I Kill (40 page)

Hulot raised his glass with a smile. ‘This will do just fine.’ He put out his hand and Francis shook it.

‘Thank you, Monsieur Francis. You have no idea what a help you’ve been.’

As Hulot left the bistro, he saw a waiter opening oysters and shellfish at the
coquillage
counter. He would have liked to stop and see if the oysters were as fresh as Francis claimed, but
he didn’t have time.

He went back the way he had come. He could hear the hacking from Tattoo’s news-stand. The chess players were no longer there and the bookshop was closed. It was lunchtime.

As he headed to his car, he passed the cafe where he had had his cup of coffee. Under the tree, the Hulot-cat was now sitting in place of the Roncaille-cat, calmly washing his dark, furry tail
as he observed the world around him through half-closed eyes. Hulot figured there was no reason why he shouldn’t take that feline revenge as a sign of good luck.

Jean-Paul Francis screwed on the cap of the plastic spray bottle and pressed down several times to pump up the insecticide. Taking the sprayer by the handle, he went over to a
rose bush next to a green, plastic-covered metal grating that served as a fence and examined the small branches. Parasites completely covered the stems with white fuzz.

‘This means war,’ he said aloud in a solemn tone.

He pressed the lever and a jet of insecticide and water vapour burst out of the nozzle. Starting at the base, he sprayed all along the trunk, evenly distributing the mixture over the entire
bush. As he had imagined, the insecticide smelled awful and he congratulated himself on having remembered to put on a stiff gauze mask so as not to breathe in the chemical, which was labelled
POISONOUS IF SWALLOWED. KEEP OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN. Even though he figured that at his age he could probably inject the stuff without doing himself any harm.

As he sprayed, he saw out of the corner of his eye a little Peugeot come up the driveway just beyond the garden. Cars did not stop there very often, except when the hotel across the way was full
and there was nowhere to park. He saw a tired-looking man get out of the car – he was about fifty-five with neatly cut salt-and-pepper hair. Jean-Paul Francis looked around for a minute and
then, putting down the sprayer, headed resolutely to his gate, without even giving his visitor time to ring. The man before him smiled. ‘Monsieur Francis?’

‘Himself.’

The man showed him a badge in a leather holder. His photo was visible on the document, protected by a piece of plastic.

‘Inspector Hulot of the Monaco Police.’

‘If you’ve come to arrest me, you should know that taking care of this garden is prison enough already. A jail cell would be a wonderful alternative.’

The inspector started to laugh in spite of himself. ‘That’s what they mean by not being afraid of the law. Have you got a clear conscience or a long life of crime?’

‘It’s the fault of evil women who broke my heart over and over again,’ laughed Jean-Paul. ‘Won’t you come inside to hear my confession? Otherwise the neighbours
might think you’re a brush salesman.’

Nicolas went into the garden and Jean-Paul Francis closed the gate behind him. He was wearing faded jeans, a light denim shirt and a battered straw hat. The gauze mask hung at his neck so that
he could talk. Thick, white hair poked out from under the hat. His eyes, made a vivid blue by his tan, looked like a child’s. Altogether he had a friendly, appealing face.

Nicolas Hulot returned his firm handshake.

‘I didn’t come to arrest you, if that makes you feel any better. And I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.’

Jean-Paul Francis shrugged his shoulders as he removed the hat and mask. He would make an excellent understudy for Anthony Hopkins.

‘I garden out of boredom, not by choice. I’ll take any excuse to stop. Please come in. It’s cooler inside.’

They crossed the tiny garden and a cement patio, corroded by time and weather, just like the gate and the front door. It was not a luxurious house, light-years from some of the dwellings on the
Côte d’Azur, but it was neat and clean. Three small steps and they were inside. There was a stairway leading up and two symmetrically placed doors leading to rooms either side.

Nicolas was accustomed to judging houses in a flash and he immediately recognized that the owner was not wealthy, but rich in culture, good taste and ideas. He could tell by looking at the
enormous number of books and knick-knacks; the paintings and posters on the walls might not be originals but were obviously chosen with care and a knowledge of art. The most impressive sight,
however, was the record collection. It spilled from every corner of the house. He glanced through the door on the right and could see a living room where a huge sound system had pride of place,
probably the only consumer luxury in the house. The rest of the room’s walls were covered with shelves holding vinyl LPs and CDs.

