CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: 22, THE V'LA FINALLY!
Back in his office, Thierry Leray has little time to breathe. Two blows in the door, squeaking treble bell, a strong smell of rotten socks, an aura of suspicion, an aftertaste of indiscretion. No doubt, these are cops.
- Whom have I the honor? inquired the editor in his garage door.
- Commissioner Tissot, BAC, says a great individual horsy face, bone, expressionless, pale gray, unfriendly, sad, almost hateful.
- Inspector Goux, BAC ditto, mumbles a bald bruiser that appears on both sides of the slender silhouette of his head.
- What is it, this tray? You are examiner education or sailors?
- Do not mess. Moreover, the questions is that we ask them. So do not malignant, my little man. The LAC is the Anti-Crime Brigade. And you'll tell us about the crimes of Odile Garnier ...
- But she has not committed any crime. Instead, she is ...
- Shut up! We told you she killed, she told old crimes. But are not yet classified, judged, amnesty. The case of Resistance, especially ... You understand us?
- Ah, yes. In that case, what do you want?
- Tell us everything!
- Everything, what?
- Everything about the book, folders ...
Thierry Leray has difficulty understanding what the two sleuths seeking. However, impressed by the sinister countenance of the Commissioner and biceps protruding from the deputy, he told investigators all he knows, they read Murder at the Priory in full, they said the documents attached by the author in his novel, they shows newspaper clippings he has collected in a cardboard folder, he explains his old failed projects, its current concerns and future questions ...
- My dear sir, we thank you. Your testimony will be very valuable.
Intonation has changed. Commissioner Tissot draft even a smile, which turns gradually into hyena grin.
- Is this a ploy to get me out of the nose to others? Leray dream, which is careful not to show any reaction.
- Sure, you stay at our disposal, the Commissioner takes on a tone less agreeable. Do not leave your home during fortnight, is not it? The inspector will return Goux, if necessary ...
- Understood, boss! burp Assistant, by massaging his wrists.
- Could I at least get some tips? Do you see a link between the novel and the death of ...?
- Yes, replied the Commissioner, cold, cold, frozen.
- And how did you get the idea ...?
- The telegram of her husband. After this last
concise indication, the two police officers salute the editor of an evasive action, leaving his house and will step into an Alfa Romeo parked in the pink corner. The telegram
? Yeah ... That it Jérôme Garnier has announced the final identification of Odile and time of burial. Without doubt he had found the address of the editor in the papers of his wife. Installed
Voltaire in his chair before a warm mug of Paulaner, and facing a TV mute, Thierry Leray tries to regain his senses. What bloody ambush was precipitated when he decided to publish Murder at the Priory? It would have been better to return the case to its sender ... But it was the first project of the Imagination Workshop! And it was a former student of a second to 2 ...
A sip of beer to help change the world, he sees himself in the summer of 1967, sitting in a Bavarian brewery in Regensburg and Augsburg, the air is hot, the blare of the orchestra through his brain; around the table, the guests ranged from right to left, arms entwined, shouting in chorus: "Ein, zwei, gsuffa! In his neck facing the wet lips of a little blonde. Odile Garnier? No, she called Edeltraud. The summer of his first trip across the Rhine ... Thierry Leray in his dark memories ...
The Ringer phone pulls from his reverie.
- Yes! Thierry Leray, editions of the Imagination Workshop. Whom do I ...
- Bernard Diaz. You remember our evening in Paris? In the barge. We talked a lot about the Internet. So here ...
- Okay. I commend you. The Friend of Jean-Pierre ...
- Right. I told you about my activities as a blogger.
- From joker too.
- Joking aside, exploring the blogosphere, I came across the website of your fellow Lenoir, the Sherlock Nivernais.
- Do not tell me about this zigoto! It keeps me from thrillers to revive the nuts. And I discovered recently it was an infamous plagiarist.
- That I am aware. Imagine that his famous masterpiece The Touch of Evil, was already the title of a poem circulating on the web, as well as a screenplay. But that's another reason I'm calling. I went through his blog and it seems that many texts refer to your little ode
... - No, Odile.
- Banco. Come to Odile. You told me she was gone.
- Missing body and property. Found. Dead and buried. Murdered.
- Condolences, my dear.
- Cops are on the case and they just told me to cook.
- Not too bad, I hope? A tip: you plug quickly on jlenoir.enigma @ orange.fr
- Thanks. Have you heard of Jean-Pierre? I was told he was out on assignment ...
- in Hungary. He works for the Pinard Unleashed, a new food magazine comic, it seems. In fact, if you return to Paris, come have a drink in my home-boat. Adios, amigo!
- Adios, well hello to the little Paris!
- Paris in Paris, it's over, she left with a Chinese tourist, a textile magnate was to guide it in the shops in the Sentier. Do you not worry about me, it will be replaced ... These interim!
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SURFING THE WAVE ...
jlenoir.enigma @ orange.fr Beautiful presentation. Amid rainbow sky, the portrait of Sherlock Nivernais encrusted in three dimensions. Real thing, it's an ace showing off! Now it is a neo-Gothic mansion, probably his modest house ... Oh, that's the menu. Ask the menu!
1 - How we become over-sherlockholmes.
