The First Fingerprint (33 page)

“They could have been taken by another member of the team?”

“That's impossible.”

“So Christine, or someone else, managed to get inside the cave.”

Palestro did not try to hide his bitterness. He now understood that Christine had indeed got inside Le Guen's Cave. De Palma showed him another photograph, which had meant nothing to him. It showed long lines carved on a wall of the cave, without any apparent form.

“It's the Slain Man,” Palestro said.

Moracchini picked up the picture, turned it this way and that, then handed it to Vidal.

“Can you see a man here?” Vidal asked, giving the photograph back to the prehistorian.

“Look …”

The three police officers leaned over Palestro's shoulders like schoolchildren.

“Here's the head, there's the torso and here are the legs, crudely represented. The two long lines you see here are arrows, or lances.”

“He wasn't much good at drawing!” said Vidal, sneering at the carving.

“One last question,” said de Palma. “Your answer will not be held against you, whatever it is. When was the last time you went inside Le Guen's Cave?”

“Um … a fortnight ago.”

“And everything was intact?”

“Yes, absolutely everything.”

Palestro could not take his eyes off the photos. He shook his head, trying to deny their existence.

“Professor, you can go now,” de Palma said. “But you must make yourself available to the police and magistrates should we need any further information. You're a free man, but we might have to call you in later.”

The professor got up slowly. He glanced around the room once more, as if to convince himself that he would never be back.

De Palma motioned to Vidal, who understood at once that he was to follow Palestro to his destination, then call him.

When the professor and Vidal had gone, Moracchini stared intently at the Baron.

“Congratulations on your session with Lolo!”

“Drop it, O.K.?”

“No, we don't do things like that in the police. I spoke with Vidal. What did you promise that shit?”

De Palma picked up his jacket and turned on his heel.

“Leave the kid out of this.”

“He's not a kid, Michel, and you disappoint me. See you tomorrow.”

De Palma walked down rue de l'Evêché. It was almost dark. He opened the door of Le Zanzi and headed straight for the bar.

“Good evening, Michel. You've been making yourself scarce.”

“Too much work, Dédé.”

“What are you having, the usual?”

And a pastis arrived on the bar in a flash.

Dédé had had Le Zanzi repainted off-white. Above the bar, his artistic brother-in-law had produced a variation on Marcel Pagnol's card players from his Marseille trilogy. And he had done a decent job, especially in his depiction of the actor Raimu, with his cap cocked, his hands full of cards resting on a pot belly, and his rascally look. Raimu as César was the patron saint of Marseille's bar owners, the inventor of the Mandarine-Picon cocktail, and here he was, splitting his sides in the fug of Le Zanzi. The painter had made a mess of Monsieur Brun. But then Monsieur Brun came from Lyon.

“The new décor's not bad!”

“You haven't seen it yet?”

“Well, it was about time …”

“True, we hadn't done it in ages.”

Jean-Louis Maistre strolled in.

“Hi Baron, have you been in hiding?”

“I've been working, unlike someone else I know!”

Maistre looked round the smoky room.

“All the fascists are in this evening,” he whispered. “It's nostalgia night. They're all here! Completely pissed. Pour old Dédé. How does
he put up with them? There's even an ex-member of the Luftwaffe.”

“And that old bastard Antoine.”

“Who's that?”

“An old Corsican, an ex-bandit. He often comes to Le Zanzi. You've never seen him?”

“Sure, but I've never spoken to him.”

“He must be about eighty. He's half paranoid, and an old member of Sabiani's team. But you know all that, it's hardly news.”

“Wasn't Sabiani the Maire of Marseille?”

“No, he was a town counselor before the war. He was a bit communist, a bit socialist and extremely fascist. He was with Doriot, collaborating with the Nazis at the time of Carbone and Spirito.”

“It's funny that you know all this ancient history!”

“If you want to understand the mob, you have to. And in that respect, Antoine is quite a reference book.”

“Oh really!”

“Just think about it. He was Sabiani's henchman, condemned to death after the Liberation … then mysteriously freed by Defferre and Guérini and their network. He's the real thing!”

