Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

He thought of Frank, sitting at Radio Monte Carlo waiting for the phone to ring and that voice, wherever it came from, promising another victim.

I kill…

He instinctively quickened his step and stopped in front of a blue awning with white letters that said CAFÉ DES ARTS ET DES ARTISTES. Judging from the number of customers, business was good. Every outdoor table was taken.

Inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. Because of the crowd, it was very busy behind the counter. A barman and a couple of twenty-five-year-old girls were preparing aperitifs and appetizers.

He ordered a Kir Royal from a blonde who nodded as she opened a bottle of white wine. After a little while, she handed him a glass full of rose-coloured liquid.

‘Could I speak to the boss?’ he asked as he put the drink to his lips.

‘Over there.’

The girl gestured towards a man of about thirty with thinning hair who was coming through a glass door that said PRIVATE at the back of the restaurant. Nicolas wondered how he should explain his presence and his questions. Once the owner of Café des Arts et des Artistes was standing in front of him, he opted for the official version.

‘Excuse me…’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Inspector Hulot from the Sûreté Publique of the Principality of Monaco.’ Nicolas showed him his badge. ‘I’d like to ask you a favour, Monsieur…’

‘Francis. Robert Francis.’

‘Monsieur Francis, we understand that this restaurant was once a record shop called Disque à Risque and that it belonged to your father.’

The man looked surprised. ‘Well… yes, but the store closed several years ago.’

Hulot smiled reassuringly. He changed his tone and attitude.

‘Don’t worry, Robert. Neither you nor your father is in any trouble. I know it sounds strange, but the shop might be a key element in an investigation we’re working on. All I need is to speak to your father and ask him a few questions, if possible.’

Robert Francis relaxed. He turned to the blonde girl behind the counter and pointed at Nicolas’s glass.

‘Give me one too, Lucie.’

While waiting for the drink, he turned back to the inspector. ‘My father retired a few years ago. The record store wasn’t making much money. Actually, it never really made anything, but the last couple of years were a disaster. My stubborn old man is a dealer in hard-to-find records, but he sold fewer than he put into his personal collection. He’s a great collector but a lousy businessman.’

Hulot was relieved that Francis spoke of him in the present tense. The flame of hope still burned.

‘So at a certain point, we did a little accounting and decided to close the record shop, and then I opened this.’ He waved his hand at the crowded restaurant.

‘Looks like it was worth the change.’

A whole different story. And I assure you that the oysters we serve are fresh, not dusty like my father’s records.’

Lucie pushed a glass towards her boss. Francis picked it up and raised the flûte to the inspector. Nicolas did the same.

‘To your investigation.’

‘To your restaurant and to old records.’

They took a sip and Francis placed his glass back on the counter. ‘My father is probably at home right now. Did you take the motorway from Monte Carlo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Just follow the signs back. There’s a Novotel by the motorway exit and right behind the hotel is a two-storey brick house with a tiny garden and rose bushes. That’s where my father lives. You can’t miss it. Can I offer you anything in the meantime?’

Hulot raised his glass with a smile. ‘This will do just fine.’ He put out his hand and Francis shook it.

‘Thank you, Monsieur Francis. You have no idea what a help you’ve been.’

As Hulot left the bistro, he saw a waiter opening oysters and shellfish at the coquillage counter. He would have liked to stop and see if the oysters were as fresh as Francis claimed, but he didn’t have time.

He went back the way he had come. He could hear the hacking from Tattoo’s news-stand. The chess players were no longer there and the bookshop was closed. It was lunchtime.

As he headed to his car, he passed the cafe where he had had his cup of coffee. Under the tree, the Hulot-cat was now sitting in place of the Roncaille-cat, calmly washing his dark, furry tail as he observed the world around him through half-closed eyes. Hulot figured there was no reason why he shouldn’t take that feline revenge as a sign of good luck.

Jean-Paul Francis screwed on the cap of the plastic spray bottle and pressed down several times to pump up the insecticide. Taking the sprayer by the handle, he went over to a rose bush next to a green, plastic-covered metal grating that served as a fence and examined the small branches. Parasites completely covered the stems with white fuzz.

‘This means war,’ he said aloud in a solemn tone.

He pressed the lever and a jet of insecticide and water vapour burst out of the nozzle. Starting at the base, he sprayed all along the trunk, evenly distributing the mixture over the entire bush. As he had imagined, the insecticide smelled awful and he congratulated himself on having remembered to put on a stiff gauze mask so as not to breathe in the chemical, which was labelled POISONOUS IF SWALLOWED. KEEP OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN. Even though he figured that at his age he could probably inject the stuff without doing himself any harm.

As he sprayed, he saw out of the corner of his eye a little Peugeot come up the driveway just beyond the garden. Cars did not stop there very often, except when the hotel across the way was full and there was nowhere to park. He saw a tired-looking man get out of the car – he was about fifty-five with neatly cut salt-and-pepper hair. Jean-Paul Francis looked around for a minute and then, putting down the sprayer, headed resolutely to his gate, without even giving his visitor time to ring. The man before him smiled. ‘Monsieur Francis?’

‘Himself.’

The man showed him a badge in a leather holder. His photo was visible on the document, protected by a piece of plastic.

‘Inspector Hulot of the Monaco Police.’

‘If you’ve come to arrest me, you should know that taking care of this garden is prison enough already. A jail cell would be a wonderful alternative.’

The inspector started to laugh in spite of himself. ‘That’s what they mean by not being afraid of the law. Have you got a clear conscience or a long life of crime?’

‘It’s the fault of evil women who broke my heart over and over again,’ laughed Jean-Paul. ‘Won’t you come inside to hear my confession? Otherwise the neighbours might think you’re a brush salesman.’

Nicolas went into the garden and Jean-Paul Francis closed the gate behind him. He was wearing faded jeans, a light denim shirt and a battered straw hat. The gauze mask hung at his neck so that he could talk. Thick, white hair poked out from under the hat. His eyes, made a vivid blue by his tan, looked like a child’s. Altogether he had a friendly, appealing face.

Nicolas Hulot returned his firm handshake.

‘I didn’t come to arrest you, if that makes you feel any better. And I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.’

Jean-Paul Francis shrugged his shoulders as he removed the hat and mask. He would make an excellent understudy for Anthony Hopkins.

‘I garden out of boredom, not by choice. I’ll take any excuse to stop. Please come in. It’s cooler inside.’

They crossed the tiny garden and a cement patio, corroded by time and weather, just like the gate and the front door. It was not a luxurious house, light-years from some of the dwellings on the Côte d’Azur, but it was neat and clean. Three small steps and they were inside. There was a stairway leading up and two symmetrically placed doors leading to rooms either side.