Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 1. Whole No. 791, July 2007

Skin Deep by Renée Yim

The following tale belongs to our Department of First Stories as the pseudonymous 29-year-old writer’s first work of fiction ever to see print in any language. But it also belongs to Passport to Crime, for the author was born in Lyon, France, of parents from Cameroon, West Africa. She worked as a podiatrist, using her free time to translate articles from English to French, before taking courses at a Parisian writing school and trying fiction.

Translated from the French by Mary Kennedy

Friday, September 21, 10:00 A.M.

Antoine was sitting in the back office reading the fax from his accountant. He sighed and removed his glasses. Things looked serious. He rubbed his eyes, then held them closed for a minute, half hoping it was just a bad dream that would go away when he opened them again. But it was no use. There it was: “...declare bankruptcy...”

His little company was struggling. That he could live with. But to see it disappear altogether was like walking with a bad limp for seven years, then waking in bed one morning to find both legs amputated.

Back in June 1998, his best friend and associate, Mathieu, had found a space in this small renovated building. In a flood of energy, the two of them had fixed it up. They had faith in their project: literary publishers and booksellers. Antoine Dufour and Mathieu Planchon were striking out on a great adventure. Six months later, the Dufour-Planchon Bookshop opened its doors in Paris.

The firm, clear sound of the shop door opening brought Antoine back to the present. He and Mathieu were having a book signing for the release of Yasmine Azoul and Hinda Wafi’s book Skin Deep, about two Muslim women and their differing lifestyles. He raised the blind and glanced quickly into the shop. A tall young man wearing a cap was stepping through the door. Yasmine was sitting behind a wooden table listening to a customer. Was it small talk, flattery, or curiosity? Mathieu was meticulously arranging the display of new releases in the shop window. Antoine picked up the stack of letters that needed to be mailed before noon and emerged from the back office, doing his best to hide his distress.

As he gave Mathieu the bad news, Antoine noticed the face of the young man with the cap twist into a grimace. He watched the beanpole of a man move, book in hand, toward Yasmine. At his approach, the cheerful expression on Yasmine’s face faded. When she reached for the book he held out, thinking he wanted her autograph, he spat on it, flung it in her face, and cried out, “Miscreant!” Spouting insults, he turned on his heels and, proud of his performance, left the shop.

Antoine and Mathieu rushed over to Yasmine with surprising speed. The same anxious cry sprang from both their throats at once. “Are you okay?”

“...Yes,” she murmured.

Yasmine felt her throat tighten. Her eyes, almost wild, followed Mathieu's hand as it picked up the object of aggression. Such violence over a book! “That’s no reason to assault someone,” she continued in bewilderment.

11:30 A.M.

That jerk had certainly succeeded in upsetting Yasmine, but she’d shown herself to be brave, thought Antoine, as he slipped some coins into a stamp dispenser at the post office. He was checking to make sure he had all the letters that had to be mailed when, suddenly, a deafening blast resonated throughout the building. Three hundred meters away, the shop window of Dufour-Planchon had been blown to pieces. Someone had thrown a bomb.

Tuesday, September 25

Yasmine gripped the bed frame, then let herself fall back onto the pillows. The clock on the wall of her hospital room read 4:00 P.M. Antoine would be there soon. She picked up a literary magazine she knew she couldn’t possibly read. A persistent migraine hammered in her head.

On the other side of town, Antoine was seated on the cushions of his living-room couch preparing himself psychologically to announce his decision. From time to time he cast furtive glances at Gabrielle. She was unusually calm today. He noticed that she had hurt her right hand. How could he not notice such an elaborate bandage? It was clear to Antoine that Gabrielle was trying to attract his attention. Either that or she had injured herself again as a result of her alcohol-soaked brain.

Their eyes met. Mustering his courage, Antoine broke the silence. “I’m asking for a divorce.” His face had become serious.

“Who is it?” she began. “Yasmine?”

“Stop it, Gabrielle. I’m tired of telling you, my relations with Yasmine are strictly professional.”

“Liar, liar, liar! You’re nothing but a liar.”

