He scorned publicity and despised honours. He had never been decorated and had never stood as a candidate for l’Académie des Sciences or l’Académie de Medecine. His caustic wit and too obvious nonconformism did not sit well with the establishment. His witticisms were famous at the Faculté and the cause of much forced laughter.
Eighteen months earlier, events had cast a pall of mourning over the few remaining years of his life. By a cruel irony of fate, the fervent criminologist was confronted by a terrible dilemma, doubly so because it concerned the only remaining person dear to him: his son. Dr. André Richard, already chief physician in a hospital, and with a promising career ahead of him, was in his office one evening. During the day, a rich American, grateful for some unexpectedly good results, had, without warning, thrust a bundle of banknotes into his hands. It was too late to deposit the money in the bank, so he had it on his person. What happened? That was the insoluble problem which had tormented the professor ever since. At around midnight the security guards had been alerted by flames coming from Dr. Richard’s office. After the fire brigade had, with great difficulty, extinguished the flames, they found the charred body. Needless to say, there was no trace of the banknotes.
That was when it was discovered that the doctor’s skull had been fractured by a blunt instrument. It was obviously a crime, and the motive was clear: to steal the American’s money. But the investigation drew a blank despite the poor father, once the early shock had passed, throwing himself into the battle with all his force and all the means at his disposal. The criminal remained unknown and unpunished.
The professor’s features were fine, and elongated by a trim, pointed goatee. A pair of pince-nez masked his alert eyes. Above a high, balding forehead, his hair was long and swept back, reaching the nape of his neck. Even though his hair was white, his face remained young, contradicting the mischievous crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His age was only noticeable from the rather yellow tint of his skin and his stooped shoulders.
Maryse informed him about her bet with Jacques and asked him to confirm that she had not asked him for any form of help.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I wasn’t even aware that there was a new crime committed by our friend in grey. Because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Or at least that’s what we’re assuming, given that he hasn’t shown himself. But all the rest is the same: shot through the heart, etc. You haven’t told us to what we owe the pleasure....’
‘My friend, Professor Sartani, the great Italian naturalist, who has settled in Buenos Aires and is returning there after a brief stay in Italy, is here in Marseille for a few days. A small conference has been organised to discuss certain matters of importance... to us.’
‘Uncle,’ interjected “little” Saint-Bois, ‘may I ask you a secret?’
‘A secret! Which will appear in millions of copies. That would be like having an ear tube as wide as the Simplon Tunnel!’
‘We would only use it advisedly. What’s your opinion about the man in grey?’
‘The same as yours, no doubt. It’s impossible to form an opinion.’
‘Do you think he’s a sadist, like the Vampire of Dusseldorf?’
‘Certainly not. There’s nothing sadistic about these crimes. The atrocious nature of acts of vampirism is due to extreme sexual repression. If those men (and women as well) f*cked more, they would kill less. There’s nothing of that here. Each crime is neat and efficient. The man in grey is certainly not a sex maniac.’
‘So?’
‘So, I have no idea.’
Jacques, who had already visited the scene of the crime, led the group to Rue Tapis-Vert, one of those streets which had best maintained the Marseillais character. It was narrow, and wandered slowly from Boulevard Dugommier to Cours Belsunce.
All things considered, the reporters would have preferred to avoid the trip. The crime itself presented little interest.
The only attraction in this case was the victim. To be clear: the victim before his death. For the first time in this macabre series of unimportant people, we were dealing with someone not totally insignificant. André Bernière, better known as Beppo, was a celebrity on the side. Small and fat, as wide as he was tall, with short legs and enormous thighs, he sported above a powerful neck the flat face of a Kalmouk, in which eyes of a different colour gleamed. A pug nose, prominent cheek bones, and thick lips with the pout of an angry chimpanzee sat beneath a low forehead with closely-clipped hair. A violinist, he played either at the Palais de Cristal or the Théâtre Municipal but, as soon as February arrived, he left for the Côte d’Azur, where he did the rounds of the hotels, playing or singing. Despite his fifty years, he had an agreeable baritone. Like many Meridionals, his singing had the charm that came from being slightly out of tune. In any case, he had considerable success, and not just financial, as his diary proved. He didn’t boast about it, and spoke little about himself. For the rest, his philosophy was that of his native Midi. As long as he could play pétanque the entire afternoon and down a couple of glasses of pastis in the evening, he would sleep happy. What did he do with the money he earnt? He probably didn’t know himself.
As in all Marseille houses, there was no concierge... officially. Needless to say,
