Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Nicolas was accustomed to judging houses in a flash and he immediately recognized that the owner was not wealthy, but rich in culture, good taste and ideas. He could tell by looking at the enormous number of books and knick-knacks; the paintings and posters on the walls might not be originals but were obviously chosen with care and a knowledge of art. The most impressive sight, however, was the record collection. It spilled from every corner of the house. He glanced through the door on the right and could see a living room where a huge sound system had pride of place, probably the only consumer luxury in the house. The rest of the room’s walls were covered with shelves holding vinyl LPs and CDs.

‘You’re a music lover, I gather.’

‘I was never able to choose my passions, so I let them choose me.’

Jean-Paul Francis led the way, going into the room on the left. Nicolas found himself in a kitchen with an open door leading to what looked like a storage room. On the other side was a small terrace opening directly on to the garden.

‘No music here, as you can see. One shouldn’t mix two types of nourishment. Something to drink? An aperitif?’

‘No, thank you. I had one with your son.’

‘Oh, you were at Robert’s.’

‘He told me how to get here.’

Jean-Paul looked at the sweat stains under his own arms. He had the sly smile of a child who has just invented a new game. He checked the Swatch on his wrist.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I have an idea. Mme Sivoire, my housekeeper’ – he stopped with a puzzled look – ‘actually, she’s my cleaning lady, but she likes “housekeeper” better and it makes me feel more important, too. Mme Sivoire, 100 per cent Italian and a fine cook, left me some lasagna al pesto, all ready to slip in the oven. Mme Sivoire might not be much to look at, but her lasagna is absolutely above reproach.’

Nicolas could not help laughing again. The man was a force of nature and his warmth was irresistible. He must have quite a story to tell with that extraordinary world view. Or at least Nicolas hoped so.

‘I didn’t intend to stop for lunch, but I wouldn’t want to offend Mme Sivoire.’

‘Terrific. I’ll have a shower while the lasagna is heating up. My underarms could kill a man, and how could I explain the dead body of a police inspector in my kitchen?’

Jean-Paul Francis took a glass baking dish out of the refrigerator and slid it into the oven, regulating the temperature and the timer. From his skill at handling the appliances, one could see that this was the house of a man who either loved food or lived alone: not that one excluded the other.

‘There we go. We’ll eat in ten minutes. Or fifteen.’

He left the kitchen and disappeared up the stairs, whistling. A moment later, from below, Hulot could hear the splash of the shower and Jean-Paul Francis’s baritone in a rendition of ‘The Lady is a Tramp’.

When he returned, he was dressed in the same style, but with a clean shirt. His hair was combed back, still damp.

‘That’s better. Recognize me?’

Nicolas looked at him, puzzled. ‘Of course.’

‘Funny, I always feel like a different person after a shower. I can tell you’re a real policeman.’

Hulot laughed again. The man’s good humour was infectious. His host laid the table on the small terrace overlooking the garden, handing him a bottle of white wine and a corkscrew. ‘Could you open this while I take out the lasagna?’

Nicolas was pulling out the cork just as Jean-Paul placed the steaming dish of lasagna on the place mat at the centre of the table.

‘Here we are. Please, sit down.’ Jean-Paul served him a copious helping of pasta. ‘Go ahead and eat. In this house, etiquette is only applied to wine,’ he said as he served himself an equally large portion.

‘Delicious,’ said Hulot with his mouth full.

‘What did I tell you? This is proof that, whatever you want from me, I’m a man of my word.’

Nicolas Hulot could now reveal the reason he was there, hotter than anything out of the oven.

‘You had a record shop some years back, didn’t you?’ he asked, cutting a piece of lasagna with his fork.

From the man’s expression, he realized that he had touched a nerve.

‘Yes. I closed it seven years ago. Music of quality has never done good business around here.’

Hulot was careful not to mention his son’s remarks on the matter. Pouring salt into the wound was useless, especially since it obviously still smarted. He decided to be frank with his host. He liked the man and knew it would be okay to tell him part of the story.

‘We’re looking for a murderer back in Monte Carlo, Monsieur Francis.’

‘Isn’t it right about now that the two heroes of the movie start calling each other by their first names? Mine’s Jean-Paul.’

‘Nicolas.’

‘When you say a “murderer in Monte Carlo”, you don’t mean the fellow who calls in to the radio, do you? The guy they call No One?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I admit I’ve been following the story, like millions of people. You get goose bumps hearing that voice. How many has he killed?’

‘Four. And I’m sure you’ve heard about the way he does it. The worst thing is that we don’t have the slightest idea of how to stop him from doing it again.’

‘He must be sly as a whole pack of foxes. He listens to lousy music, but he must have a fierce brain.’

‘I agree with you about the brain. I came to talk to you about the music.’

Nicolas delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out the printouts that Guillaume had given him. He unfolded one and handed it to Jean-Paul.

‘Recognize this record?’

The man took the sheet of paper and looked at it. Nicolas thought he saw him pale. Jean-Paul stared at him with his blue, childlike eyes full of wonder.

‘Where did you get this picture?’

‘It’s too long to explain. All you need to know is that we have good reason to believe the record belongs to the killer and was purchased from your shop.’

He handed Jean-Paul the other picture, the one with the label bearing the name of the shop. This time, Jean-Paul definitely blanched. His words stuck in his throat. ‘But…’

‘Do you recognize this record? Do you know what it might mean? Who is Robert Fulton?’

Jean-Paul pushed his plate away and opened his arms. ‘Who is Robert Fulton? Any jazz lover who goes beyond Louis Armstrong knows who he is. And any music collector would give his right hand for one of his records.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, as far as I know, there are only ten copies in existence in the entire world.’

This time it was Nicolas’s turn to grow pale. Jean-Paul poured himself a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair. Suddenly, Mme Sivoire’s lasagna seemed to have lost all its flavour.

‘Robert Fulton was one of the greatest trumpet players in the history of jazz. Unfortunately, as so often happens, he was a musical genius but mad as a hatter. He never wanted to record because he was convinced that music couldn’t and shouldn’t be imprisoned. As far as he was concerned, the only way to enjoy it was live, in concert. In other words, music is a different experience every time and can’t be fixed in some static, unchangeable format.’

‘So where does this record come from?’

‘I’m getting there. In the summer of 1960 he went on a short tour of America, playing in clubs with some of the best session-men of the day. A historic series of concerts. At the Be-Bop Café in New York, some friends made arrangements with a record label and recorded the concert live without telling him. They pressed 500 records and hoped Fulton would change his mind when he heard the recording.’