Dead Horsemeat

Monday 6 November 1989

Le Dem, in a swanky car, parked opposite Le Chambellan. Lavorel and Romero are walking slowly up Rue Balzac towards the Champs-Élysées. Perrot’s car arrives, moving slowly, the chauffeur gets out and opens the door. Perrot alights and vanishes inside the restaurant. The car pulls away slowly then turns into the driveway to the car park. Just as the chauffeur picks up the remote control to open the automatic doors, Romero opens the passenger door, whips out his gun and presses it into the chauffeur’s side. He stares open-mouthed at Romero and has the feeling that he’s about to go under. I’ve seen this guy somewhere before…

‘Police. Your dealer grassed. Open this door and drive slowly into the car park.’

As he lets out the clutch, Lavorel clambers into the back. They enter the car park and the chauffeur heads towards a space right at the back.

‘Not there,’ says Romero, ‘this is your space here.’

The chauffeur obeys.

Romero searches under the seat while Lavorel keeps an eye on the chauffeur. His groping fingers come into contact with a corner of carpeting that has come away. He lifts it: the cold feel of plastic. He pulls out a bag containing four small doses. Holds it under the driver’s nose and places it in his lap.

‘You do exactly as we tell you and you’ll come out of this better than you think. It’s not your hide we’re after.’

Romero and Lavorel get out and hide behind a car parked nearby.

‘When the girl arrives, push the stuff as usual. But no blow job today, we haven’t got the time.’

Another shock.

The girl arrives, the same one Romero saw from his hiding place last time. The moment she opens the door, the chauffeur holds out the sachet. Surprised, she steps back and bumps into Lavorel and Romero.

‘Freeze. Police.’

Romero inserts two fingers in her trouser belt and pulls out five neatly folded five-hundred franc notes. Lavorel hauls the chauffeur roughly out of the car.

‘Get moving, let’s not hang around. We’re going to Quai des Orfèvres.’

Pushed and shoved to the car park exit. Le Dem’s waiting, parked at the entrance. Everybody piles into the car.

The chauffeur is sitting in Daquin’s office, guarded by Lavorel, who is absorbed in making up a crossword puzzle. In the inspectors’ office, the girl is sitting cross-legged on a chair, looking bored and blasé. Romero is standing, half leaning on a corner of the desk, while Le Dem, seated, looks unconcerned as he asks her name and civil status. She smiles at him.

‘I’m not sure all this is entirely legal. Intrusion into a private residence, and the owner knows people…’

Romero interrupts:

‘Wait, let me stop you right there. Don’t you take that attitude, not with us. The dealer and the chauffeur’s wife have already been arrested. He’s going to cop it. We have several charges against him. And as for you, we can nail you for trafficking, because you were planning to sell the stuff to your work mates. Shut up and let me finish. Things don’t look too good for you as far as Perrot’s concerned either. He’s involved in some highly irregular wheeling and dealing and he’s got every reason to want to keep the cops away from Le Chambellan. How’s he going to react when he hears that you brought the cops in with your small-time dealing? Do you think he’s going to be pleased it’s going to be splashed all over the papers that his luxury brothel is crawling with junkies and pushers? What do you reckon, is he going to give you a lawyer, or punish you?’

The girl thinks for a moment, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Shapely.

‘This is the deal: you answer my questions, I won’t take a statement, and I let you go. But watch it. I already know quite a lot. If I catch you trying to pull a fast one, no deal, and I come down on you like a ton of bricks. Do you understand?’

‘OK.’

‘How exactly does Le Chambellan’s brothel operate?’

Little snigger. ‘Why, does it turn you on?’

No time to finish her sentence. Romero, in a gifted imitation of Daquin’s style (hours of training), gives her a resounding slap with the full force of his arm, without moving the top half of his body.

‘That’s enough. Last chance.’

She gingerly touches her cheek and the corner of her mouth. It’s burning, but not bleeding. After all, what has she got to lose? In any case, she’s blown it as far as Perrot’s concerned.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who runs the place?’

‘Madame Paulette in theory. Perrot actually. He comes by every evening at around six or seven o’clock. He checks everything, the girls’ appointments, with which clients. Everything. He’s only interested in the regular clients.’ She falters a little.

Romero, standing behind her, taps her on the back of her neck.

‘Go on.’

‘We have to tell him exactly what they like, how they respond. He takes notes and gives orders. And he watches. He’s installed cameras in all the rooms.’

Romero recalls the video lounge in Perrot’s apartment, and the double-locked cupboard full of cassettes that the cleaner told him about.

‘And of course, the clients are unaware of this.’

‘Of course.’ Condescending.

Romero ignores this and continues:

‘Who are the clients?’

