Rough Trade (22 page)

The weather was cool and fine, a delightful spring. Romero stretched his legs. He was glad to be sitting outside a café with Lavorel, after an average night spent in the arms of an average blonde. Lavorel had brought the file on the Berican workroom which he had put together quickly the day before: records of trading, taxes, social security. Paulette was Paulette Dupin, manageress of the company for the last five years, living at no. 44 in rue Gallieni at Villemomble. The workroom was flourishing and seemed slightly more on the level than most of those in the Sentier. Berican, director of the workroom, had been in the passage de l’Industrie – a large three-room suite – for eight years and for the last five he had even owned it, which was highly unusual. He declared five salaried staff and paid regularly the social security contributions due on their behalf. In view of the size of the apartment this was many fewer than the numbers actually employed. He made a profit, paid a small amount of VAT and taxes. In what proportion, that was another story.

Romero went to telephone Daquin. No more was known yet about the woman they’d followed yesterday. She’d spent all
afternoon
in the workroom but Marinoni had lost sight of her about 8 o’clock. She had come out of the workroom and taken a taxi,
leaving
him behind. No more assignments than yesterday. He said so long to Lavorel.

He decided to take a look on the spot. No. 2 passage de l’Industrie. There was a plaque at the foot of the dark staircase:
Berican
,
second
floor
right
. A smell of leather all the way up. On the second floor right, from behind a standard nineteenth-century bourgeois apartment door came sounds of intense activity, voices, footsteps, the throbbing of machines, with a foreign language radio in the background. A glance through the staircase window seemed to show that the apartment ran along the side of the passage. Lavorel climbed the staircase at no. 4 passage de l’Industrie. On the second floor left there was probably another workroom. No plaque, no name, but the characteristic sound of machines. It surely
communicated
with the other, useful in the case of an unexpected visit by the works inspector.

What should he do now? Lavorel was a bit short of ideas. Two Pakistanis arrived with their hand-trucks. They climbed up to Berican’s place and came down with bulky packages wrapped in white plastic and secured with broad strips of brown adhesive tape. After going up and down three times they had loaded their trucks to the limit. The Pakistanis forged ahead with remarkable skill along the crowded pavements, the two inspectors following. Delivery was made to Berelovitch, a garment manufacturer in rue du Vertbois and the two Pakistanis left again. Inside the shop two men had begun to undo the packages, taking out leather jackets and placing them on hangers. They were checking, counting. Lavorel went in.

‘I’d like to try on that jacket.’

‘Sorry,
monsieur
, but we don’t do any retail selling at all.’

He came out again.

‘They’re Ted Lapidus jackets. High-class ready-to-wear. I imagine the customer at the end of the line pays about 5000 francs for one of those, and 10,000 for a coat. At those prices it’s really
worthwhile
sorting out a few schemes.’

The two inspectors walked back to passage de l’Industrie. Romero sat down in a quiet café to read the newspaper. Lavorel went up to the Berican workroom, rang the bell and waited one or two minutes. The sound level behind the door fell noticeably. The door opened slightly. Strong smell of leather. A colossal man
appeared
in the half-open doorway. Nearly six feet tall,
broad-shouldered
, stout yet not too much so. Dressed in black. Swarthy complexion, shaven head, huge grey moustache. Striking.

‘Monsieur Berican?’

‘Yes, I am. What do you want from me?’ Strong accent, fluent French.

‘I’m a journalist. I’m preparing a series of articles about the legalization of Turkish workers in the Sentier district. I’d like to interview a workroom boss and Berelovitch, the manufacturer I’ve met, told me you’d certainly agree to answer my questions.’

Warm smile. ‘Wait a moment.’

Berican turned towards the interior of the apartment, which was now more or less silent. A few sentences in Turkish, The sound of the machines and the conversations began again.

‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ Berican said to Lavorel. ‘But we mustn’t be long, I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

*

A café in rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. A lot of men, swarthy and moustachioed. At the bar, more ouzo and raki than pastis. And cups of coffee. Very noisy conversations in totally strange
languages
. Groups standing round the pinball machines. You could hardly see through the cigarette smoke. Berican led Lavorel to a smoke-free table outside, it was a little easier to breathe there. Jovial type, Berican.

‘It’s my round, what will you have? One pastis. And a raki. What do you want to know?’

‘Do you think the Turks will win the right to work legally?’

‘For the last two or three days we’ve all begun to think so, yes.’

‘You employ clandestine workers. If they’re able to work legally that won’t help you. They’ll cost you more.’

Berican laughed. ‘It doesn’t happen like that. I was a clandestine worker once, like them. I fled Turkey in 1960. I worked here
without
papers for ten years. You can’t possibly know what that means. I shaved off my moustache and dyed my hair light brown. I
regretted
being tall, I travelled in buses, never in the Metro. And I always walked about with a camera dangling over my stomach. But
whatever
I did, I couldn’t manage to look like a German tourist. Every time I stepped into the street I felt afraid. It was a strange life, you know. It’s the life my workers lead today. I’ve given money to
support
their Committee. As soon as I can I’ll give work contracts to everyone.’

