I Kill (46 page)

‘There it is, damn it. There . . .’

‘There’s what, Frank?’

‘Stupid, stupid. Me, most of all. Busy looking at things from above, when the answer was below.’

Morelli’s mouth opened and shut but no words came out. Frank suddenly jumped up. ‘Come on. There’s something else we have to check out.’

‘Now where are we going?’

‘Radio Monte Carlo. If I’m right, that’s where we’ll find the answer.’

They left the apartment. Morelli looked at Frank as if he had never seen him before. He seemed to have gone crazy. They ran through the elegant lobby of the condominium, throwing the keys at the
doorman who seemed very relieved to see them go. Outside, they jumped into Frank’s car. A uniformed officer was already eyeing it with his ticket book in his hand.

‘Drop the bone, Ledoc. On duty.’

The agent recognized Morelli. ‘Oh, it’s you, sergeant. Okay.’

He saluted them as the car skidded into traffic without yielding the right of way. They sped down the street past the Church of Sainte-Dévote, towards the harbour. Frank remembered that
it had all started there, in a boat full of death that had crashed into the wharf. If he was correct, the story would end right where it had begun. No more faceless ghosts. Now it was time to chase
real people, with faces and names.

They broke the speed limit on their way to Radio Monte Carlo on the other side of the harbour, their tyres screeching over the road.

It had stopped raining. They left the car next to a boat that was about to set sail. Frank was in the grip of some sort of fever, talking to himself, moving his lips silently and muttering words
that only he could understand. The sergeant could only follow, waiting for that mumble to start making sense.

They rang the bell, and half a second after the receptionist opened the door, they were inside the huge lift that doubled as a freight elevator and, luckily, was at the ground floor.

They went up to the radio station where Bikjalo was waiting for them with the door open.

‘What’s up, Frank? Why are you here now?’

Frank pushed him aside and rushed past. Morelli shrugged an apology.

Raquel was at the reception desk and Pierrot was standing on the other side, picking up CDs to take to the archive. Frank stopped at the entrance to the control room where, behind the glass
doors, he could see the cables for the phone, satellite and ISDN connections.

He turned to Bikjalo, who had followed him with Morelli. ‘Open this door!’

‘But—’

‘Do as I say!’

Refusal was not an option. Bikjalo opened the door and a gust of fresh air blew into the room. Frank stood for a moment, puzzled by the tangle of wires. He ran his fingers under the shelves
holding the connectors for the phone lines.

‘What’s going on, Frank?’ pleaded Morelli. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘I’ll tell you what I’m looking for, Claude. We’ve been going crazy trying to intercept that bastard’s phone calls. And we failed. We could keep on trying for our
entire lives and we’d still fail. And here’s why.’

Frank seemed to have found something. His hands stopped under one of the shelves. He pulled hard, trying to extract an object fastened to the metal counter, and he finally succeeded. When he
stepped back, he was holding a flat metal box, twice as big as a pack of cigarettes, with a wire and a phone plug at one end. The box was wrapped in black duct tape. Frank held it out to the two
astonished men.

‘This is why we weren’t able to intercept an outside call. That son of a bitch was calling from right here.’

Frank had great difficulty expressing himself, for he was facing a complicated truth and wanted to say everything at once.

‘Here’s what happened. It wasn’t Ryan Mosse who killed Stricker. I was being stubborn and wanted so badly for him to be guilty that I never even considered any other options.
Here, too, No One was diabolically clever. He gave us a clue that could be interpreted in two ways, either as a reference to Roby Stricker or to Gregor Yatzimin. Then he just sat back and waited.
When we put Stricker under the protection of the entire police force, he simply went and killed Gregor Yatzimin instead. And when the dancer’s body was discovered and we left Stricker alone
to rush to Yatzimin’s apartment, No One went to Les Caravelles and killed him, too.’

Frank stopped for breath then careered on.
‘That
was his real aim. He wanted to kill Stricker
and
Yatzimin on the same night!’ Bikjalo and Morelli were stunned.
‘When he killed Stricker, there was a struggle, and No One hit him in the face by accident. He didn’t take Stricker’s face because it was damaged, and whatever he does with the
faces, it wasn’t useful to him any more. He left the apartment convinced that Stricker was dead, but the poor guy was still alive and had time to write a message in his own blood.’

