Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

Zero Tolerance by Dominique Manotti

Translated from the French by Peter Schulman

French novelist Dominique Manotti is also a professor of nineteenth-century economic history at St-Denis University in Paris. Her first novel, Rough Trade, is a gripping late-twentieth-century morality tale set in the seedy underside of Paris. It was awarded the prize for best thriller of the year by the French Crime Writers Association. Her other books include Cop and To Our Horses! The latter will be published by Arcadia Books in English translation in April ’06.

A man violently swings open the doors to police headquarters, bringing with him into the overheated room a sudden burst of cold air before he slams the door shut behind him in one fell swoop. The startled cop seated at the front desk jumps to attention, as the sleepy office again succumbs to the languor of the long afternoon calm. The fellow marching forward looks like a tough customer, a very ordinary-looking man in his early forties, with a thick face, brown eyes, and short, graying hair. Bundled up in a gray windbreaker that hides the lower part of his face, he wears black leather gloves — also thick — black corduroy pants, and construction-site shoes. Borderline worrisome, the cop thinks. The man puts his elbows on the counter, and says sullenly: “I’ve received a summons...”

“Very well. Show it to me. It’s four o’clock, you’re late.”

He grumbles something under his breath: “You ought to be happy I came at all.”

The cop picks up the phone before saying to him: “Captain Miette is waiting for you, ground floor next to the stairway, second door on the left.”

“‘Miette,’[1] that’s not a serious name for a captain.”

“Well, you can tell him yourself.” He glances briefly at the summons and reads: “Bouillon.”[2]

The man drags himself away from the counter with a grunt, makes it to the hallway, barges in without knocking. It’s a tiny room, badly lit by a condemned half of a window. A metal desk, file cabinets, two plastic chairs in front of the desk, a hinged ergonomic armchair behind it, and in the armchair, Captain Miette, who is older than the man who just walked in, but who also vaguely resembles him, as though they were related in some way. He is full without being very heavy, has sagging shoulders, wears a tweed jacket over a brown tieless shirt with an open collar. The room is poorly heated and smells slightly mildewy. Miette gets up courteously. “Do sit down, Mr. Bouillon.”

“What do you want from me, exactly?”

“Nothing serious, nothing to get worked up about, just a few questions, that’s all.” Miette opens a pink file on the desk, which contains only two typed pieces of paper. “Three days ago, on January seventeenth at six-twenty in the evening, you were involved in an altercation with a taxi driver...”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about.”

“...Mr. Muhammad Tahir.”

“Mr. what?”

“Tahir.”

“Where do you get a name like that?”

“Mr. Tahir is of Pakistani descent.”

Bouillon takes off his gloves, which are enormous, places them on the desk, opens the zipper of his windbreaker, and snarls: “I’m not surprised. So it’s Pakistan now.”

“Mr. Tahir’s papers are completely in order.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” (He snickers.)

“So, according to Mr. Tahir, you were picked up at the Montparnasse train station...”

“That’s right.”

“...You gave him an address, 130 rue de Crimée.”

“Still right.”

“Approaching the Bastille...”

“Off the bat, that ain’t the way he should have gone, taking Bastille like that. Would you have gone that way?”

Miette reads from the papers that have been placed before him, without lifting his head for a second. “‘He then proceeded to take the Boulevard Richard Lenoir, and stopped at the first red light.’ You allegedly punched him violently in the head, his forehead smashed into the steering wheel, causing a gash that would require five different sutures. The hospital spoke about some cranial trauma as well. During the time it took him to regain his senses, you allegedly ran away...”

“That’s a good one. I didn’t run. I left calmly, and I took the metro. I had had enough of that cabbie. But I don’t know how that guy could have tracked me down.”

“It’s not rocket science, Mr. Bouillon. You gave him your address, he went there, he chatted with a few of your neighbors who gave him your name...”

“The silly buggers!”

“...and he came to police headquarters to lodge a formal complaint. Now, I would like to hear your version of the events. Do you admit to having punched him?”

“More or less.”

“What could have provoked such an action on your part?”