“That’s enough, Gabrielle!” The anger in Antoine’s voice was rising.

“I’m no idiot. I’ve seen how you undress her with your eyes. You couldn’t care less about her book,” she retorted.

Antoine stood up. “Think whatever you like. I have no intention of trying to convince you.”

“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” she screamed in fury.

“I’m suffocating, Gabrielle. You’re suffocating me. Our marriage is suffocating me. I feel trapped... I want a divorce!”

“I’ll keep you away from Maeva. She’ll come with me. You can forget her... Just remember, a father who’s always broke never gets custody of his child.”

Antoine was about to fire back, “Because a mother who’s an alcoholic is better!” when he noticed Maeva. He passed his tongue over his dry lips and remained silent.

Now totally enraged, Gabrielle wiped away the tears that were welling in her eyes with a furious gesture and turned toward the side table, her attention irresistibly drawn by a vase. She grabbed it. Antoine was holding the doorknob. The vase flew through the air as he slammed the door shut behind him.

From the corner where she had hidden, Maeva could see that her mother was beside herself.

Riding down in the elevator, Antoine mulled over Gabrielle’s threats. She had crossed a new line by bringing Maeva into their problems. If she thought she was going to use their little girl to hold on to him, she had another thing coming. He couldn’t stand living with her anymore. Gabrielle was jealous by nature. They’d met at university, and even back then she used to repeat, “I trust you, but, as a rule, I don’t trust women. They find you far too attractive.” Her remarks became more unpleasant after Maeva’s birth. Her trim body, which had thickened during pregnancy, refused to slim down. Unable to come to terms with her new appearance, she’d slipped into a state of chronic paranoia. He couldn’t speak to anyone of the opposite sex, let alone look at them, without being accused of lustful intentions. When she had had too much to drink, a scathing tone crept into her remarks: “Dirty hypocrite, if you chose your authors for the quality of their work, you wouldn’t be broke all the time.”

But what could she know about literature? She was the director of a laboratory.

It was 5:30 P.M. by the time Antoine got to the hospital. He followed the nurse’s directions and went down the corridor to room 212, carrying a potted amaryllis.

“A plant to brighten the place up a bit!” he announced pleasantly, before greeting Yasmine’s mother, Madame Azoul, then Mathieu and Hinda.

Yasmine answered gently, “How lovely, the scent of fresh flowers...” She slipped her arms around Antoine’s neck and pulled him against her.

Antoine took off his glasses and started chewing absent-mindedly on the plastic arm of the frame, as he always did when facing a problem. “I’ve brought two pieces of news. One good. And one bad. Which do you want to hear first, Yasmine?”

“Keep the good news for last and start with the bad.”

Antoine handed her a brown paper envelope. “We received this letter yesterday. It was postmarked in Paris,” he explained reluctantly.

Madame Azoul’s eyes darkened, searching her daughter’s tense face as Yasmine read the letter.

“A bunch of insults and threats,” Yasmine summed up, a note of anxiety in her voice.

“Threats?!” repeated Madame Azoul, clearly alarmed by the news.

Antoine quickly interrupted Yasmine and her mother. “Wait, wait, wait, wait. This is no time to waste energy on fear and speculation. Let’s not forget that the police are investigating. Two witnesses noticed a suspicious-looking guy smoking a cigarette near the bookshop just before the explosion. Their description of him matches the thug who harassed Yasmine on Friday. Tall, thin, a cap on his head, probably of Middle Eastern origin. The Criminal Records Office collected some cigarette stubs from the sidewalk to take fingerprints. I’m sure they’ll find the guilty party. If things take a bad turn, Yasmine will receive all the protection she needs.”

“What’s the good news?” ventured Madame Azoul, still worried. She was looking straight at Antoine.

“Next week we’ve been asked for... a radio interview!” Antoine announced. “Go on, see if you can guess which program?”

Yasmine raised her eyebrows, indicating her impatience.

He cleared his throat and articulated grandly, “Both Sides!”

