I Kill (39 page)

The man notices the muffled sound of heavy breathing; his anxiety eases and evaporates when he realizes that the breathing is his own. Now he is quiet. He is in the courtyard of the house, where
a stone chimney rises up from the roof like a finger pointing at the moon. The house is wrapped in a silence that feels like an invitation.

Suddenly the house dissolves and he is inside, climbing a flight of stairs. He raises his head towards the dim light from above. A light shines from the landing at the top of the stairs, casting
shadows into the stairwell. A human figure is outlined clearly against the light.

The man feels his fear return like a collar that is too tight, but he continues his slow ascent in spite of it. As he climbs reluctantly, he wonders who is waiting at the top, and realizes that
he is terrified to find out.

A step. Another. The creaking of wood beneath his feet can be heard, along with his breathing, heavy again. His hand on the wooden banister is slowly illuminated by the light from above.

As he is about to climb the last flight, the figure turns and goes out the door where the light is coming from, leaving him alone on the stairs.

The man climbs the last steps. There is an open door before him, with bright, flickering light pouring out. He slowly comes to the threshold and crosses it, bathed in the light, which is also
noise.

There is a man standing in the centre of the room. His body is naked, graceful and athletic, but his face is deformed. It is as though an octopus had wrapped itself around his head, erasing his
features. Two pale eyes bulge from the monstrous tangle of fleshy growth and observe him pleadingly, begging for his pity. The unhappy creature is crying.

‘Whoareyou?
’

He doesn’t recognize the voice as his own. But it cannot be that of the deformed man before him, because he has no mouth.

‘Who are you?’
repeats the voice, and it sounds as if it is coming from every corner of the room, from the blinding light that surrounds them.

Now the man knows, but is loath to know. He sees, but is unwilling to see.

The figure extends its arms to him. He transmits real terror, although his eyes continue to seek the pity of the man facing him, just as they sought the pity of the world, in vain. And suddenly
the light turns to fire. High roaring flames devouring everything in their path, fire straight from hell that has come to purify the earth.

He wakes without a start, merely opening his eyes and substituting darkness for the glare of the flames. His hand reaches for the lamp on the bedside table. He turns it on and a dim light
spreads through the bare room.

The voice comes at once. Since they are forever at rest, the dead never sleep.

What’s wrong, Vibo, can’t you sleep?

‘No, Paso. I’ve slept enough for now. These days I have a lot to do. I’ll have time to rest afterwards.’

He did not add the rest of his thought:
when it’s all over.

The man has no illusions. He knows that the end will come, sooner or later. Every human endeavour has an end, just as it had a beginning. But for now, everything is still open and he cannot deny
the corpse in the coffin the sensation of a new face, and himself the satisfaction of a promise kept.

There was a broken hourglass in the fog of his sleep, time buried in the sand that spread through his memory. Here, in real time, the hourglass continues to turn on its axis and no one will ever
break it. Illusions would be shattered, as they always are, but not that unbreakable hourglass. It will go on forever, even when there is no one left to contemplate the time it marks.

The man feels that the hour has come. He gets out of bed and begins to dress.

What are you doing?

‘I have to go out.’

Will you belong?

‘I don’t know. All day, probably. And maybe tomorrow.’

Don’t make me worry, Vibo. You know I’m anxious when you’re not here.

The man goes to the crystal cabinet and smiles affectionately at the mummy inside.

‘I’ll leave the light on. Do you like your present?’

He reaches for the mirror and holds it over the face in the coffin so that it can see its reflection. ‘Look . . .’

Oh, it’s magnificent. Is that me? Vibo, I’m gorgeous! Even more handsome than before!

‘Of course you are, Paso. And it will get better and better.’ There is a moment of silence, a silence of inner emotion that cannot be expressed.

‘I have to go now, Paso. It’s very important.’

The man turns his back on the body and goes to the door. As he leaves, he repeats, perhaps only to himself: ‘Yes, it is very important.’

And the hunt begins again.