“He didn’t tell you? His taxi reeked of patchouli oil, or something like that. It made me sick to my stomach. And then it sticks to your clothes, a stench like that. What will the neighbors think of me if I walk around stinking of patchouli oil? Well, I lit myself a little cigar, just so I could breathe a little.” As he utters his last word, Bouillon puts his hand on his windbreaker, searches for an ashtray with his eyes, but is unable to find one on Miette’s desk. “You don’t smoke?”

“No, Mr. Bouillon, and I would urge you to refrain from smoking in my office.”

“That’s why it smells so moldy around here. Tobacco kills the moldy smell. Okay, so to get back to my Paki, he points to a sign hanging from the dashboard: ‘No smoking.’ I get all riled up. I tell him that asphyxiating passengers with the odors of savages and hookers should also be prohibited; he tells me he doesn’t smell a thing, and repeats that I have to put out my cigar. Well, we weren’t going to go on like that forever. I punched him, nice and hard, to put an end to the discussion, you see, and then I left. But punches like that, they’re no big deal. I’ve given ’em and I’ve received some that were a lot worse, and nobody made any fuss over them.”

“I’m going to take your deposition.”

Miette sits down in front of the computer, starts typing rather quickly; his eyes go from the keyboard to his screen, which allows him to avoid making eye contact with Bouillon, who makes him feel uneasy. “So, allow me to sum things up: ‘I admit to having struck Mr. Tahir in the head, because he asked me not to smoke in his cab.’”

Miette lets a moment of silence go by. No denial.

“‘And to having left the cab without paying the fare.’”

Bouillon raises his hand. “Wait a minute, not the full fare, just a part of it, up until we got to the Bastille, and I don’t owe him a thing, since he didn’t take me all the way home.”

Miette stops looking at his computer to get back to Bouillon.

“If I have one piece of advice to give you, it is to reconcile amicably with Mr. Tahir. Try to see if he’ll accept your apologies and some financial compensation for withdrawing his complaint. He is completely in the right, and you have everything to lose by going to court. You might very well be convicted.”

“In court!!! Convicted!!! For a measly, harmless little punch? You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t think you’re blowing things out of proportion, Lieutenant? All this just for a Paki. With the Duchesne widow, who, by the way, was at least a good French woman, there wasn’t all this commotion over everything.”

“It’s ‘Captain,’ Mr. Bouillon, ‘Captain.’ Who is the Duchesne widow?”

“She was my neighbor, for about four to five years.”

“And you struck her like you did the taxi driver?”

“More or less.”

Bouillon quiets down and starts playing with his gloves without looking up at Miette.

“What were the circumstances? Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“All right then, tell me all about it.” (Pause.) “It will enable me to learn a little bit more about your personality.”

“Personality.” Bouillon snorts.

“The widow was very deaf. She lived on the same floor as me, and she played these records all night to keep herself company, full blast. And I have an aversion to noise. She listened to Tino Rossi, and a lot of crap like that, Luis Mariano, operettas. Apparently she had been an usher at the Mogador Music Hall, but that wasn’t exactly yesterday, if you get my drift. Anyhow, that high-society bugger music really got on my nerves. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told her to turn it down ten times. Nobody could say that I wasn’t patient. The eleventh time, I went into her apartment and I gave her a whack. More of a slap than a punch. To put an end to the discussion, like with the Paki. Once you get to a certain point, that’s the only thing left to do.”

“And then?”

“She fell backwards onto the floor, and when I leaned over towards her, to help her up, she was dead.”

“And what happened next?”

“There is no next. I went back home, and I could read my paper very peacefully, without all that ridiculous cooing.”

“Mr. Bouillon, let’s be clear here. You’re in the process of explaining to me that Madame Duchesne, your neighbor, died as a result of blows that you gave her.”

“That’s not right at all. The day after, it was a Saturday, I wasn’t working, there was a rumbling on the floor, policemen, a doctor. The concierge told me that they agreed that she died as a result of an accident. The widow died as a result of falling accidentally in her home, and hitting her head against a piece of furniture as she slipped. I had nothing to do with it. I’m telling you this just to point out to you that the old lady’s fall was completely different from the Paki’s five sutures, and no one made a big deal out of it. But of course, that old Duchesne widow was a nice old lady from our own country, which interests the police a lot less than Mr. Tahir who comes from God-knows-where and who’s got his papers in order.”

