Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘And that’s why it’s called Stolen Music ?’

‘Right. Except they never thought he would react the way he did. Fulton went berserk and destroyed all the copies. He made them give him the masters and he destroyed those, too. The story went around the world and became something of a legend. Everyone embellished it in the telling. The only thing that’s certain is that only ten records were saved. To collectors, they’re worth far more than their weight in gold. I had one of the ten.’

‘You mean you still have the record?’

‘I said I had, not I have. I went through some hard times…’ Jean-Paul looked at his tanned hands, spotted with age. The memories coming to his mind weren’t good ones.

‘My wife died of cancer. The business was going badly. I mean, really badly. I needed money for her treatment and that record was worth a fortune. So…’

Jean-Paul let out a sigh, and it sounded like he had been holding his breath for a lifetime. ‘When I sold it, with all the regret in the world, I put the store label on the sleeve as if that was a way of holding on to it. That record was one of the few things I really felt was mine, aside from my wife and son. Three things can add up to a real fortune in one man’s life.’

Nicolas Hulot’s heart was beating in his chest as if it were the piston of a very powerful engine. Pronouncing each word with great care, he asked the question in the tone of someone who fears the answer. ‘Do you remember who bought it, Jean-Paul?’

‘It’s been over fifteen years, Nicolas. He was a strange character, about my age, more or less. He used to come to the store to buy records, rare stuff, collectors’ items. Money seemed to be no object, so I admit that I sometimes fleeced him a little. When he found out I had a copy of Stolen Music, he kept after me for months to sell it to him. I always refused, but then, as I told you… Necessity can turn a man into a thief… or a salesman. Or sometimes both.’

‘I need a name.’

‘I’m not a computer. I couldn’t forget that record if I lived for a thousand years. But anything else…’ He ran his fingers through his white hair and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Nicolas leaned closer to him.

‘I don’t need to tell you how important this is, Jean-Paul. Human lives depend on it.’

Hulot wondered how many more times he would have to use those words before the business was over and done with.

‘Maybe…’

‘Maybe what?’

‘Come with me. Let’s see if you’re in luck.’

He followed Jean-Paul out of the kitchen. The man had a straight back and a head of thick, white hair, despite his age. Nicolas caught the faint scent of his cologne. In the foyer they turned left and the man led the way downstairs.

They came to an unfinished basement. There was a washing machine next to the sink on one side, a woman’s bicycle hanging on the wall and a workbench with a vice and tools for working wood and metal.

On the other side of the room was a row of metal shelves with jars of preserves and bottles of wine. At the far end, there were boxfiles and cardboard crates of different sizes and colours.

‘I’m a man of memories. I’m a collector. And almost all collectors are soppy and nostalgic. Except the ones who collect money.’

Jean-Paul stopped in front of one of the shelves and stood looking at it, puzzled. ‘Hmm. Let’s see…’

He made his choice and pulled down a fairly large blue cardboard box from one of the higher shelves. On one side was the gold label of the shop, Disque à Risque. He placed the box on the workbench next to the vice and turned on the overhead light.

‘This is all that’s left of my business. Not much to show for a large part of my life, eh?’

Sometimes even a little can be too much, Nicolas thought. There are people who don’t need any boxes at the end of the journey, big or small. Sometimes even pockets are too much.

Jean-Paul opened the box and started rummaging inside, taking out papers that looked like old commercial licences, concert brochures and fliers for record fairs. Then he pulled out a note on blue paper folded in half. He looked at what was written on it and handed it to Nicolas.

‘Here. It’s your lucky day. The man who bought Stolen Music wrote this himself. He left me his number when he found out I had a copy of the record. Now that I think of it, he came in a couple more times after I sold it to him, and then I never saw him again…’

Nicolas read what was written on the piece of paper. There was a name and phone number, in a determined, precise script: Legrand 04/422 1545.

It was a strange moment for Hulot. After so much running, so many distorted voices, camouflaged bodies, inscrutable fingerprints and echoless footsteps; after so many shadows and faceless bodies. Finally, he had something human in his hands, and it was the most ordinary thing in the world: a name and phone number.

Hulot felt drained. He looked at Jean-Paul Francis, unable to find the right words. His host, who had possibly just rescued a number of innocent victims, smiled.

‘From your expression, I’d say you’re pleased. If this were a movie, as I said before, the music would start to swell.’

‘More than that, Jean-Paul. Much more than that…’

He pulled out his mobile phone but his new friend stopped him. ‘There’s no reception down here. We have to go upstairs. Come on.’

They went back up. As Nicolas’s mind started racing, Jean-Paul added more information from the scraps that remained in his memory.

‘He was from somewhere around here – Cassis, if I remember correctly. A big guy, tall but not too tall. He had a military look, if you know what I mean. It was his eyes, I think. They seemed to be looking without the possibility of being looked at in return. That’s the best way I can describe it. I remember that I thought it was strange that someone like him would be interested in jazz.’

‘Well, for someone who’s not a computer, you’ve remembered quite a bit.’

Jean-Paul turned to him on the stairs and smiled. ‘Have I? I’m beginning to feel proud of myself.’

‘You have a lot to be proud of. This is just one thing more.’

They got back to the ground floor and the sunlight. The pasta on the table was cold and the wine was warm. A triangle of light was hitting the terrace floor and climbing up the leg of the table like ivy.

Hulot looked at his phone and saw from the display that there was now a signal. He wondered whether he should risk it and shrugged his shoulders. His anxiety about wire tapping was probably just paranoia. He pressed the button for a memorized number and waited to hear the voice on the other end.

‘Morelli. It’s Hulot. I need two things from you. Information and silence. Can you handle it?’

‘Sure.’ One of Morelli’s best qualities was his ability to avoid pointless questions.

‘I’m going to give you a name and phone number. The number might be out of service. It’s probably in Provence. Let me know the address, pronto.’

‘Okay.’

He gave the sergeant the data in his possession and ended the call.

‘Cassis, you said?’ He asked Jean-Paul for confirmation, but he was really just repeating it to himself.

‘I think so. Cassis, Auriol, Roquefort. I really don’t remember, but I think that’s the district.’

‘I’ll have to take a trip out that way.’

Hulot glanced around the house again, as if he wanted to remember every detail. Then he looked Jean-Paul straight in the eye. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I shoot off now. I’m in a hurry. I think you understand.’

‘I know how you feel. No, that’s not true. I don’t know – I can only imagine. I hope you find what you’re looking for. I’ll show you out.’