Cemetery of Swallows (17 page)

How had justice managed to become so vague? The lawyers, who were chiefly involved in clientelism, did not know their briefs, judges were subject to influences, and most of the judgments were stained by ideological subjectivity, money, and incompetence. Confusions of genres, confusions of punishments, confusions of minds. The commercial tribunals were a bad joke, and the criminal courts as well. If to that the frenzied influence of the media was added, one arrived at a game that should never be played!

For Mallock, the matter was settled.

The current situation could be a defendant's worst enemy or his best friend. Double-edged sword. If justice was blind, it was unfortunately not deaf to the crowd's cathartic howls, nor to those of demagogues of all kinds. The mote and the beam: things changed their dimensions totally depending on the camp to which one belonged. With the arrival of the twenty-first century, objectivity, common sense, and moderation were no longer more than moribund words. The solution? Accept this unhealthy game for fear of being its victim.

In Manuel's case, they had to find an “angle” that was very demagogic and politically correct, a single one, and stick to it. Figure out a way to keep the young man from being classified on the “dark” side of the Force. If Tobias Darbier could be qualified as a “fascist” or “Nazi,” his killer would automatically acquire every virtue. No matter what he had done, and no matter why.

Money would also be necessary, because it always made the scales of justice tip to the right side.

Let's make it simple: compassion and cash, and the cake is baked.

 

Amédée was ruminating on these dark thoughts as he left his apartment to meet Julie and Kiko in one of the cafes on the square.

The little esplanade, which gave on the rue de Rivoli, had been made into a pedestrian zone one year after Mallock bought his apartment in the rue Bourg-Tibourg. And for a few months, the superintendent had taken advantage of this to have breakfast there before going to police headquarters. Then, there had been the Visages de Dieu case, and he had stayed away from the place. Because the pharmacy across the way brought back macabre memories.

Today, he was resuming his old habits for the first time.

“Oh my God, I can't believe it. Mooosieur Superintend­ent!”

The owner of the Paris-Marseille couldn't believe his eyes.

“I thought you must be mad at me, or too famous to deign to continue to eat at my humble little establishment.”

“What kind of guy do you take me for, César?”

Mallock had decided to call him by that name. Still his mania for giving people nicknames. César's first name was Gérard, and for Mallock, that didn't really go with his Marseille accent, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Moreover, Gérard bore a certain resemblance to the famous actor who played César in Marcel Pagnol's famous dramatic trilogy. The same generous nose and the same stoutness.

“Wow! Check out those girls,” Monsieur Gérard-César exclaimed. “Damn, what lookers!”

Mallock didn't reply. Instead, he walked over to meet Julie and Kiko. He kissed them on both cheeks, at the same time casting a furtive glance at César's astounded face. The great superintendent had known far greater triumphs, but this one was not to be neglected.

Every satisfaction, even minor ones, perhaps especially minor ones, should be seized these days.

It has to be said that Julie was more than pretty in the little blue-eyed brunette way, and Kiko wasn't bad, either. She somewhat resembled Margot, who owed her Asian facial features to her Vietnamese father. In Kiko's case, what was small —her nose, her breasts, and her buttocks—was as appetizing as what was large—her black braid, her mouth, her intelligence, her legs, and her eyes.

Mallock recalled that Julie had told him that Kiko always slept with her glasses on, so that she would see clearly in her dreams! What he didn't know was that she no longer did so since her husband Manu had disappeared. Even without glasses, her nightmares had become only too painfully precise.

All three of them sat down at a round table from which they could look out on the esplanade. Julie ordered a double espresso, Kiko tea with lemon, and Mallock three fried eggs:

“Without fat and with Tabasco, please, César.”

“I have only Espelette peppers.”

“Then let's have Espelette!”

