Dominique Manotti: Dead Horsemeat

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.