‘All very respectable people, rich, influential. But we don’t always know their names. We have dinner or go out with them. You don’t just sleep with them, you’ve also got to be elegant, to be able to talk about the latest shows, exhibitions and all that. Madame Paulette takes care of our wardrobe and makes little cards to help us keep the conversation going. If a girl isn’t up to the job, Perrot doesn’t use her again.’

‘Amazing. Do you know a man called Deluc?’

‘Yes. He’s a regular.’

‘The name of the girl who looks after him?’

She shoots Romero a sidelong glance. A trick question or not? Let’s get this over with.

‘She’s a transvestite.’

Romero and Le Dem, suddenly interested, manage to conceal their surprise.

‘Continue. Tell me about her.’

‘She’s called Evita. She doesn’t work regularly at Le Chambellan. Perrot only brings her in for Deluc. And she never goes out with him.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘Tall, about six foot I’d say, very dark, long hair, probably a wig. Hazel eyes, lovely breasts. Loads of make-up. Always wears short, tight dresses. She’s certainly a knockout. She looks like one of the Crazy Horse girls.’

‘Do you know how to get hold of her?’

‘No. We’ve never spoken to each other. She arrives, goes and waits for Deluc in a bedroom, and then she leaves. Only, about ten days ago, there was a hell of a fight between her and Deluc.’

‘Last Wednesday?’

‘No, the Friday before. Things had barely got off the ground, it must have been around ten o’clock. Evita was with Deluc. There was the sound of shouting and breaking glass, Deluc was yelling. Madame Paulette called Perrot to the rescue. He locked himself in with them, and must have calmed them down eventually. But then Evita left, she had a nasty gash on her shoulder. We haven’t seen her since.’

‘What about Deluc?’

She thinks for a moment.

‘I don’t believe we’ve seen him either.’

‘What are your working hours?’

‘Any time, by appointment. But actually, we work mostly in the evenings and at night.’

‘How many are you?’

‘About ten.’

‘Pay?’

‘Do you really want to know? You’ll be livid. Some nights we earn up to eighty thousand francs.’ She’s gloating, this is her revenge. Stupid cop. ‘For Perrot, it’s free, of course. He comes almost every night and does his workout with his live inflatable dolls.’

‘Don’t complain, inflatable doll. You are young, pretty and cultured thanks to Madame Paulette. You’ll be able to set up as a professional woman when you get out of here. If Perrot doesn’t get his hands on you… Le Dem, I’m handing her over to you. I’ll be next door.’

‘Aren’t you letting me go?’

‘I’m waiting to see what the chauffeur says. If it fits with your story, I’ll let you go.’

The chauffeur really isn’t showing off. Lavorel lets him stew in his corner without even glancing at him. He knows he’s already talked too much and wonders to what extent his situation is compromised.

On that point, Romero leaves him in no doubt.

‘It’s going to be hard to limit the damage as far as you’re concerned. Drug dealing, caught in the act.’ A pause. ‘Your wife was arrested today along with the grocer who supplies you.’ The chauffeur fidgets in his chair, very ill at ease. ‘And another charge of procuring.’ He turns ashen. ‘It’s going to wipe out all your savings. Bye-bye that little bar-cum-tobacconist’s in Lyon. Hello the nick. And yet you had a good job, well paid… when Perrot finds out you were pushing drugs to his girls on his premises and that you’re a pimp, we’re going to have to protect you. Are you getting the picture.’

‘I am.’

‘A good starting point. I’m offering you a deal. I’m interested in Perrot, not you. You help me, and I’ll fix it so you get off with the minimum charge, just protective custody until it all blows over.’ A pause. Romero smiles. ‘And what’s more, I’m offering you a chance to take revenge on this boss who sprawls in the back of the car, telephones in front of you, talks about everything, his private life, his schemes and makes you run his errands as if you were a robot, unable to hear, see, or understand, capable only of driving.’

‘Have you been a chauffeur?’

‘Yes, for my Superintendent.’

Lavorel raises an eyebrow. The chauffeur suddenly warms to Romero. At the same time he must keep his wits about him, see what’s coming, how much he knows. And get a better deal as he goes along, if he can.

‘What do you want to know?’

Romero fires questions about Transitex, Aubert, Thirard (with photos). Draws a blank all the way down the line. The chauffeur doesn’t know them, has never heard of them. The Italians? Mori, Ballestrino? Yes, when they came to Paris, Perrot hosted them, parties at Le Chambellan, he pulled out all the stops. He often phones Ballestrino, in Milan. But briefly. ‘Everything OK?’ and that was all.

Lavorel and Romero exchange a look which the chauffeur catches.

‘And a man called Deluc, do you know him?’

He sits up a little. Now’s the moment.