 

Mallock would have preferred to wait for the arrival of his eggs. He was already feeling nostalgic about Mister Blue's
cantina
. But Julie began the conversation:

“We've already lost the first round, between the lawyer and the prosecutor. The issue was whether the procedure should be expedited or preliminary. Although they didn't go into the cases foreseen in the code of criminal procedure, they nonetheless agreed on a flagrant infraction by assimilation. Without our being able to oppose it, the police immediately carried out, not a simple visit to our home, but a compulsory police search. That's why I couldn't show you, as soon as you got back, the video or the prints Manu made from it.”

As always, Julie's explanations were particularly precise. Moreover, she had studied law before joining the police's criminal investigation department. She had not come up through the ranks, like her companions, but entered by the high road. Mallock was glad about that. She was not easily fooled.

Julie went on:

“As you might expect, the pressures didn't stop there. Through the intermediary of the Attorney General and the general prosecutor of the appeals court, the Minister of Foreign Affairs sent orders to the magistrates of the court instructing them to see to it that ‘everything is done without delay and with the most rigorous objectivity.' I was furious. The result was that Manu was charged the very day he returned, and despite his condition, by a registered letter sent by the prosecutor assigned to the case.”

Julie was still angry: “Two days later, when Manu was still in the hospital, the preliminary indictment had already been written and the legal action against him begun.”

Since he got back, Mallock had distanced himself from this case that made him uncomfortable. And then, it has to be admitted in his defense that he had to devote time to other investigations. Now he felt a little guilty about that. Julie was dying of worry about her brother and the acceleration of the legal procedure had greatly increased her anxiety. She needed help and support.

“I'm going to return to the case and knock on a few doors. Darbier had no family. If pressure is being exerted, it's coming from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I don't understand why. There may be a trap here somewhere . . . I hope they haven't hidden things from us.”

César interrupted them to set their tea, coffee, and fried eggs in front of them:

“Bon appétit, Superintendent. I've also given you a bottle of worecheustèreusôce.”

There wasn't time to laugh at his pronunciation of Worcestershire sauce. Julie went on:

“We have to act very quickly, Boss. The warrants were served implacably. I've never seen article 122 applied so swiftly. A warrant for appearance as soon as Manuel landed on French soil, and the committal order yesterday. He's to go to prison tomorrow . . . ”

She tried to continue her presentation of the case but a torrent of tears began to flow from Kiko's eyes. And from Julie's as well. The word “prison” used in connection with someone dear to you is one of the most difficult things you can hear. Mallock knew that very well. He felt powerless and a little ridiculous with his fried eggs and two pretty girls weeping at his table. He decided to keep quiet and let them cry all they needed to. A woman full of tears mustn't be pushed too hard. And two of them . . .

When Julie began to speak again, she had recovered her composure and lucidity:

“Fortunately, the judge has been . . . relieved. Now Judioni is handling our case.”

Mallock grimaced. That could be good for Manu. But he himself would have difficulty. Jack Judioni was a media hound who would soon end up in politics. On the right or the left, wherever he was made the best offer. Being made a chief candidate in return for services rendered, that was a classic trade.

“And for Manu—where are we?”

“Antoine Ceccaldi, the lawyer my father hired, has been questioning him constantly. But unfortunately he hasn't obtained even the beginning of an explanation. Manu doesn't remember anything. He offers no reason for his act, and swears he knew neither the victim nor anything about his earlier extortions. As for the notorious statements he made when he was arrested, he doesn't understand what they mean, if they mean anything.”

“Don't be furious with me, but, uh . . . what about pleading insanity?”

“We thought about it. Ceccaldi had several psychological evaluations made to see to what extent he could in fact plead temporary insanity, or base his defense on an unstable psychological profile. The results came in yesterday. Apart from his fear of the dark, Manuel was declared to be sane and responsible for his acts. And since there's premeditation, even the act itself can't be justified in that way. It's for all these reasons, Boss, that I asked you for this private meeting outside the office. We're worried sick and don't see any way out.”

At this precise moment, Kiki glanced furtively at Julie. The ploy couldn't escape Mallock.

Besides, it was probably done on purpose.

“Are you going to tell me what you're hiding from me?”

Kiko drew herself up before she said:

“Well, here it is. Manu has always had terrible headaches. One day, I heard him mention a man in the building who heals using magnetization. Manu wasn't interested, but I insisted.”