The expression on Yasmine’s face brightened only slightly, but her eyes were sparkling with excitement when she exclaimed, “To what do we owe this honor?”

With a look of triumph, Mathieu unfolded his newspaper and read out loud the headline across the top of the page:

For a split second, a shadow veiled Yasmine’s eyes. Hinda interrupted Mathieu. “Are you all right, Yasmine?”

“I’ve had a close brush with the worst that can happen... I admit I’m afraid. If I simply ignore this piece of hate mail, I don’t dare imagine what may be in store for me.”

“You know, even if I haven’t done as much as you to promote our book—and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for respecting my choice not to—I understand your fear, Yasmine,” Hinda said. “And I share it with you. All the same, I do think this invitation to go on the air is a great opportunity.”

Antoine nodded in agreement as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Hinda is right. Promoting a book involves knowing how to take advantage of unforeseen events to push it into the spotlight.”

Madame Azoul turned toward Antoine and said courteously, but in her sternest voice, “In such a delicate climate, why throw oil on the fire? Is this radio program really essential?” An anxious note had crept into her final words. Antoine pulled up his chair and took Madame Azoul’s hands in his as he tried to give her a reassuring account of the situation.

Hinda also slipped in a word. “Madame Azoul, with all due respect, I believe the best way to promote tolerance is by practicing what you preach.”

“And that’s not all,” Mathieu pursued, clicking his tongue. “Our position as an independent publisher is precarious. These days, a book’s fate depends a lot on the media. We’ve seen a decline in sales of all our literary works recently. If this trend were to continue...” Mathieu left his sentence hanging.

Thursday, October 4

Gabrielle was putting away groceries in the kitchen cupboards. She had left her husband, taking Maeva with her, and had settled in her parents’ place while they were away on holiday. She had decided to erect a wall between Maeva and her father. Gabrielle glanced at her watch: 11:45 A.M. This was Antoine and Yasmine’s big day. “Let them make the most of it. It won’t last,” she muttered as she switched on the radio. She turned the dial and tuned in to the station broadcasting Both Sides.

11:50 A.M.

Antoine and Yasmine got out of a taxi and entered the studio building. The security guards had them go through a metal detector before directing them to the elevator.

Yasmine took a deep breath and, clenching her fists, looked up at Antoine. “Why should I be afraid? I won’t give them that satisfaction.”

Antoine smiled approvingly. He had not yet told Yasmine about the results of the cigarette-stub analysis: None of the fingerprints had showed up in the national database. The police had nothing solid to go on.

12:00 noon

Gabrielle raised an eyebrow as she heard the program begin. “With us today are Yasmine Azoul and Antoine Dufour. Yasmine Azoul is the author of the novel Skin Deep, published by Dufour-Planchon.”

The audience welcomed the guests with applause.

Solange Dumas's familiar voice continued vivaciously. “Two Muslim women, one veiled, the other not, exchange lives for a day. The reader follows the adventures and the reflections of the two protagonists. The novel is largely inspired by a real-life experiment conducted by Yasmine Azoul and her co-author Hinda Wafi, who has chosen not to join us today. Let’s start with you, Yasmine. How did this idea first come to you?”

“In a writer’s workshop!” Yasmine answered. “I’d seen Hinda there regularly and took to her very quickly. We shared the same religious beliefs, but our views were different when it came to wearing the veil. Suddenly it occurred to us, why not try switching skins for a day?”

“You were born in Algeria and Hinda in France?”

“That’s right. She wears the veil and I don’t. My real reason for coming to France was to experience equality of the sexes. At the university in Algiers, girls have to fight to exist without the Islamic veil. Before meeting Hinda, I used to berate Muslim women who wanted to wear the veil when they’d grown up in France. I thought it was just a fad.”

“And today?”

“Writing this novel, I learned that whether you’re veiled or not, it’s no use feeling victimized by your own history. Or guilty about it. Wearing the veil is natural for Hinda. And she doesn’t see herself as a scapegoat for her religion. The role of a writer is to be an impartial witness. I think there’s great value in finding words to explain the way other people feel. Hinda and I have refused to confine ourselves to a simple definition of a complex reality. In our book, the two women attempt to break down any preconceived ideas the other may have had.”