‘You’re a music lover, I gather.’

‘I was never able to choose my passions, so I let them choose me.’

Jean-Paul Francis led the way, going into the room on the left. Nicolas found himself in a kitchen with an open door leading to what looked like a storage room. On the other side was a small
terrace opening directly on to the garden.

‘No music here, as you can see. One shouldn’t mix two types of nourishment. Something to drink? An aperitif?’

‘No, thank you. I had one with your son.’

‘Oh, you were at Robert’s.’

‘He told me how to get here.’

Jean-Paul looked at the sweat stains under his own arms. He had the sly smile of a child who has just invented a new game. He checked the Swatch on his wrist.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I have an idea. Mme Sivoire, my housekeeper’ – he stopped with a puzzled look – ‘actually, she’s my cleaning lady, but she likes
“housekeeper” better and it makes me feel more important, too. Mme Sivoire, 100 per cent Italian and a fine cook, left me some lasagna al pesto, all ready to slip in the oven. Mme
Sivoire might not be much to look at, but her lasagna is absolutely above reproach.’

Nicolas could not help laughing again. The man was a force of nature and his warmth was irresistible. He must have quite a story to tell with that extraordinary world view. Or at least Nicolas
hoped so.

‘I didn’t intend to stop for lunch, but I wouldn’t want to offend Mme Sivoire.’

‘Terrific. I’ll have a shower while the lasagna is heating up. My underarms could kill a man, and how could I explain the dead body of a police inspector in my kitchen?’

Jean-Paul Francis took a glass baking dish out of the refrigerator and slid it into the oven, regulating the temperature and the timer. From his skill at handling the appliances, one could see
that this was the house of a man who either loved food or lived alone: not that one excluded the other.

‘There we go. We’ll eat in ten minutes. Or fifteen.’

He left the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs, whistling. A moment later, from below, Hulot could hear the splash of the shower and Jean-Paul Francis’s baritone in a rendition of
‘The Lady is a Tramp’.

When he returned, he was dressed in the same style, but with a clean shirt. His hair was combed back, still damp.

‘That’s better. Recognize me?’

Nicolas looked at him, puzzled. ‘Of course.’

‘Funny, I always feel like a different person after a shower. I can tell you’re a real policeman.’

Hulot laughed again. The man’s good humour was infectious. His host laid the table on the small terrace overlooking the garden, handing him a bottle of white wine and a corkscrew.
‘Could you open this while I take out the lasagna?’

Nicolas was pulling out the cork just as Jean-Paul placed the steaming dish of lasagna on the place mat at the centre of the table.

‘Here we are. Please, sit down.’ Jean-Paul served him a copious helping of pasta. ‘Go ahead and eat. In this house, etiquette is only applied to wine,’ he said as he
served himself an equally large portion.

‘Delicious,’ said Hulot with his mouth full.

‘What did I tell you? This is proof that, whatever you want from me, I’m a man of my word.’

Nicolas Hulot could now reveal the reason he was there, hotter than anything out of the oven.

‘You had a record shop some years back, didn’t you?’ he asked, cutting a piece of lasagna with his fork.

From the man’s expression, he realized that he had touched a nerve.

‘Yes. I closed it seven years ago. Music of quality has never done good business around here.’

Hulot was careful not to mention his son’s remarks on the matter. Pouring salt into the wound was useless, especially since it obviously still smarted. He decided to be frank with his
host. He liked the man and knew it would be okay to tell him part of the story.

‘We’re looking for a murderer back in Monte Carlo, Monsieur Francis.’

‘Isn’t it right about now that the two heroes of the movie start calling each other by their first names? Mine’s Jean-Paul.’

‘Nicolas.’

‘When you say a “murderer in Monte Carlo”, you don’t mean the fellow who calls in to the radio, do you? The guy they call No One?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I admit I’ve been following the story, like millions of people. You get goose bumps hearing that voice. How many has he killed?’

