Murder in Belleville

Wednesday Evening

BERNARD PACED OUTSIDE MINISTER Guittard’s office, rubbing his eyes and trying to come up with an excuse to decline negotiating. The high, frescoed ceilings, painted murals with cavorting angels, and diamond parquetry flooring were lost on him—so intent was he on his thoughts that he didn’t notice a man emerging from the office until he collided with him.

“Je m’excuse,” he said and looked into the face of Philippe de Froissart.

Philippe, his old classmate from Fxole Nationale d’administration, looked older, dissipated, bags under his bloodshot eyes.

“Ça va, Philippe?” Bernard asked.

“Rolling with the punches,” Philippe said, his smile forced. He gave Bernard a tepid handshake, then moved on.

Bernard remembered Philippe back in the 1968 Sorbonne riots, a fiery demonstrator on the front lines, passionate about his ideals. He’d also attracted the female students. After graduation Philippe had cast his lot with the Socialistes. Later, he’d emerged as Secrétaire d’ Etat à la Défense, a governor in the Defense Ministry. He’d done well, ranking high in the food chain of power.

Where had their youth gone, Bernard wondered, and the feeling that they could make a difference?

“Minister Guittard expects you, Berge,” Lucien Nedelec said, smoothing his thin moustache. He rose and gestured Bernard forward. “Your plan backfired,” he added. “Miserably, in fact. But we know you can do better.”

“Nedelec, why me?” Bernard said. “My job belongs with another ministry section.”

“Mais you’re perfect, Berge,” Nedelec said, buttoning his double-breasted suit jacket and ushering him forward.

“I don’t understand,” Bernard said, halting at the door.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Nedelec shook his head. “It’s your background, Berge! The minister’s enamored of how as a pied’noir, born in Algeria, you uphold the law.”

Bernard saw the reflection in the glass-paned doors and briefly wondered about the old man with the haunted look beside him. With a start, he realized he was staring at himself.