The presenter turned to Antoine. “Antoine Dufour, you have exposed yourself to the wrath of extremists. Does the publication of this novel have anything to do with activist literature?”

“The idea never crossed my mind until I was threatened. Let’s just say the book’s publication has bothered a few narrow-minded cranks. I would never have become a publisher, you know, if I hadn’t read Sartre. The most important word in existentialism is probably the word ‘choice.’ For me, the publication of certain books constitutes a personal commitment to the search for truth. I made the decision to publish Skin Deep; now I must bear the consequences. Yasmine and Hinda have truly captured their times in this novel. I was taken in right from the very first page of the manuscript.”

Questions shot from Solange Dumas's mouth in rapid fire. “Audacity? Or just a commercial ploy? In a recent article Clémence Boulouque wrote: ‘So many things are being published on Islam, good and bad. Are publishers putting a match to the fuse?’”

Solange Dumas asked these questions point blank and Antoine responded in a voice taut as a bowstring. “Let’s not get everything mixed up.”

Then his voice softened. “Why publish this book now? Because in France, by tradition people mostly only talk about literature in the fall. And believe me, this is something I deplore! Literature is the great encyclopedia of social reality. It expresses the nature and fabric of a society. This is especially true of the novel, where we’re free to escape from our taboos. Literature has an essential role to play. It helps us anticipate the stream of continual change that is life.”

The audience applauded vigorously.

“It gives independent voices a chance to express themselves, so they can help resolve pernicious misunderstandings,” Yasmine added.

Antoine went on, “And that’s why, in spite of the pitfalls, literary publishing is indestructible. Utopian? Passionate? I’m a bit of both, I guess!”

Solange Dumas turned back to Yasmine. “What do you remember most about your day in the skin of a veiled woman?”

“The heat. It’s hot under that veil. And the people staring at me.”

“And Hinda’s day without a veil?”

“She felt it was like...” Yasmine had trouble finding the words. “...taking off her clothes. The Egyptian novelist Ahdaf Soueif, who doesn’t wear a veil, has quite rightly written: ‘The veil, like Islam itself, is at the same time sensual and puritan, it is contradictory and formidable.’ Hinda and I both aspire to a peaceful form of Islam. Hinda hides her hair under a piece of cloth and me, I keep my head bare, but this doesn’t prevent us from exchanging our ideas, our reflections. Writing this novel with Hinda did me a lot of good!”

“Do you think this book might help cool debate around the veil?”

“I hope it will help focus some other people’s minds on public-spiritedness and modernity,” Antoine offered. “In closing, I’d like to quote Aragon, if I may: ‘Literature is the art of saying things that are forbidden using words that are not.’”

Solange Dumas thanked Antoine and Yasmine and then repeated one last time for the listeners, “Skin Deep, published by Dufour-Planchon.”

12:30 P.M.

As Dumas uttered her final words, Gabrielle flicked off the radio. She felt overwhelmed by the anger that now colored her face. She had been gone for three days. Antoine must certainly have moved in with Yasmine by now (or the other way around). To protect her! She decided she had to know. In her agitation, she opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of beer, and poured herself a generous glassful.

“Mommy!” Maeva’s young voice made Gabrielle jump, beer spilling onto her bandage from the glass she held in her trembling hands.

“Yes, darling?”

Maeva was coming down the stairs. “I’m hungry. What’s for lunch?”

“Macaroni and cheese?”

Gabrielle unwrapped the bandage on her right hand, revealing an ugly burn—still painful—as Maeva appeared in the doorway.

“My tummy approves of the menu. On one condition!”

Maeva gave a mischievous little smile to which Gabrielle responded, “More cheese than macaroni! And what about you setting the table?”

“Right away.” Maeva hesitated an instant, then said, “Mommy, you said we were just at Grandma and Grandpa’s to look after their house while they’re away. But I can tell things are different between you and Daddy. I miss him.”