“You say he was condemned to death?”

“Absolutely! He worked for the Gestapo, in the Mangiavaca gang …”

“What a bastard! And he got away with it?”

“Oh yes, when you know the right people, you always get away with it. And he knew them all. He was a mobster who rubbed shoulders with everyone—the police, crooks, and a few bigwigs in the town hall. In the old days, when one of the Le Panier kids got into trouble, Antoine would go and see a commissionaire he knew, and they'd hush the whole thing up.”

“Where are you at with the Sugiton girl?”

“I'm making progress, but I'm falling out with just about everyone.”

“With Anne and the kid?”

“The kid's got teeth! Right now, he's like a moray eel.”

“Calm down, Michel. Working with you isn't easy! You always have your little secrets.”

Without a word, Dédé placed a pastis in front of Maistre. The Baron's mobile rang.

“It's Vidal.”

“Where are you?”

“I followed our professor to rue Paradis. The bugger walked all the way. He rang at number 28, and the person who lives there shares his name. Do you want me to stick around?”

“No, go home. We'll meet up tomorrow for a situation report.”

Maistre took an olive from the bowl on the bar.

“You're starting to get seriously depressed, Michel.”

“I'm overworked.”

“Come round to mine this evening.”

“I can't. I have to go and see someone.”

“So drop by on the weekend. We'll go fishing. It's the best time for gilt-heads and sea bream.”

“O.K., but let's not use sugared mussels!”

The vast hall ended in a corridor lit with bright striplights. Anne Moracchini stopped for a moment and laid her hand on the cast-iron banister which led to the upper floors. She looked up and saw how the spiral staircase vanished into the dark night. The walls were the decrepit reminder of a splendid past; paint was coming away in large flakes, puffed up by the swollen saltpeter plaster. She could just make out the fine remains of
trompe l'oeil
marble columns which framed a rustic landscape half washed away by the dampness. The strong smell of a hookah, a combination of charcoal and tobacco, floated through the air.

At the end of the corridor, a sign on the wall read:
The Friends of Constantine
in French and Arabic. Moracchini rang the bell. A man of indeterminate age, as dry as a root, opened the door and held out his arms.

“Anne, my child, how are you?”

She took his hands.

“I'm fine, Saïd.”

Saïd squeezed her hands hard and drew her inside. “It's not wise for you to come here at night.”

“Don't worry,” she said, patting her side. “I'm not alone.”

“You were brave even when you were a child. You weren't afraid of anyone. Even though you had every reason to be!”

Moracchini had first met Saïd when she was a small girl, in her native town of Constantine. In the '50s, Saïd had been an important figure, a moderate lawyer in the Algerian independence movement, in the tradition of Ferhat Abbas. Anne's father had begun his legal career in Saïd's practice, which had meant that he was later put on the Organisation de L'Armée Secrète's blacklist as a “Communist traitor.”

After 1962, Saïd stayed in Algeria, but the Front de Libération Nationale confiscated all his property and caused him so many problems that he ended up coming to Marseille.

“Is there building work at the moment in rue Thubaneau?”

“They're renovating the entire neighborhood. In other words, they're bulldozing everything. Except for the façades to keep an old-time look. But all the interiors are going. They haven't got to rue Thubaneau yet, but they will before long. They've demolished the Alcazar and everything that was behind it. Anyway, that's the way it goes. What can we do about it?”

“It's a shame,” Moracchini said.

“No it isn't, my child. A city needs renovation! What does worry me though is that they're throwing everyone out. What will become of all of these people?”

“They'll be moved to the north of the city.”

“You think so?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“The problem is there's too much criminality around here. Too much violence. But then there are also a lot of people like me. What can I say? It's the end of a world. Immigrants have always lived in the center of Marseille, but now they want to put them on the outskirts. They want to empty out Le Panier as well. Marseille will never be the same again. Never.”

In the main room of the association's premises, a few pensioners were sucking on their shishas and conversing in low voices. Others were staring at the television, which showed the Algerian national station. It was time for the football league results.