Looking at her, Mallock guessed that in Kiko's case the meaning of the verb “insist” must be very close to “command.” Probably because of that superb mouth with finely-shaped corners and the pretty, jutting chin.

“After about ten sessions,” Kiko continued, “Manu, though not totally cured, felt genuine relief. His headaches were less severe and their frequency decreased. The magnetizer explained to us that he owed what knowledge he had to a great master who practiced hypnosis under acupuncture. In fact, he never stopped telling us how much he admired Master Kong Long. According to him, Long was capable of miracles and had specialized in cases of amnesia that Western science could not cure.”

“And you think it would be advisable to resort to this person again now?”

Mallock's tone was negative, almost mocking.

Kiko didn't appreciate that:

“If you have a better idea, please tell us what it is! It's easy to criticize when . . . ”

Julie laid her hand on Kiko's leg to make her stop talking, and then turned to her superior:

“Boss, what would we be risking? Manu's amnesia is keeping us from getting anywhere. And then there's a good chance the jurors will see it as simple dissimulation.”

Mallock had not foreseen this proposal; his plans were different.

“What we have to look for above all is extenuating circumstances. And I don't see where they can be found other than in this Tobias Darbier's past. Not in Manuel's. We have to work with what we have, and if we continue to discover horrible things about Darbier, we can always claim that Manu knew about them and that it was the shock of the killing that erased everything. That may be the truth, moreover!”

Kiko didn't give up:

“But we don't have to choose, we can do both, and we can keep quiet about Master Long's role.”

“In a case like this one, with the press following everything, the lawyers, judges, and other scum, it won't be possible to keep anything quiet. They'll be on the scent before the master in question has even passed through the prison doors.”

“So you're against consulting him?”

Kiko was restraining her frustration.

Mallock took a big bite of his fried eggs:

“No, I'm for it, Kiko. In our situation, we don't have much to lose, in fact, and we can do both, as you say. And then I think not all the cards in our hand are bad. Gemoni, Antoine Ceccaldi, and Judge Judioni—don't think I'm a fool, that reeks of a lobby, something I detest in general, but I start to love when by chance I can benefit from it. Like everyone else, moreover. But we're going to be walking on eggs. The court's permission to allow us our little table-turning session is going to annoy more than one person.”

Her boss's agreement, the expression “table-turning,” and the use of the first person plural extracted a smile from Julie.

“So, we go for it?”

“Where do we find this Kong Long?” Mallock concluded simply, wiping up with a piece of bread the last bit of yolk on his plate.

 

As they came out, the first snowflakes were floating down over the capital city. Mallock smiled. He loved that. He began praying that the snow would continue to fall, harder and harder, for days and days. It was one of the few joys of his childhood. It was as if these showers of cold stars had been engraved at the back of his eyes. As soon as the white flakes fell, he began to wear a silly smile, like a dog drooling before a bone.

His wish was granted. And much more fully than he'd hoped. On the night of December 3, Paris had one of its most violent blizzards ever. Gusts of wind, hail, and heavy snows attacked the capital. The window of his neighbor on the seventh floor fell in pieces into the courtyard, crushing the lovely Christmas tree that the caretaker had just set up. Police and firemen were commandeered for two days to repair or register all the little injuries of a capital that proved very fragile when nature roared a bit.

Mallock loved it.

At 10:10
P.M.
, Margot's plane landed at Roissy.
She'd sworn not to look through the crowd.
Hoping that Amédée would have come to meet her was ridiculous. Besides, everything about this business was ridiculous. A big grumpy bear of a superintendent living with a dead fiancée and a son. And she, Margot Murât, a beautiful and talented journalist, who had found nothing better to do than to become infatuated with this old fellow, a sweet and depressive nutcase.
Beautiful but stupid!
she insulted herself. And beautiful, well, everything was relative. When she woke up in the morning, it took her a good quarter of an hour to put back in place everything that had gone down the drain during the night, to regain control of her hair and her eyelashes.