Frank spoke as if all the tiles of the mosaic were coming together before his eyes. ‘Roby Stricker was a fixture of the nightlife scene in Monte Carlo and all along the coast. He knew
everyone who was anyone. So he knew his killer too, although he probably couldn’t remember his name just then. That’s understandable. But he knew who he was and what he did for a
living.’

Frank paused to give the two men in front of him time to digest his words. Then he started to speak again, slower, articulating carefully. ‘Visualize the room. Stricker is lying on the
floor, dying, his left arm broken. From that position – and I checked this myself – he could see himself in the mirrored wall of the bathroom through the open door. He was able to write
what he wanted everyone to know by looking at his own image reflected backward, and besides that, he was a lefty using his right hand. It’s not unusual that he would write backwards but,
unfortunately, he died without completing the message.’

He grabbed the arms of the two men who were staring at him in silence and pulled them to the mirror in front of the director’s booth. He pointed to the red light reflected in reverse on
the shiny surface. ‘He didn’t misspell Ryan as “RIAN”, as we first assumed. He was trying to write “ON AIR”, the signal of a radio broadcast. We found a squiggly
line at the beginning and we thought it didn’t make sense, just a mark he couldn’t control. But it did make sense. Stricker died before he could finish the
O
!’

‘You mean . . .?’

Morelli sounded like he was having trouble believing his own ears. Bikjalo held his face, deathly pale, in his hands. All that was visible were his incredulous eyes. The pressure of his fingers
opened them wider, accentuating his expression of shock.

‘We’ve been living with the Devil without smelling the stench of hell.’ Frank held up the box in his hand. ‘You’ll see. When we strip down this gadget, you’ll
find that it’s an ordinary, obsolete radio transistor. We’d never have found it because it works on a frequency we didn’t even consider. None of us would have thought of such an
archaic system. And you’ll see that there’s also a timer or something that turns it on at the desired time. And the phone signal wasn’t found because this thing was in place
before
the switchboard to which we connected for interception. The technicians will be able to tell us the details, though we no longer need them. No One broadcast phone calls recorded ahead
of time to the one person who knew how to ask the questions and answer them,
because he already knew what they were
.’

Frank rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the photo of the Robert Fulton record sleeve.

‘And here’s the proof of how superficial I was. In our mad desire to ask questions, we often end up chasing ambiguous theories and forget to look at the obvious. The brain of a child
always remains the brain of a child, even when it’s in the body of a young man.’

He raised his voice suddenly to call through the open door. ‘Pierrot!’ Rain Boy’s head peeped cautiously over the wooden partition that divided the secretary’s desk from
the computer station. ‘Come here a moment, please.’

The boy walked over with his bug-eyed look and loping gait. He took in Frank’s urgent words without understanding. The policeman’s tone of voice frightened him. He fearfully
approached the three men as if expecting to be scolded.

‘Do you remember this record?’ Frank showed him the picture.

Pierrot nodded as he usually did when asked a question.

‘Remember how I asked you if this record was in the room, and you said no? And I also told you not to talk to anyone about it, that it had to be a secret between the two of us? Now,
I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth.’ Frank gave Pierrot a moment to comprehend what he was saying. ‘Did you tell anybody about this record?’
Pierrot lowered his eyes to the ground and stood there in silence. Frank repeated the question. ‘Did you tell anybody about it, Pierrot, anybody at all?’

‘Yes.’ Pierrot’s voice seemed to come from some underground place, from below his feet where he was staring.

Frank laid a hand on his head.

‘Who?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone, I swear.’ The boy raised his face. His eyes were full of tears. He stopped and turned to the three men in bewilderment. ‘OnlyJean-Loup . .
.’

Frank looked at Bikjalo and Morelli with a mixture of triumph and sorrow. ‘Gentlemen, whether you like it or not, No One is Jean-Loup Verdier!’

The room stood still in the silence of eternity.

