence, our thirty years without possibility of parole, or if the case is dismissed on sufficient grounds, they have agreed not to exercise the right to return him to the Dominican Republic. And that is assured; they've signed and can't go back on it.”

“Maybe, but it isn't going to be easy. According to his lawyer, in this case he's risking a sentence of five to eleven years. And then we're—”

“It's up to you to get the ‘current state of affairs' changed. It's in your hands. It would be better for him never to set foot on the island again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't forget that I tried to warn you about the dangers on the island.”

“What do you mean?” Mallock repeated. “Are you alluding to the
brutos
?”

“Whether Manuel spends one year or ten in prison, returning to the island would be equivalent to a death sentence for him.”

Mallock knew that but wanted to hear it said to him one more time. Like a door that is slammed or a bridge that you blow up behind you. For Amédée there was henceforth only one thing to do: seek an acquittal.

 

He had hardly hung up before Daranne appeared in his office. He was wearing his bad-day face. And there was a scratch on his temple.

“Do you have a problem with my report on the Gemonis, Boss?”

“No, not at all, Bob. But it looks like there's a problem with your face.”

Daranne put his hand alongside his eye.

“This? It's nothing. I slipped on that damned ice. In fact, I fell down three times, just getting from my car to the Fort.”

Then Mallock made two decisions. First, not to even smile, because his collaborator wasn't in the mood. Second, to offer him a cup of coffee.

As he turned on the percolator, the telephone rang. Mallock signaled to Daranne to answer it, indicating by his gesture that he wasn't there for anyone.

“Bob Daranne here. What is it?”

Then a minute's silence, followed by:

“Sorry, this isn't Monsieur Dublin's office. What did you say?”

“ . . . ”

“Captain Daranne, and you are?”

Bob seemed surprised.

“It's somebody who wants to talk to the chief. I told him that this wasn't Dublin's number. He said he was Judge Judioni. I don't know; do you want to take it?”

“Yes, let me do it.”

The rest of the conversation took place before the eyes of a completely astonished Daranne.

“So, Judioni, you want to talk to my boss?”

“ . . . ”

“A real bastard? Maybe, but in legitimate self-defense. I warned you not to pull my string too much. On TV, you—”

“ . . . ”

“I can hardly wait for your counterattack. But watch out. There will be reprisals. I've still got some aces up my sleeve . . . ”

“ . . . ”

“Yes, of course. I love you too, pal,” Mallock finally said before hanging up on him.

He looked up and glanced at Daranne, smiling:

“Don't worry. It's just a little clarification. The judge didn't appreciate me mentioning a couple of things about him to a journalist friend of mine.”

“Your friend Margot Murât, Boss?”

“Drop it. How's it going?”

Daranne hesitated a few seconds and then gave up. After all, he trusted his boss.

“Oof! It could be better.”

He ran his thumb over his red and white mustache.

“It's over with my wife. I don't know what she wants anymore, but in any case it's not me. Too old, too stupid, too everything, too nothing. She's like my sons, they're disappointed by what I've become. With my stupidities, I've managed to get them all against me. Great job, huh? Except maybe for the youngest, who still has a minimum of respect for me, the rest of the family avoids me.”