Nicolas Hulot took a right at the sign for the exit to Aix-en-Provence. He drove slowly down the sliproad, behind an articulated lorry with Spanish plates and TRANSPORTES
FERNÁNDEZ written on the side. The truck pulled over in the layby and the inspector passed by and stopped in front of the information booth. He pulled the map of the city from the glove
compartment and opened it across the steering wheel.

Hulot checked the map where he had already marked Cours Mirabeau the night before. All told, the city was not very complicated and the street he was looking for was right in the centre.

He restarted the Peugeot and continued driving. He reached a roundabout and followed the signs that said CENTRE VILLE. As he drove along the hilly road with regularly placed speed bumps, Hulot
noticed that the city was clean and active. The streets were full of people, mostly young people, and he remembered that Aix was a university town and that there was also a spa going back to Roman
times. That explained why there were more than the usual summer tourists milling around.

He made a few wrong turns, passing several times in front of a row of hotels and restaurants. Finally, he found Place du Général de Gaulle, the beginning of Cours Mirabeau. He put
money in the parking meter and stood for an instant, admiring the large fountain in the middle of the plaza. A sign bore its official name, FONTAINE DE LA ROTONDE. As always, the sound of the
falling water made him want to pee.

He walked over to Cours Mirabeau looking for a cafe, thinking it was funny how a full bladder could make you want a cup of coffee.

He crossed the avenue where there was construction and repaving going on. A worker in a yellow helmet was talking to the site manager about some missing materials, insisting that he was not
responsible, that it was the fault of a certain Engineer Dufour. Under a plane tree typical of Provence, two alley cats were eyeing each other with stiffened tails, deciding whether they should
start a fight or opt for a tactical retreat to save their dignity. Hulot decided that he was the darker cat and the other one was Roncaille. Leaving the animals to their battle, he went inside and
ordered a café au lait then went to the bathroom.

The coffee was waiting for him when he got back. As he unwrapped two cubes of sugar, he called the waiter over, a young man who was chatting with two girls drinking white wine at a nearby
table.

‘Could you give me some information, please?’

‘Sure, I’ll try.’ If the young man had been reluctant to leave the two girls, he didn’t show it.

‘Do you know if there is, or was, a record shop called Disque à Risque here on Cours Mirabeau?’

‘I don’t think I ever heard that name, but I haven’t been in Aix very long,’ said the young man, who had short fair hair and a thin, pale, pimply face. ‘I’m a
student at the university,’ he added. The boy obviously wanted people to know that he wasn’t planning on being a waiter for ever, but that sooner or later he would fulfil much loftier
goals. ‘But there’s a news-stand further up on this side of the street. Tattoo might seem a little strange, but he’s been there for forty years and he can tell you anything you
want to know about this town.’

Hulot thanked him with a nod and started drinking his coffee. The boy felt dismissed and went back to his interrupted conversation. Hulot paid and left the change on the marble counter. When he
went out, he saw that the Hulot-cat was no longer there and the Roncaille-cat was sitting peacefully under the plane tree, watching the world go by.

He walked down the shady avenue paved with large stone slabs and lined by tall plane trees on either side. There was an endless series of cafes, shops and booksellers.

A hundred yards further down, he found Tattoo’s news-stand, the one the waiter had told him about, next to a shop selling antiquarian books. On the street, two men were playing chess at a
table, sitting on folding chairs in front of the open door of the bookshop.

Hulot went over to the news-stand and spoke to the man inside, surrounded by magazines, books and comics. He was around seventy, with deep-set eyes and unkempt hair, and looked as though
he’d been dragged off the set of a John Ford western.

‘Good morning. Are you Tattoo?’

‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’

Nicolas noticed that he had a couple of teeth missing. His voice was in keeping with his appearance. He had it all – a shame that he was stuck in a news-stand in Aix-en-Provence instead of
on a Wells Fargo stagecoach heading towards Tombstone.

‘I need some information. I’m looking for a record shop called Disque à Risque.’

‘You’re a few years too late. Not there any more.’