Miette focuses on the telephone. “Stéphanie, could you pull out the Duchesne file for me?” He spells out the name. Bouillon nods. “130 rue de Crimée. An accidental death. Bring it to me as soon as you find it. And right away. Hurry.”

He closes the file, places it on the left-hand side of the desk, folds his hands in front of him, and, with a broad smile, remarks: “To put it bluntly, you’re in the habit of punching people, aren’t you?”

“No. Not at all.” (Some time elapses.) “I’m a hard worker, I have a tough job. I’m a mason, working for the same boss for almost ten years now, never missed a day. And a good citizen to boot. I vote. I never get in trouble with the police.” (Some more time elapses.) “But you have to admit that there are some moments in life when you can’t extend a conversation forever. One sees black, the other white, no one makes any headway, so you just have to give up after a while.”

Stéphanie knocks on the door, comes in, drops off a very thin file on Miette’s desk. Miette scribbles a note: “Bouillon, 130 rue de Crimée, police records registry? Urgent. Send reply by e-mail.” He hands it to Stéphanie, and delves into the Duchesne file:

“‘Madame Duchesne, widow, seventy-nine years old. Her daughter visited her on Saturday July sixth at ten o’clock, as she does every Saturday, but found her dead this time, stretched out on her back in the living room. She immediately called the police, who brought in the forensic pathologist. Conclusion: Large temporal hematoma; in all probability the old lady hit her temple against the corner of her table as she was falling. The death, which occurred the night before, is the result of an accident. Permission to bury. No investigation. Signed: Lieutenant Carvoux.’”

He’s not much of a workaholic, that Carvoux. No neighborhood investigation, nothing. A rather botched job. Mind you, you wouldn’t have done any better; who knows, it seemed so simple. In any case, it jibes with everything that loony’s been telling you. What else does he have down that trap of his? I’ll make him talk.

“Have you lived on the rue de Crimée for a while, Mr. Bouillon?”

“About fifteen years. Always at the same address. I hate changes. I hope you noticed that the neighborhood is changing, however.”

“And you live alone?”

Bouillon tightens up. “Yes. It’s not against the law, is it?”

Do your job, Captain, scratch around there where it hurts.

“Have you always lived alone?”

“No. I was married once.”

Miette looks him over. Keep going, there’s something else. I can feel it.

“Is she deceased?”

“Not her, the kid.”

There is a deadly silence in the room, and Miette is afraid. But he’s got to dig deeper.

“Your son?”

“Yes, my son.” Suddenly, as if to explain himself: “It was three or four months ago and she claimed I killed him. Of course, it wasn’t true.”

“Of course. But why would she come up with a thing like that?”

“That baby, it was crying a lot, and I have an aversion to noise. I’ve already told you that. I can’t stand repeating things.”

“And then?”

“She thought I was shaking him too much. To make him shut up. She didn’t want to leave me alone with him, and then, one day, she had to go to the dentist. A Saturday afternoon. She was working. Like any other day. When she came back, the baby was dead. She made a big stink out of it. What could I have done, I tell you? I just sat there reading my paper in the next room. I simply noticed that he wasn’t crying, for once. Needless to say, he was dead.”

“What happened next?”

“We buried the little guy.”

“Where?”

“Let’s see now... the cemetery. You really ask the craziest questions.”

“Was an autopsy performed, an investigation of any kind?”

“Nothing like that. Why should there have been? The baby’s pediatrician came over, and he said that it was a sudden infant death.”

Miette gets up.

“A cup of coffee, Mr. Bouillon?”

“With pleasure. Black and hot, if you don’t mind.”

Miette walks out of his office and takes a few steps towards the coffee machine. There is a maelstrom of activity in his head. This guy might well have killed the old lady, his baby. And what about his wife? What did he do with her? This is a guy who’s as dangerous as a loaded gun in the middle of a crowded theater. I might really be on to a major case here. This could be my chance to make commissioner right at the tail end of my career. Or maybe he’s a compulsive liar. I better not let myself be jerked around by him. He returns, places a cup of coffee in front of Bouillon.

