same night that a machine gun had been fired out of a car at Senator Mitterrand, a few blocks away a man was found hanging dead on the spikes above rue Rataud. The first story had, fortunately, overshadowed the second, and while the Mitterrand case proceeded to quickly unravel into a farce (the politician seemingly set up his own assassination attempt in a foolish ploy to gain popular sympathy), the second case had only grown more complex. The loss of a patrol car along with two of the policemen who had been investigating the Leon Vallet murder was not a story that could be easily kept under wraps, and when it did come to light it would certainly not reflect well on the superintendent.
Through the open doorway, Maroc stared down the empty hall, thinking that while he had never enjoyed the sight of the self-righteous Vidot, with his sarcastic, all-knowing little grin, he sincerely hoped for nothing more than to see the man come sailing into his office now, smug smile and all. But looking at his watch and realizing he would not be getting home to bed until at least three, he suspected the chance of such a simple solution was small. His gut told him that solving this would be drawn out and complicated, and, he reflected with a heavy sigh, there was rarely any profit in complications.
“Tomorrow morning, go through the shopkeeper’s inventory,” Maroc said, returning his attention to the officer. “See if anything is missing. And tell Gilbert down in the morgue to keep both his and the corpse’s mouth shut. At this point, any loose tongues will only confuse things.”
II
“Surrealism!” shouted Guizot.
Will had returned from lunch to find his client bouncing up and down in his office waiting for him. Hanging his hat and coat up behind the door, Will sat down at his desk. “
“We did not!” His client grinned and opened his arms as if ready for a hug. “I had a vision, Will! A magnificent bolt of illuminating lightning! I was smacked right in the brainpan just as you were smacked in that eye of yours! Ha ha. Really, though, what happened to your poor face? An angry husband?”
Will blushed, embarrassed. He had not come up with a good story for how he got his bruise. He was about to attempt one when, over Guizot’s shoulder, he saw Brandon striding down the hallway. He had not expected the American until later, but he figured he might as well set things straight now. Thinking it over the night before, Will had decided that, despite all their drama, Oliver and his friends were merely silly and ridiculous creatures. There was nothing here that could not be managed. The knife, the Hoffmann-La Roche file, and all the other nonsense would get sorted as soon as Will had a chance to sit down with Brandon and lay it all out. All he had to do now was politely steer Guizot out of his office so that he could talk with his American friend.
“You know, Guizot, I hate to tell you this, but another client of mine has just arrived for a meeting. One that was actually scheduled.”
Guizot looked out the window and saw Brandon. “Let him wait!” he said, eagerly rubbing his hands together. “I need to tell you about this. Two minutes is all I ask, simply listen. It is a story about my wife. My wife, you see, is far more sophisticated than me and she likes to spend all our money on cultured things. First-edition books, lithographs, etchings, rare photographic prints, any bullshit that seems important, she buys it up. So guess what she comes home with last week?”
Will shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“She comes home from the gallery with a painting of a giant horse’s ass sticking out of a wall. Unbelievable, right?”
“I never would have guessed it.”
“Absolutely. I immediately hate this thing. I tell her this, I say, ‘What is this absurdity? This is insane!’ She says to me, ‘It is not insane. It is Surrealism.’ I tell her to get rid of it. She says no. I insist. She cries, a lot, but in the end she returns the painting and gets me my money back.”
Will was only partly listening. He looked out past Guizot again and saw two men he did not recognize enter the office hall. They shook hands with Brandon and the three waited together.
“Stop being so distracted. I am your client, look at me, Will.”
“I apologize, you have my full attention.” He could not help smiling at Guizot’s serious toue.
“Okay. Now, here is the incredible part,” Guizot continued. “Two nights ago I dreamt about this painting. I thought nothing of it. But then, last night, I had a dream about it again! This damn horse’s ass, I can’t get it out of my head!”
“Maybe you feel guilty for making your wife return it.”
“What are you, my psychiatrist? To hell with my wife. The point is, this Surrealism, it interrupts the way you think. It puts nonsense into your mind and disrupts your consciousness, twisting reality around. And this, Will, this is what my advertising must do! So, I want you to help me make an advertisement that is absolutely surreal, absurd, utterly insane, one that threatens to make my customers all go absolutely mad. That is what I want! Do you understand?”
Looking at the wild-eyed man jumping around before him, Will wondered if, despite the fact that Guizot himself was acting nuts, there could be the kernel of an idea here. But Will knew his client, and he knew he would be back in the office in two days’ time with a completely different harebrained scheme. The important thing he had to do right now was wrap up this meeting and go talk with Brandon. “I understand, I get it, I will start researching this approach right away,” Will said, escorting Guizot to the door. “Maybe check in with me a couple of days from now.”
“Wait—” Guizot began to protest, but Will cut him off.
“I like your idea. Intriguing. But I have to wrap this up, as I told you, I have a client meeting.” He gestured toward Brandon and the other two, whom his secretary was now guiding toward a conference room.
“Huh.” Guizot sniffed the air toward Brandon. “What do you sell for those guys?”
“Pharmaceuticals,” Will said, surprised to have come up with a lie so fast.
“Ah, I see,” said Guizot. “Drug peddlers. I don’t trust any of them.”
“Well, they’re certainly handy when you have a hangover. Listen, check in with me on Wednesday. I’ll have some progress for you by then.” He patted Guizot on the back and sent him off down the hallway. Then he went back to his desk, snatched up the Bayer file, and went to meet Brandon and his friends in the conference room.
Entering the room, Will looked at them seated around the table. He immediately took it as a bad sign that they had not removed their hats.
“Will, this is Mike Mitchell and Caleb White,” Brandon said. “I asked them to join me here today, hope you don’t mind.”
“Sure. No problem. Can I get you guys anything? Coffee?” Will said, sitting down.
“It’s fine, your girl is getting some for us,” said Brandon.
Will set the file on the desk. “Well, I have the Bayer research right here for you but there are a few things I wanted to talk about first,” Will said, wondering where exactly he was going to begin. When he met Oliver at the party? The scene in the back room at the bar? Or when Boris hit him with the phone book?
“Sorry, whatever you got is gonna have to wait,” said Brandon, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a thick envelope, which he tossed onto the table in front of Will. Picking it up, Will intuitively knew what it contained even before he opened it.
Sure enough, there was the Hoffmann-La Roche file, though not the report itself, only low-quality photographs of its contents. Many of the pictures were blurred, others captured only part of a page—whoever had snapped them had been in a rush. Will briefly considered blurting out some attempt at an explanation, but a voice in his head told him to wait, there was more bad news coming.
“So what is this about?” he asked.
“Well, we were hoping you could clarify that for us.” Brandon’s tone was different, less like the arrogant collegial jock that Will had known for so long and more like a stern border patrol agent, cold and procedural. “Our people recognized it right away as one of your company’s reports, the format is identical, the language is similar. Even without any letterhead, that is easy enough to prove. Now the interesting thing is where we found it. An