Gabrielle did not answer.

1:00 P.M.

Antoine and Yasmine left the studio feeling quite satisfied with their performance.

“We did a pretty good job defending our book, didn’t we? What do you think, Yasmine?”

“You were right. Never let fear determine your actions.”

“You learn fast. You also look dead tired.”

“I am! I think I need a nap,” Yasmine admitted as she hailed a taxi.

“Shall I see you home?”

“No, thanks. Don’t worry, my mother’s moved in for a few days.”

Before closing the taxi door behind her, Antoine bent down and said, “I’ll give you a call tonight.”

7:00 P.M.

Savoring a cup of jasmine tea with shortbread, Yasmine’s mother sat absorbed in the paper: “Skin Deep. Indignant reactions from some quarters. Publisher threatened. An author’s life endangered.”

The telephone rang and she picked up the cordless. “Hello?”

It was Antoine Dufour. “How is our heroine of the day faring?”

“Better. She had a long rest and resurfaced about an hour ago. I...”

A noise that sounded like a muffled, strangled cry diverted Madame Azoul’s attention. Was it coming from the garage?

“Madame Azoul?! What’s happening?” The concern in Antoine’s voice was very real.

Madame Azoul moved the phone away from her ear and called Yasmine several times. There was no answer. The silence was not normal. She pulled herself together and headed down the hallway, a lump in her throat. “I don’t know, Monsieur Dufour... I... I’m going to look for Yasmine.”

Her daughter’s room was empty. Madame Azoul advanced cautiously toward the railing of the stairway leading to the garage. As she opened the door on the landing, she was surprised by the cool draft that raised the hair on her forearms. Then she caught sight of the words painted on the hood of Yasmine’s tiny Renault Twingo and stared in horror: BETRAYAL = PUNISHMENT.

“Yasmine? Yasmine?!” Madame Azoul’s voice rose several octaves.

“Monsieur Dufour... Come quickly! Come quickly! Someone’s broken into my daughter’s place!” she wailed into the receiver.

In the trunk of a car speeding down the highway, Yasmine lay jammed against the spare tire struggling for breath.

10:30 P.M.

“We’re going to make announcements on all the television and radio stations. And some backup units are being dispatched to help out with the search.” Alexandre Suzuki, Criminal Investigation Officer, was making every effort to sound solicitous, but confronted with the anxiety in Madame Azoul’s eyes and the deathly pallor of her face, it wasn’t easy to be reassuring.

Antoine was sitting at the dining-room table, lost in thoughts of his own. Studying him out of the corner of his eye, Suzuki promised himself that he’d have a chat with him later. Suddenly, the telephone rang, making them all jump. Madame Azoul rushed for the receiver, then struggled to regain her composure, taking a deep breath before picking it up.

“The exchange will take place tomorrow at eleven P.M. The ransom is twenty thousand euros. In fifty-euro bills. You’ll receive further instructions one hour before delivery.”

The voice was harsh and sounded disguised. The most accurate description Madame Azoul could come up with was to say that it sounded fake.

“Impossible to locate the call,” interjected a police officer.

“Twenty-four hours, only twenty-four hours!” Suzuki cursed.

They had just hung up the phone when it rang again. Antoine leaped from his chair and snatched up the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

“It’s me, Hinda... They’re asking for a ransom? Oh my God, that’s awful!” She was clearly very agitated.

An instant later, Mathieu knocked at the door, panting for breath. “When did Yasmine disappear?”

Madame Azoul explained the circumstances surrounding the kidnapping before leaving the room, her footsteps heavy with fatigue.

“Monsieur Dufour,” said Officer Suzuki cautiously, “we have examined the threat letter and found no conclusive evidence. No fingerprints. The culprit hasn’t left a trace.”

“Quelle merde!” Antoine exclaimed.

Suzuki went on calmly. “We’ve brought in the extremists we know to be connected to Islamic groups for questioning. They've made no secret of their religious fanaticism, but we failed to find anything incriminating when we searched their premises. We’ve turned up nothing to confirm our fears.”