‘You don’t know much you guys, you’re groping in the dark. I’m prepared to help you, but it’ll cost you a bit more. First, you’ve got to let my wife go. She was picked up at the grocer’s by chance.’

It takes Romero an hour to arrange for her release. Meanwhile, the girl grows irritable and Le Dem starts playing cards with her. Lavorel goes back to his crossword grid and the chauffeur half dozes, pleased with himself.

When the questioning resumes, the chauffeur is so talkative that Romero can hardly get a word in edgeways.

Perrot handles considerable sums of cash. The transactions often take place in the car. Perrot leaves home in the morning with an attaché case. He asks me to stop the car en route, someone gets in, they talk about amounts, dates, rates. Then Perrot opens the attaché case. The chauffeur can’t see what’s inside, but of course they both count. The attaché case changes hands and the guy gets out before they reach Rue de l’Université.

‘Bribery?’

‘I’d say it was loans most of the time. I don’t know the names of the people. Except one, a guy called Leccia, a film producer, who was shot dead in an underground car park two or three months ago. I saw his picture in the papers. I recognised him all right. Three months earlier he’d come to pick up his attaché case from the car.’

‘Does the name Jacques Montier ring any bells?’

‘The name, no. But if you showed me a photo… I’ve got a good memory for faces.’

‘I know what it’s like, from seeing them in the driving mirror, as if you’re looking at the cars a long way behind, you end up photographing them.’

‘Exactly.’ Definitely a nice guy, this cop.

‘We don’t have a photo right now, but we can get one. Apart from the loans, does Perrot grease any palms?’

‘I get the impression he does. Sometimes, I had to deliver attaché cases. Never saw what was inside: they were locked with a code. I can give you a list of addresses, but not necessarily the names.’

‘A man called Deluc?’

‘Him, yes, I know him very well. Once, I delivered an attaché case to his home. I handed it to him in person. He opened it in front of me, you know, keeping the contents hidden from view behind the lid. He took out a brand new five-hundred franc note and gave it to me to say thank you.’

‘Very clever… Roughly when was that?’

‘Some time around last summer.’

Lavorel gives a satisfied smile as he concentrates his mind on producing a brilliant fictitious version of the interrogation.

‘And a man called Jubelin, did you see him often?’

‘I didn’t see him a lot, no. But Perrot phones him all the time. In business, apparently, they’re as thick as thieves.’ He falters.

‘Go on.’

‘One day, not long ago, on leaving home, Perrot calls Jubelin. He says: “A.A. Bayern is for today. Can you deal with it?” Jubelin says yes, apparently. Perrot adds: “Bid for Deluc and for me as you would for yourself.”’

‘Did Annick Renouard’s name come up at that point?’

‘No. I remember the details clearly because I thought it was a tip-off. The minute I was alone I called my wife before she left for work and she bought A.A. Bayern shares through our broker the same morning. I’ve followed Perrot’s lead several times before, and it’s always worked. Tip-offs for the races, too. Well, this time, it didn’t work, the share price plummeted during the day.’

‘Pity.’

Resigned. ‘Perrot must have lost a lot more than me.’

‘Changing the subject. Do you know one of Perrot’s girls called Evita?’

‘No. No Evita ever came down to the car park.’

‘What about a transvestite?’

‘Never seen a tranny at Le Chambellan.’

‘Last Wednesday, did anything unusual happen? Anything at all, even a tiny detail.’

‘It wasn’t a little detail. That day, Perrot came back to Le Chambellan earlier than usual and I went and waited for him in the car park. After a while, I don’t know how long, he came down with Deluc.’ Romero feels a shiver run all the way down his spine. ‘Completely out of it, Deluc. I wondered whether he’d been shooting up. And the three of us left to pick up his car.’

‘Where was it?’

‘It was parked in Boulevard Maillot. He was so shaken up that he wasn’t in a fit state to drive. So I ran him home in his car while Perrot drove his back to Le Chambellan himself. The minute I was back, Perrot sent me to pick up a girl, outside the Brasserie Lipp…’

‘What did this pretty young lady look like?’

‘I didn’t get a very good look at her. Very tall, with fabulous breasts. A blonde wig, I’m certain it was a wig, trousers, sweater, dark glasses and a scarf. She sat in the back, and didn’t say a word. Nothing. Not even thank you when I dropped her off.’

‘And where did you drop her off?’

‘In Munich.’

‘In Munich… Did Perrot send you there?’

‘Of course. I dropped the girl off in the early hours at the station café where a friend of Perrot’s was waiting for her. And I came straight back to Paris.’

‘A friend? Who?’

‘Signor Renta. An Italian who often comes to Paris. He’s also a friend of Ballestrino’s.’