“Come into my office,” said Saïd.

“Are you still the association's president?”

“I am. But I'm going to have to step down. I'll be eighty-three next month.”

“You're still a young man!”

“Don't talk nonsense. Would you like some tea?”

Saïd went out for a moment, then came back with a brass tray on which he had placed a large teapot, two glasses and a dish of cakes.

“Ah! Zolabias, my favorite!”

“I know, my child. I still have a good memory.”

Moracchini gobbled down a cake and watched as Saïd poured the tea. She noticed with sadness that his old, brown hands trembled slightly.

“First we drink the tea, then we talk.”

He raised the glass to his lips, blew gently on the surface of his tea and took a sip.

“Tell me, Saïd, have you ever heard of a market for prehistoric artifacts?”

“You know I collect only Algerian antiquities, especially Roman ones, and two or three pieces from Carthage, nothing else. Prehistory is a little too distant for me …”

“I'm working on a case concerning fences selling prehistoric art. Do you have any ideas?”

“It's very difficult to find prehistoric art. Practically impossible, in fact. There are very few pieces, and the experts know every one of them.”

Saïd produced a packet of Gauloises from the pocket of his waistcoat. He lit a cigarette and left it dangling from his dry lips as his gaze evaporated in the blue smoke.

“There were some thefts and fencing going on in the '80s. It rather struck me at the time. I mean, how can people sell pieces like that? They're part and parcel of mankind's heritage … There was a Venus and some stone necklaces, but I can't remember where they came from. What I can tell you is that prices are extremely high.”

“But you haven't heard about any deals going on in Marseille at the moment?”

There was a knock at the door. Saïd got up and opened it. He exchanged a few words in Arabic with another man who had come to say that he was the last person to leave.

Saïd sat down again and drew heavily on his cigarette.

“I've heard there have been requests from an association of enthusiasts in America. They've got plenty of money. I seem to remember they're in New York State and they never argue about the price. Americans are very interested in prehistory.”

“Do you know the name of the association?”

“No … there are so many lunatics in that country. An antiques dealer told me about it—an Egyptian art specialist. He has some amazing pieces.”

“He didn't mention any names?”

“No, of course not. These people are very discreet. Antiques dealers are a bit like crooks,” Saïd laughed.

“He didn't say anything else?”

“No, just what I told you.”

“Have you ever heard of a Professor Autran?”

“Of course I have, my child. You know I read every newspaper. I'd already worked out that she's the reason you've been asking me all these questions.”

Saïd stood up to his full height. In a flash, Moracchini saw once again the man who had lifted her up so often in his arms, after Sunday lunch, in the cozy salon of his house in Constantine.

“Thank you, Saïd.”

“It's nothing, my child …”

The old lawyer's expression grew sad and he took out another cigarette.

“You know, recently I have been thinking about your father a lot. I shall be going to join him soon.”

“So have I. I often think about him.”

“Go on, run along home. It's late. And come and see me a little more often, not just to ask for information.”

Moracchini placed a kiss on her old friend's forehead and left.

When de Palma got up after a short sleep, the hills of Saint-Loup were crowned with a heavy black beret, a sign that another series of thunderstorms was going to rip open the sky and bring the temperature down by a few degrees.

He had slept badly. The growing tension in his relationships with his two team mates was starting to create difficulties. That night, he had woken up in a sweat. An old memory which had been haunting him for years had just resurfaced.

September 27, 1982. For over a year, Sylvain Ferracci, or “The Dustman” as he was called by a leading journalist on
Le Méridional,
had been taunting a dozen inspectors and Commissaire Parodi, who had been given the job of putting him behind bars. His victims were always alike: secretaries in strict suits who were strangled and raped before being sliced into three parts: the head, the torso and the legs. The killer put each part of the body into a dustbin liner, which he then left in a particular place, like an infernal paper trail in which the police were forced to participate; at the end lay unadulterated horror and a feeling of powerlessness that set their nerves on edge
.