With a perplexed look on his face, Suzuki mused, “Why ask for only twenty thousand euros? And no allusion to the promotion of the book. Strange.”

“But that’s made very clear in the threat letter.”

“Precisely! That’s what intrigues me. This time round, he’s stated no conditions in that regard. Unless...”

“Unless?”

“He has no intention of letting her go. We have twenty-four hours to solve all this.”

“Why he?” Antoine’s voice trembled just the right amount.

“There must be a connection between the thug who assaulted Yasmine in your bookshop, the explosion, and the kidnapper. Given the urgency of the situation, you should contact your distributors immediately and tell them to stop everything for the moment. Nevertheless, you’re quite right. We must remain open to any possibility.”

Taken aback, Antoine exclaimed, “Give in to threats?”

“Let’s just say we need to calm things down a bit. In your eyes, who, other than a lunatic, might hate Yasmine so much that they’d...”

“As far as I know, she doesn’t have any enemies.”

“A witness noticed a metallic-grey Renault Clio hatchback parked in front of Yasmine’s home toward the end of the afternoon. They couldn’t make out who the driver was, but he or she was obviously watching the place.”

“A Clio, you say!”

“That’s right, a Clio.” Suzuki was all ears.

“My wife Gabrielle drives a grey Clio. She thinks I’m having an affair with Yasmine. I’ve asked for a divorce. Her pathological jealousy is poisoning my life. She’s staying at her parents’ place at the moment with our daughter. In a sudden fit of madness she might conceivably have come by here, looking for some sort of evidence to support her phony accusations. Gabrielle is definitely unpredictable, but she’s not a criminal.”

“Unpredictable?”

“She drinks too much.”

“What does your wife do for a living?”

“She’s the director of a chemical laboratory.”

“Perfect profile for putting together a homemade bomb like the one that wrecked your bookshop.”

“Hold it right there. You’re going too far. And you’ve got things wrong. She was at work that day. I’m not trying to find alibis for her, but it would be hard to imagine Gabrielle’s trembling fingers assembling a bomb. Since she hit the bottle she’s been plagued by clumsiness, even at work. In fact, just recently she burned herself preparing a solution without her gloves on. She was handling acid like a beginner.”

“Like a beginner?”

“Yes. You hardly need to be an expert to know that you add acid to water and not the other way around. That’s high-school stuff.”

“I don’t remember what I learned in chemistry at high school!”

“I’m married to a specialist on the subject.”

“Exactly! Now, there’s a lead worth exploring.” Despite Antoine’s display of scepticism, Suzuki’s voice was charged with innuendo.

“Il n'y a pas de fumée sans feu, Monsieur Dufour.”

“If you’re trying to be funny, think again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Fumée, feu, Dufour.”

“You strike me as very defensive about the matter... How would you describe your relationship with Yasmine Azoul?”

“I’m just her publisher and a friend. Gabrielle imagines the most dramatic betrayal scenarios every time a woman gets anywhere near me.”

Friday, October 5, 9:00 A.M.

Antoine informed all the relevant people in the book industry about the measures that had to be taken given the seriousness of the situation. As he hung up the phone, he glanced at his desk diary. Ten thousand copies sold in two weeks! With a look of near triumph on his face, Antoine crushed the fax his accountant had sent on September 21 with the words “...declare bankruptcy...” The media were giving the shocking event wide coverage. Skin Deep was selling like hotcakes.

Mathieu popped into the back office. “Gabrielle doesn’t suspect a thing, Antoine!”

“That’s the whole idea!” responded Antoine, slipping on his coat.

Mathieu stepped to one side to let him by. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got an appointment with the accountant, and later this morning I’m seeing my lawyer, Maître Legrand. I won’t let that bitch take my daughter away from me!”

The accountant shook Antoine’s hand warmly and offered him a seat.

“Your increase in profits couldn’t have come at a better time, Monsieur Dufour.”

“I really thought it was game over.”

“So did I. But fortune has smiled on you.”

Antoine sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Please excuse my lack of tact. I’ve been following the whole business in the press. This story is really taking on unbelievable proportions.”