‘And will you pay the social security contributions?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘I want very good workers, and I want Turks. I only trust Turks. They’ve been working with leather for centuries, they know about it. But there are no legal Turkish workers. Today, I pay my workers well, in cash … Tomorrow I’ll write out payslips, the wages will be a little lower, that’s all.’

‘And what about your manager, does he see things the same way as you do?’

‘My manager is a manageress. An old friend. I met her ten years or so ago. She does all the accounts for the workroom and most of the presentations for the manufacturers. She knows the Sentier as well as I do. I look after the quality of the work. She looks after the management.’

‘Do you think I could interview her?’

‘Not today. She’s never here on Saturdays.’

‘Could you describe her to me, so that I could write about her in my article, you know, to liven it up?’

He laughed.

‘She’s no longer all that young, a little over fifty, I believe. She’s well built and sturdy, but she also has style. I don’t know what else I can tell you. She looks reliable. I’m going back up to work. Do you want to look round the workroom?’

‘Yes, I’d like to.’

Berican got up and collected a tray with twenty cups of coffee from the bar, without paying. He had an account and all his
workers
could charge their coffees to it.

In the passage he turned to Lavorel: ‘You see, passages like this with workrooms everywhere are rather like certain places in
Istanbul
. But in Istanbul there would be a little stall at the entrance kept by an old man who would make tea and coffee and take it up to the workrooms all day long. We miss that here.’

They climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to the
apartment
. The smell of leather again, almost suffocating. A lot of noise, machines, talk, radio. Intense activity. The boss called out: ‘Coffee’. All the machines stopped. The men went into the kitchen by the entrance to drink and chat. Berican introduced Lavorel, a journalist. Smiles, laughter. They were going to win.
Ya
hip
Ya
hop
. Warm atmosphere.

A tour round the apartment. A very classic petit-bourgeois
apartment
. Three rooms along the side of the building, separated from the kitchen, bathroom and storeroom by a corridor. The principal rooms opened onto the passage. Nothing had been rearranged, just a thicket of cables hanging from the ceiling, and neon strip lighting in every room. In the first of these, the biggest, opposite the
kitchen
, was a huge cutting-out table equipped with four big, heavy and noisy sewing-machines. In the second room there were four long tables with rows of machines. In the third room, yet another table with machines and three small individual tables with lighter
machines
. The finishings, explained Berican, buttonholes, buttons, various accessories. And the labels. The labels are important for us: we work for the biggest names in the ready-to-wear business. As he goes along each worker marks on a sheet of paper the number of labels given to him and the number used. At the end of this room was the connecting door to the next apartment It seemed to be permanently sealed off with bolts but … In any case that doesn’t interest me and I haven’t got much information to work on, thought Lavorel. They went back along the corridor. The storeroom had been fitted out as a little office for the manageress with less than sparse furnishings: a metal desk, with drawers that locked, a few shelves, a big standard lamp and an armchair. On the desk, tidily arranged, were two notebooks and the plastic bag from
FNAC
, described by Romero, with the box inside it. Berican caught sight of it at the same time as Lavorel. He looked slightly annoyed. He took out his bunch of keys, picked up the bag and locked it up in one of the desk drawers. They went back into the corridor. Kitchen and bathroom, littered with leftover food, coffee pots, cups and glasses. The tour was over. Berican returned to his work with the cutters.

Lavorel said goodbye to everyone, pulled the door to behind him and joined Romero in his quiet café a little way up the street. They took stock.

‘Paulette and the woman we saw yesterday are probably one and the same person. The descriptions seem to tally. If there’s some dealing going on Paulette’s playing an important part in it. But what sort of dealing? I can’t answer that. The box in the
FNAC
bag is there, I know where it is but I don’t know what’s in it. I’d like to go round the place during the night. But what would the chief say?’

Romero laughed.

‘He’d say: “Don’t get caught.” Ask him all the same.’

After steak, chips and a beer they went to Villemomble. Saturday afternoon, an easy drive. Lavorel and Romero swapped childhood memories which were similar: from the Belle de Mai estate to the Courneuve. Romero drove, Lavorel studied the street plan … 44 rue Gallieni. First they would drive past it, then they would come back, look and think about what to do. Villemomble was rather petit-bourgeois, but rue Gallieni was definitely ritzy. No more
bungalows
, but solid houses of several storeys with terraces, verandas and real gardens behind high gates. No. 44 was a very attractive white house, late nineteenth-century, with a little tower, well
protected
by a high stone wall and a black-painted iron door. The interior of the property was hardly visible.

‘Things aren’t looking too bad for Paulette Dupin, you might say. What’ll we do now?’