Behind the glass of the director’s booth, they could see Luisella Berrino, the show’s deejay, in front of the mike as if it were a window open to the world. Outside, the sun was
shining again, the trees dazzling green after the rain. The boats bobbed up and down in the marina. In the city beyond, people were smiling and talking, listening to music, going about their work
and daily chores; couples were making love, children studying. But in that room, the air seemed to have disappeared, the sunlight but a precious memory lost for ever.

Morelli was the first to recover. He reached for his mobile phone with shaking hands and called headquarters.

‘Hello. It’s Morelli. Code Eleven, repeat, Code Eleven. Location Beausoleil, home of Jean-Loup Verdier. Inform Roncaille and tell him the subject is No One. Got it? He’ll know
what to do. And put me on to the car on duty in front of the house. Now!’

Bikjalo slumped into a chair in front of one of the computer stations. He looked 100 years older. He was probably thinking of all the time he had spent alone with Jean-Loup Verdier without ever
suspecting that he was a killer of such inhuman ferocity. As he paced back and forth, Frank had to give Bikjalo the benefit of the doubt and prayed that the manager wasn’t merely thinking how
much this would damage his radio station
.

At last contact was made with the police car.

‘Morelli here. Who is this and who’s with you?’ He got an answer and looked relieved, probably because he realized that the officers were able to cope with an emergency.
‘Is Verdier at home?’

The muscle in his jaw flexed as he waited for the answer. ‘Sorel’s inside with him? Are you sure?’ Another pause. Another answer on the other end. ‘It doesn’t
matter. Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. Make no reply. Jean-Loup Verdier is No One. Repeat:
Make no reply. Jean-Loup Verdier is No One.
Obviously, he is extremely
dangerous. Make some excuse and call Sorel out. Leave the subject alone but keep him from leaving the house for any reason. Spread out to cover all exits, but without making it seem like
something’s up. We’re on our way with reinforcements. Do nothing until we arrive. Understand? Nothing.’

Morelli ended the call. Frank was chomping at the bit.

‘Let’s go.’

In three steps they were out of the room and heading towards the main exit, Raquel clicked open the door. As they left, they could hear Pierrot’s excited voice from behind the glass door
of the office next to the entrance. Frank had a sudden thought and his heart sank.

No,
he thought,
stupid boy, not now. Don’t tell me we’ve lost because of your kind hearted idiocy.

He pushed open the glass door and stood in the doorway, horrified. Pierrot was next to the table sobbing into the phone with tears running down his round face.

‘They’re saying you’re a bad man, Jean-Loup. Tell me it’s not true. Please tell me it’s not true.’

Frank reached him in one step and grabbed the phone from his hands. ‘Hello, Jean-Loup. It’s Frank. Can you hear me?’

There was a moment of silence on the other end and then Frank heard the click and the line went dead. Pierrot was sitting on a chair, still sobbing. Frank spun around to Morelli.

‘Claude, how many men are at Jean-Loup’s house?’

‘Three. Two outside and one inside.’

‘Level of experience?’

‘Excellent.’

‘Okay. Phone them back and tell them what happened. Tell them that the subject’s been informed and he knows that we know. The agent inside is in great danger. Tell them to enter very
cautiously and shoot if they have to. And tell them not to shoot just to wound. Is that clear? All we can do is get there as quickly as possible – I just hope it’s not too
late.’

Frank and Morelli left the room, leaving Bikjalo and Raquel in shock behind them. Pierrot was slumped like a ragdoll on the chair, crying desperately with downcast eyes, contemplating the ruin
of his shattered idol.

The man slowly hangs up, ignoring the furious, pleading voice on the other end. He smiles a gentle smile.

So the moment he was expecting has arrived. He is somehow relieved; he feels a sense of liberation. The time of furtive steps along walls under the cover and protection of shadow is finished.
His face has been unveiled. The man is not the least bit worried – he is simply more vigilant than ever before. Now he will have enemies by the hundreds. Many more than the bloodhounds that
had been chasing him so far.

His smile widens. It will all be useless. They will never catch him. The long hours of training that he forced on himself as a sacred duty are seared on his mind like the branding of a
slave.