‘I promise, uncle. Where are we going?’
‘To the cinema.’
In a basement under Le Quai des Orfèvres, a small room with a few cane chairs, a Pathé Rural projector, and a screen. Six women stood up when the professor entered. One was from Nancy; three from Dijon; the fifth and sixth, from Rennes and Orléans respectively, were already known to Maryse.
‘I understand,’ his niece exclaimed. ‘These are the six persons who have seen the man in grey.’
‘Yes,’ replied the criminologist. ‘That’s the secret. They made fun of my idea to check the identity of people leaving Lyon. I’m not that stupid. I know that, the next time, our man will take precautions. It was a pretext. Whilst those people were being questioned, they were also being filmed. I have every reason to believe that no one noticed. And we can only hope that, whatever disguise the bandit uses, he will use it again the next time. A comparison of the two films will quickly yield information.’
‘So that from the third crime on, you’ll be able to arrest your man.’
‘I hope so. But for that to happen, we must keep this secret. I can count on you ladies, can’t I?’
There was a chorus of enthusiastic confirmations, then darkness. For nearly two hours, there was a procession of images, all very much alike. People could be seen approaching the controllers, pulling out their papers, then going on their way, with a mixture of annoyance
and triumph. But no recollection, no sudden brainstorm came to unlock the memories of the six provincial ladies. When the light came back on, they seemed distraught, with heavy eyelids and red eyes. The ordeal had been painful and, unfortunately, without result.
‘I feared it would be so,’ said the professor, ‘but we had to try. If one of you had recognised, not the face—he’s surely wearing make-up—but a posture, a mannerism, a gesture, we might have saved two or three victims. Who knows?’ ____________________________________________________
‘One club—one heart—three diamonds—five no-trumps—doubled—that’s good—excellent. It’s your lead, Alcide.’
It was the same every Wednesday, at around half-past-eight, in one of the biggest cafés in Toulouse.
At the table were: Estèphe Bourrassol, Joachim Rivière, Alcide Vergesse, all three wholesale merchants, and René Grandjean, a mere shop employee, but a first-class bridge player.
In the rubber, he was partnered with Joachim against Estèphe and Alcide. It was he who was playing the “five no trumps, doubled”, with Joachim as dummy, but his mind was obviously elsewhere and the contract was defeated . Joachim raised his arms heavenward and asked:
‘What’s wrong with you tonight, René?’
‘Excuse me,’ replied his partner, ‘I shouldn’t have been playing tonight. I’m too preoccupied.’
‘Don’t worry about it. But would it be indiscreet to ask the subject of your preoccupation? Maybe we could help. Because I know you too well to think it’s about some woman.’
‘No, nothing of the kind. If I ever lost concentration because of a woman, there would only be one solution: to get married. What’s bothering me at the moment is this business of the man in the grey coat.’
‘I knew it,’ declared Alcide in a shrill voice. ‘It was inevitable that a detective of your prowess would be interested in such a puzzle.’
He was not joking. René really did have astonishing powers of deduction. How many times had he found the solution to mysterious crimes, based on simple indications in the newspapers? Better still, he had applied his skills to practical problems brought to him by his friends.
‘And I hope you’ll teach those Parisians a lesson,’ added Joachim.
‘Don’t count on it too much,’ replied René, with a smile. ‘But Ido think I can give them a little nudge. It just so happens that fate has handed me information unknown to anyone else. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I become convinced that this string of murders is connected, at least indirectly, to something that happened to me a few months ago.’
‘Really? Tell us about it,’ the three others chorused.
René thought for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders:
‘I think it’s better if I don’t say anything. The authorities may prefer keeping it a secret. I wrote a short report today, but I haven’t sent it yet. Something bothered me that I couldn’t put my finger on. You know the sort of thing: ideas that you sense, but you can’t pin down. Then, suddenly, it all became clear. Just now, when I missed the no-trumps contract. I’m going to go home to finish my report and send it in tomorrow. Waiter! The bill!’
He lived not far away in a quiet street, dark at that hour. As he turned the corner, he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he turned around. A detonation, short and sharp. Without a noise, René fell to the ground.
A man on the pavement opposite noticed a shadow bent over the body, apparently looking for something. Then it stood up with a white object in its hand. A quick bound and, before the passer-by could do anything, the murderer had vanished.
Afterwards, there was nothing but confusion. Inexplicably, in that street where, a moment ago, there was almost no one, there was now a crowd that appeared to have sprung from the pavement, surrounding the body with a circle of gesticulating and chattering shadows.
‘What’s happened? Let me through. I’m Jacques Vital, journalist.’
The Parisian accent (which is not, no matter what they say, the absence of accent) and the firm tone did more than the words themselves. Jacques, torch in hand, leant over the unfortunate René.
‘A bullet to the heart. Instantaneous death. Nothing to be done. Has anyone called the police?’
‘Here