Sensing that the conversation was moving toward an embarrassing subject, the accountant handed Antoine the latest inventory and offered him a quick overview of the new state of his finances. The situation was so encouraging that when he left the accountant’s office—despite the gravity of the circumstances—Antoine could no longer contain his joy and executed a little dance in the corridor. As he did so, he felt his cell phone vibrate.

“Maeva, my little sweetheart.”

“How are you, Daddy?”

“Almost better now that I hear your voice. Everything all right with Mommy?”

“Yes. But I’ve got a feeling we’re going to stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s forever!”

“That’s just a feeling, sweetheart. Everything will soon be back to normal.”

“Have you made up with Mommy?”

Antoine evaded the question and said he was sorry to have to cut the call short. He promised his daughter that he would see her again soon.

9:50 P.M.

The kidnapper was going to call in approximately ten minutes to give his instructions. Antoine emerged from Yasmine’s bathroom, where he’d been splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to wash away the stress he was feeling, and joined the others in the living room/library. Officer Suzuki was pacing to and fro between the window and the desk where the telephone sat in its place of honor. The two police officers positioned on either side of Madame Azoul were trying to reassure her. The poor woman was distraught. Hinda sat silent and nervous, holding her head between her hands and massaging her temples impatiently.

At 10:00 P.M. precisely, the phone rang and they all listened carefully to the voice on the other end. “Madame Azoul, you will place the money in the public garbage bin located behind the bookshop, next to the bus shelter. This will be your punishment for having raised a miscreant. If you call the police, you’ll be digging Yasmine Azoul’s grave.”

“Don’t hurt my daughter!” implored Madame Azoul, a tremor in her voice.

“It all depends on you. Do as you’re told and she will live.”

“I want to speak to Yasmine!” she rushed to add.

“You don’t get it, do you? My orders are all that count. Just get the dough together.”

“But—” There was no one there.

A glimmer of light appeared in Suzuki’s eyes. “We’ve located the call: Senlis!”

“Senlis!” repeated Antoine with surprise. He swallowed hard to prevent himself from saying more.

A flash of hope lit up Madame Azoul’s face.

A squad of policemen escorted Yasmine’s mother to the Dufour-Planchon bookshop while Suzuki and Antoine, followed by three police cars, raced towards Senlis.

Antoine eyed the GPS nervously. “If that lunatic has touched a single hair on Yasmine’s head...”

“Take it easy. We’re only five hundred meters away.”

Suzuki slowed down, pulled over, and parked.

“A telephone booth! Merde! Merde! Merde!” he exclaimed seconds later, kicking the curb. He called the squad and ordered them to follow the kidnapper’s exact instructions. “Don’t intervene before the exchange.”

Antoine got out of the car. “I told you that Gabrielle is living at her parents’ at the moment... They live in Senlis.”

“Why didn’t you say so before? What’s the address?”

“Twelve bis, rue Meaux. I’ll show you the way.”

The shutters of the house were closed. Suzuki walked up the driveway, approaching under the cover of three hidden policemen, and hammered on the door. “Madame Dufour! Police!... Open up! Madame Dufour!” He pounded harder.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Gabrielle opened the door. Suzuki showed her his badge.

“What’s going on?” Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she caught sight of Yasmine staggering across the garden on the arm of a police officer.

“She was in the shed at the back of the garden,” he shouted.

Gabrielle rubbed her eyes. “But... what’s she doing here? At my parents’ place?”

“That’s what you’re going to tell us back at the police station,” Suzuki replied coldly. There was something in Gabrielle’s attitude that struck him as aggressive. She looked heavy, but strong, too.

“At the police station?... You must be mistaken,” she stammered in a panicky voice.

Suzuki handcuffed her and contacted the other squad. “Yasmine is safe and sound. It was just a diversionary tactic or a test of some sort. Who knows? You can bring back the ransom.”

Antoine was upstairs folding Maeva’s belongings into a suitcase. His little girl would spend the rest of the night back in her own bed. At home.