Hulot barely restrained a grimace of irritation. Tattoo lit a Gauloise and immediately started coughing. Judging from his convulsive hack, his battle with cigarettes had been going on for quite
some time. It was clear who the eventual winner would be, but for the moment the man was sticking it out. He waved towards the street.

‘It was on the other side of Mirabeau, 200 yards up, on the right. Now it’s a bistro.’

‘Do you remember the owner’s name?’

‘No, but his son owns the bistro. Talk to him and he’ll tell you all you need to know. Café des Arts et des Artistes.’

‘Thanks, Tattoo. Don’t smoke too much.’

He would never know if that last coughing fit was Tattoo’s thanks for his advice or a phlegmy invitation to go to hell.

Thank God the lead was still going somewhere. The information they had was so flimsy that Tattoo’s cigarette smoke felt more tangible. At the very least, he had to avoid any more delays.
Morelli could have probably traced the store owner through the Chamber of Commerce but that would have taken time, and time was the one thing they didn’t have.

He thought of Frank, sitting at Radio Monte Carlo waiting for the phone to ring and that voice, wherever it came from, promising another victim.

I kill . . .

He instinctively quickened his step and stopped in front of a blue awning with white letters that said CAFÉ DES ARTS ET DES ARTISTES. Judging from the number of customers, business was
good. Every outdoor table was taken.

Inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. Because of the crowd, it was very busy behind the counter. A barman and a couple of twenty-five-year-old girls were preparing
aperitifs and appetizers.

He ordered a Kir Royal from a blonde who nodded as she opened a bottle of white wine. After a little while, she handed him a glass full of rose-coloured liquid.

‘Could I speak to the boss?’ he asked as he put the drink to his lips.

‘Over there.’

The girl gestured towards a man of about thirty with thinning hair who was coming through a glass door that said PRIVATE at the back of the restaurant. Nicolas wondered how he should explain his
presence and his questions. Once the owner of Café des Arts et des Artistes was standing in front of him, he opted for the official version.

‘Excuse me . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Inspector Hulot from the Sûreté Publique of the Principality of Monaco.’ Nicolas showed him his badge. ‘I’d like to ask you a favour, Monsieur . .
.’

‘Francis. Robert Francis.’

‘Monsieur Francis, we understand that this restaurant was once a record shop called Disque à Risque and that it belonged to your father.’

The man looked surprised. ‘Well . . . yes, but the store closed several years ago.’

Hulot smiled reassuringly. He changed his tone and attitude.

‘Don’t worry, Robert. Neither you nor your father is in any trouble. I know it sounds strange, but the shop might be a key element in an investigation we’re working on. All I
need is to speak to your father and ask him a few questions, if possible.’

Robert Francis relaxed. He turned to the blonde girl behind the counter and pointed at Nicolas’s glass.

‘Give me one too, Lucie.’

While waiting for the drink, he turned back to the inspector. ‘My father retired a few years ago. The record store wasn’t making much money. Actually, it never really made anything,
but the last couple of years were a disaster. My stubborn old man is a dealer in hard-to-find records, but he sold fewer than he put into his personal collection. He’s a great collector but a
lousy businessman.’

Hulot was relieved that Francis spoke of him in the present tense. The flame of hope still burned.

‘So at a certain point, we did a little accounting and decided to close the record shop, and then I opened this.’ He waved his hand at the crowded restaurant.

‘Looks like it was worth the change.’

A whole different story. And I assure you that the oysters we serve are fresh, not dusty like my father’s records.’

Lucie pushed a glass towards her boss. Francis picked it up and raised
the flûte
to the inspector. Nicolas did the same.

‘To your investigation.’

‘To your restaurant and to old records.’

They took a sip and Francis placed his glass back on the counter. ‘My father is probably at home right now. Did you take the motorway from Monte Carlo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Just follow the signs back. There’s a Novotel by the motorway exit and right behind the hotel is a two-storey brick house with a tiny garden and rose bushes. That’s
where my father lives. You can’t miss it. Can I offer you anything in the meantime?’