The railway station was close by, they could stop for coffee. Two coffees with brandy, Romero went to have a look in the telephone kiosk down in the basement and came back up with the directory. No Dupin in Villemomble. The two inspectors looked quickly through the columns of subscribers to find out who lived at 44 in rue Gallieni. Romero swore and knocked over the rest of his coffee. With his fingernail he underlined a name:
Yves
Thomas
,
44
rue
Gallieni
.

Daquin looked strained and exhausted. Romero and Lavorel very tense. Attali was fidgeting with impatience. Daquin smiled at him.

‘You start, you’re the only one who wants to.’

‘I’ve got a few more little details about VL. After I saw her at the 10th arrondissement commissariat she went to see Julie La Tour, a manufacturer with whom she had an appointment to do a
presentation
. She was in a hurry, but she carried out her work correctly. She left quickly, saying she had a rendezvous.’

‘That’s already a step forward, Attali.’

‘After that, nothing, no trace any more. She’s a strange girl. Lots of people know her, but nobody’s capable of saying anything
worthwhile
about her, or of telling me what sort of person she is.’ He paused. ‘But I’ve got something else.’

‘We rather thought so.’

‘You told me to show all the identikit portraits we have to as many people as possible. I did that. One mannequin, a certain Sophie Lambert, had attended evenings at Kashguri’s place. She’s formally identified the portrait of the man who killed your
concierge
. He’s one of Kashguri’s menservants-cum-henchmen.’

A long silence.

‘Always stir the pot. You don’t know what you’re looking for, but in the end you find it. Well done, Attali, It’s the first tangible clue we’ve got for implicating Kashguri. But it’s a sizeable one. If his manservant acts on his orders, which is likely, then Kashguri’s playing a direct part in the network in France. Romero?’

‘Paulette Dupin is the wife of Inspector Thomas.’

Another silence.

‘There couldn’t be any mistake?’

‘No, we checked at the registration office. No mistake possible.’

‘Your turn, Lavorel.’

‘And Paulette Dupin really is the woman who was having lunch with Sener. But I don’t know yet what they’re up to. The packet that Sener brought her yesterday is in the office at the Berican workroom. If you were to give me the authority it wouldn’t take me more than a quarter of an hour tonight to know what it’s all about.’

‘How can I give you the authority? Do it without my knowing. And don’t get caught.’ Romero and Lavorel exchanged a smile. ‘Romero will certainly help you. He loves picking locks, it reminds him of his adolescence.’ Daquin took a deep breath. ‘Now it’s my turn. I wanted to talk to you a little again about some of the
problems
involving corruption among the police. I realize it’s easier after the discoveries by Romero and Lavorel. I’ve been thinking about it since the identification of Celebi’s body on Thursday
afternoon
. I’ve thought about the way the dealers have been conducting their counter-offensive during the last week. On one side I’ll list what they’ve done. They’ve put the shops in the Faubourg-
Saint-Martin
out of action. Caused VL to disappear. Assassinated one of Meillant’s snouts, and the only Turk we’ve positively identified as a dealer, with a witness for the prosecution. On the other side, what they haven’t done. Sobesky, the enterprises of Martens and Kutluer, the guy from the Immigration Office, the embassy attaché, all that goes on as if nothing had happened, although we’re on their track. I’m forced to ask myself the question: which cops know the first lot of facts and can pass them on to the dealers, and don’t know the second lot?’

Total discomfort. Daquin seemed to expect a reply.

‘You’re the chief,’ murmured Attali.

‘Precisely. The answer is: Thomas and Santoni.’

‘And what about Meillant? You’ve got proof that he’s bent.’

‘I don’t agree. I don’t see Meillant as bent. He’s got power. He wants to run his district, not just maintain order on the surface. In order to govern, you have to compromise and do deals on the side. You always have to negotiate what you get. For Meillant, selling false papers is one way of checking the flow of illegal workers.’ A silence. ‘I can see that I’m not being understood. Besides, I might have boobed. I realize that he could be considered a suspect. In any case, what he knows about our work can only reach him through Thomas and Santoni. Unless you, Lavorel …’

‘That’s ridiculous, guv.’

‘I know. I was saying that to defuse the atmosphere. So on Thursday evening I took the responsibilty of asking the police
disciplinary
service to make enquiries about Thomas and Santoni. What we’ve learnt today may make it unnecessary. It’s Thomas who’s been informing the dealers through his wife and Sener, or Moreira. She knows both of them.’

‘You haven’t got a shred of evidence.’

‘Quite right. And if we want to bring this affair to a conclusion, we’ve got to find some, and very quickly. Lavorel, when you know exactly what kind of trafficking Paulette Dupin is conducting,
telephone
me at home, at any time of the night. And then we’ll see if we can organize a search on Monday. Can you take in all that? So let’s go back to the entertaining part of our work. Customs tell me that the delivery date has been fixed. It’ll take place on 4 April, no doubt very early in the morning. In thirteen days’ time precisely. Before that we only have to find out who runs this bloody mess, implicate Kashguri, find VL, solve the murder of the Thai girl and unmask the bent cops. And get Anna Beric back home. Simple.’