Monday, October 8

The associates Dufour and Planchon, Yasmine, her mother, and Hinda, co-author of the book that was all the buzz, listened to the anchorwoman on the midday news praising the police for their professionalism as she described the kidnapping. “Drama and literature. When jealousy intrudes upon publishing...”

Yasmine was still very shaken. She had been sedated with sleeping pills and her mind was muddled and confused. She’d been unable to identify Gabrielle with any certainty as her aggressor.

A few months later...

Ensconced in an armchair, Mathieu was browsing through the book reviews in Livres Hebdo. He had just lit his pipe, and the pleasant smell of his tobacco wafted through the room. The victorious grin he wore on his face reminded Antoine of that eventful day that had marked the beginning of their glory. Antoine let his thoughts drift. The Paul Morand Literary Prize had been awarded to the authors of Skin Deep. “A work outstanding for the quality of its thinking, its spirit of independence, and, of course, its style.”

Antoine glanced out the window. Under the awning stood Gabrielle, wiping her feet on the doormat.

“Maeva! Your mommy’s here!”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Antoine and Gabrielle exchanged a few civilities. She was still full of resentment toward Antoine. The divorce proceedings were underway and he had custody of Maeva. Despite certain unresolved inconsistencies, Gabrielle remained the principal suspect in the Azoul affair. Her lawyer had succeeded in getting her free on bail until the trial took place and she was only authorized to see Maeva every second Saturday, and no later than 5:00 P.M.

“Okay, Mommy, let’s go!”

Gabrielle’s eyes misted over with tears at the sight of her daughter. Antoine placed a kiss on Maeva’s turned-up nose and smiled thinly at Gabrielle, but in his gut he was saying, “She’s my daughter. Nobody will ever take her away from me. Not even you. I hope you’ve got that clear.”

A quarter of an hour later, Farouk stepped into the house, looking his usual self with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a navy-blue cap on his head. Always on the lookout for a good scam, he wore a broad smile on his face. He was coming to receive his due: a handsome sum of money. Thanks to him, the company Dufour-Planchon was flourishing. A bottle filled with explosives was all it had taken to trigger a media hype around the novel of Yasmine Azoul and Hinda Wafi.

“Now, that’s how you make a bestseller!” boasted Antoine as he greeted Farouk.

Mathieu teased his associate as he poured the drinks. “'Honors dishonor, decorations degrade, and duties demean!’”

“Monsieur’s quoting Flaubert! What’s to be done if literary publishing can’t be measured by the number of books sold?” There was a hint of humor in Antoine’s voice.

“Create a drama!” Mathieu pointed to the sky with his index finger, aping a visionary.

Antoine and Farouk roared with laughter.

“And what a drama!” Farouk exclaimed. “Madame Dufour’s jealousy and Yasmine Azoul’s naiveté really served your cause well. I must say, Mathieu is a good actor. How many detective films have you two guys seen? Mathieu had his role of kidnapper down pat. And that threatening letter was the work of a real pro!”

“They saw the smoke but not the fire. You know, I was mailing that letter at the very moment you were blowing up the bookshop window,” Antoine remarked.

Mathieu held out a Kir Royale to Farouk. “That literary award was the icing on the cake!”

“It certainly was,” Antoine agreed, raising his glass to drink to their success. They all clinked glasses.

That evening, Antoine and Mathieu would be throwing one of those dinners that play such a fundamental role in maintaining good relations with key public figures, journalists, and influential members of organizations that award literary prizes.

Suzuki could count any number of affairs in which the husband, neighbor, or associate was guilty, but where evidence was lacking. This particularly tangled case was obsessing him. There were too many things that Gabrielle Dufour didn’t know. Was it all a huge sham? Maybe not. He had to explore other avenues.

“A literary prize guarantees the survival of a publishing house,” he pointed out to his colleague as he backed into a parallel parking space.

In the rearview mirror, he noticed a tall fellow with a cap on his head leaving Antoine Dufour’s place.

© 2007 by Renée Yim; translation (c) 2007 by Mary Kennedy