‘Four. And I’m sure you’ve heard about the way he does it. The worst thing is that we don’t have the slightest idea of how to stop him from doing it again.’

‘He must be sly as a whole pack of foxes. He listens to lousy music, but he must have a fierce brain.’

‘I agree with you about the brain. I came to talk to you about the music.’

Nicolas delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out the printouts that Guillaume had given him. He unfolded one and handed it to Jean-Paul.

‘Recognize this record?’

The man took the sheet of paper and looked at it. Nicolas thought he saw him pale. Jean-Paul stared at him with his blue, childlike eyes full of wonder.

‘Where did you get this picture?’

‘It’s too long to explain. All you need to know is that we have good reason to believe the record belongs to the killer and was purchased from your shop.’

He handed Jean-Paul the other picture, the one with the label bearing the name of the shop. This time, Jean-Paul definitely blanched. His words stuck in his throat. ‘But . . .’

‘Do you recognize this record? Do you know what it might mean? Who is Robert Fulton?’

Jean-Paul pushed his plate away and opened his arms. ‘Who is Robert Fulton? Any jazz lover who goes beyond Louis Armstrong knows who he is. And any music collector would give his right
hand for one of his records.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, as far as I know, there are only ten copies in existence in the entire world.’

This time it was Nicolas’s turn to grow pale. Jean-Paul poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair. Suddenly, Mme Sivoire’s lasagna seemed to have lost all its
flavour.

‘Robert Fulton was one of the greatest trumpet players in the history of jazz. Unfortunately, as so often happens, he was a musical genius but mad as a hatter. He never wanted to record
because he was convinced that music couldn’t and shouldn’t be imprisoned. As far as he was concerned, the only way to enjoy it was live, in concert. In other words, music is a different
experience every time and can’t be fixed in some static, unchangeable format.’

‘So where does this record come from?’

‘I’m getting there. In the summer of 1960 he went on a short tour of America, playing in clubs with some of the best session-men of the day. A historic series of concerts. At the
Be-Bop Café in New York, some friends made arrangements with a record label and recorded the concert live without telling him. They pressed 500 records and hoped Fulton would change his mind
when he heard the recording.’

‘And that’s why it’s called
Stolen Music
?’

‘Right. Except they never thought he would react the way he did. Fulton went berserk and destroyed all the copies. He made them give him the masters and he destroyed those, too. The story
went around the world and became something of a legend. Everyone embellished it in the telling. The only thing that’s certain is that only ten records were saved. To collectors, they’re
worth far more than their weight in gold. I had one of the ten.’

‘You mean you still have the record?’

‘I said I
had,
not I
have.
I went through some hard times . . .’ Jean-Paul looked at his tanned hands, spotted with age. The memories coming to his mind weren’t
good ones.

‘My wife died of cancer. The business was going badly. I mean, really badly. I needed money for her treatment and that record was worth a fortune. So . . .’

Jean-Paul let out a sigh, and it sounded like he had been holding his breath for a lifetime. ‘When I sold it, with all the regret in the world, I put the store label on the sleeve as if
that was a way of holding on to it. That record was one of the few things I really felt was mine, aside from my wife and son. Three things can add up to a real fortune in one man’s
life.’

Nicolas Hulot’s heart was beating in his chest as if it were the piston of a very powerful engine. Pronouncing each word with great care, he asked the question in the tone of someone who
fears the answer. ‘Do you remember who bought it, Jean-Paul?’

‘It’s been over fifteen years, Nicolas. He was a strange character, about my age, more or less. He used to come to the store to buy records, rare stuff, collectors’ items.
Money seemed to be no object, so I admit that I sometimes fleeced him a little. When he found out I had a copy of
Stolen Music,
he kept after me for months to sell it to him. I always
refused, but then, as I told you . . . Necessity can turn a man into a thief . . . or a salesman. Or sometimes both.’

‘I need a name.’

‘I’m not a computer. I couldn’t forget that record if I lived for a thousand years. But anything else . . .’ He ran his fingers through his white hair and raised his eyes
to the ceiling.