“After the burial, what did your wife do?”

“She left.”

“Left?”

“Yes. Left. Here one day, gone the next, without a word of warning. Everyone has the right to do what they want, but it still caused me pain. I really liked her, my good wife, and the baby, too.”

“She didn’t leave out of the blue like that because your baby died of infant crib disease. What did your wife have to say about all this?”

“She criticized me for hitting her.”

“And was that true?”

“No.”

“Come on. It was the same with the taxi driver or the old lady, your way of putting an end to the discussion.”

“Sometimes, a few whacks, when I had a little too much to drink, nothing really serious. All men drink, isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

“More or less, Mr. Bouillon, more or less. Let’s get back to your wife. She criticized you for beating her, and for shaking the baby, and she never lodged a complaint?”

“That’s all I needed. If anyone was going to do the complaining, it should have been me, you would think. Correct me if I’m wrong, but abandoning a home... that’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“You never tried to see her again?”

“No. I’ve got my pride. I went back to my old café habits, before coming home to sleep, that’s all.”

Café habits. Investigate.

“Which café?”

“The Bar des Sports, it’s only a hundred meters from where I live.”

Miette sinks into his chair, finishes his coffee, stretches his legs. Ah, the Bar des Sports. That small square, a stone’s throw from the canal, the tiny church, the manicured trees, the pétanque[3] area, and the children’s sandbox. The Bar des Sports and its loyal alcoholic clientele, its unending fights between drunks. Bouillon, of course, fits the bill to a tee. And then there was that accident, someone got killed in a brawl that was a bit rougher than usual. Miette himself was working full-time at police headquarters, just starting out, in fact, and right then and there, with a flair for authority, he starts interrogating this one, that one, and latches on to an individual named Lambert, who was in a quasi ethyl-induced coma at the time, but who, after twenty-four hours in police custody, ended up confessing. A case that was promptly taken care of before the golden boys of the Crime Unit could put their hands on it. It was an easy opportunity for a promotion, that would surely come in handy around retirement time. That Lambert fellow got himself five years in the slammer. A nice memory, that Bar des Sports.

“I know the Bar des Sports.”

“They respect me over there.” Bouillon’s face lights up with an intense self-satisfaction. “The boss trusts me. I’m the one who keeps everyone in line when things get too hot.”

You should have stayed there. You shouldn’t have tried to be such a smart ass.

“Were you there when Chevrier was killed by Lambert?”

“Yeah, I was there when Chevrier kicked the bucket.”

“I’m the one who led the investigation.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Perhaps I even interrogated you?”

“No, not at that time. I had to leave before you arrived.”

“Why?”

That was one question too many.

“Chevrier had a big mouth and was constantly causing trouble, and he never paid for his round. The boss told me: When you get a chance, give him a nice roughing up, so he can take his business elsewhere. Well, on that day I got my chance... He started to push Lambert around. That Lambert was a good bloke that everyone liked. I caught Chevrier, and gave him a nice beating. Maybe a bit too nice. That explains why I might not have been so eager to meet with any cops that day. But everything worked out in the end, since Lambert’s the guy who took the rap.”

Miette starts to sweat buckets. Pictures Lambert in his office, so drunk that he had to be held up lest he fall from his chair. He was terrified, submissive. He couldn’t remember a thing, but wanted to say whatever “Monsieur le Commissaire” wanted to hear.

“Bouillon, you’ve just told me, calmly and to my face, that you beat Chevrier to death, even though Lambert got five years in jail for his murder?”

“That’s the point. The case has already been tried. You never go back to a case that’s already been tried. I’m telling you all this just so you understand that in my neighborhood, I’m the one who gets respect, and it’s not some Paki cab driver who’s going to—”

Livid, Miette stands up. Promotion, career, retirement, the gossip from colleagues. I have no choice:

“Get the hell out of here, Bouillon. You’re a deranged, pathological liar. I don’t want to see you around here ever again. And I’ll take care of your Pakistani, I will. Beat it.”