2 - Early Life and Work of Great Joel Lenoir, his family, his tastes, his habits, his music, his mannerisms ... etc ...
3 - MAGNUM OPUS 357 Jo L. Lenoir.
4 - Letters to the fans and especially fans.
5 - idiots and that connes me jealous ... and that J'emm
6 - fatrasies and whims. Comedy and humor.
7 - Ephemeris, horoscope dates and favorites.
8 - My Photos of Me and those of others.
9 - Visit of the mansion led by the Master.
& - THE BLOG, The Most famous all around the web blog.
Nothing original, if hypertrophy of the ego. I know that, among novelists. Let us look at the blog. Here, he celebrated the day of infamy, funny poem anti-lepen to mark the official entry in the old racist campaign: When the big blond
discovers his dog
France has forgotten his good looks
When the fascist blinks his one eye
It means danger to the Republic!
Other pages offer a mish-mash of messages to use the little great pets, puzzles, quotes, postcards, and hilarious puns are intended, references to Miss Banania (probably a groupie), the recipe for "Pate at Conard-Ass," the instructions of the "razor nose hole," an investigation into the origins of Uncle Ben, a few Photos beribboned poodle, trifles, trifles, bullshit ...
- But what Diaz has discovered that can help me in my research? In order. E-master, first. Let's see ... A letter from the famous Miss Banania accompanied by a postcard of Bamako. "Sunday in Bamako, the wedding day ..." Is this an invitation? Without interest. An email in English to a literary critic for the Washington Post, Terry Ray, unknown to the battalion. Terry Ray, well, it looks like Thierry Leray. Chance or necessity? Trick or sock puppet? What he said? No, its polar Ricans are not interested, too effete, right sluggish. "No way to get a bestseller. "Well, my almost namesake is not tender. Time to move on. A quote from Jean Yanne, "You've read the Old Testament? No, who has inherited? "Lenoir would it have affinities with dirty humor and dumb? "The country is not that of Pineau pastis' it is not Jean Yanne, it comes from Learn to speak Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre? Jean-Pierre Mourlon? Or another? Oh, so hollow phrase, it's Jean-Pierre Raffarin. Still no trace of the abduction Odile, let alone the murder ...
Discouraged, overwhelmed by so many inanities, Thierry Leray unplugs his computer, ran to the fridge, takes out a bottle of Corona Special-Chichi and leads "to the health of future retirees." Five
gulps later, he called Bernard Diaz
- Tell me, dear friend, your finds on the blog of Lenoir, ceti paduflan?
- From the blank? You do not find anything? Absolutely nothing? Go to page Ephemeride, horoscopes, and company "...
- Are you sure?
- Yes, the pseudo-coded sherlock its info. Not the crazy wasp. First an index where nobody expected, and references to good pages. Carefully read the horoscope of the day exactly where your writer is gone.
- It was Tuesday, Feb. 20, Mardi Gras precisely.
- February 20, you will go smoothly chapter that explains everything.
- But what convinces me that Lenoir said true? I get the impression that he takes us by boat for a long time.
- I, what I tell you, is to help you.
- So thank you very much! A chao!
- Bless you! And revoyure, remember when you pass on the dock ...
- A final word. Your first name, it is Bernard? A correspondent pointed out to me that you called Jacques the Magazine ...
- Absolutely right. As there was already a Bernard Diaz accounting department when I came, I chose my middle name.
- Again, thank you. Tschüss!
- The ephemeris Lenoir ... February 20: Mardi Gras; sign of Aquarius. "Mardi Gras, go away without eating pancakes. About pancakes, close to double the killer may be prepared. Aquarius has paid too much blood, it will end in the water. "Pancakes ...? Ah, yes. An allusion bereavement. The double killer is Odile Garnier tells two murders at the Priory. So, Lenoir would have predicted his death by drowning ... No, I'm so obsessed with her disappearance that I unintentionally connects to all threats, the most outlandish predictions ... This sturdy Diaz to decipher riddles. And that's the reference - Glups! - A link to the thriller Our Dear Missing ... But we remain in fiction, and plagiarism.
Disillusioned, Thierry Leray stop his investigations there, opens a new CD is a Corona and Zachary Richard on his channel:
"Work is too hard, and stealing is not nice
To summon the charity, not for quèqu'chose well. "
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
the fog lifts THERE?
A fluffy coat invaded the shallows Loire Valley this morning. Feeling bucolic, Thierry Lenoir holds in one hand the wheel of its Twingo, the other he drummed on the dashboard.
suddenly emerges from a side road the indistinct form of a tractor. The editor's eyes widen, furious about a foot brake and self-invective. Already this week two accidents on this portion of the county. D 13. One would think that his number jinx. It should be extra careful. Especially since Leray went to interview Paris: Jérôme Garnier, husband, widower rather, the novelist, has secrets to share, and perhaps files to communicate.
"Nevers! Nevers! Two minutes of downtime! "The sound of the station is so powerful that it covers the traffic, crossing the street and into the Bar des Deux Gares, where Thierry Leray spanning a frayed leatherette seat, a glass of Adelscott to reach hand.
Until his informant, he opened his bag, pulls up three letters he has had time to mow in the bag Popaul, its assigned factor. The first is from a printer Questembert, in Morbihan, who submits estimates ruinous for printing the first volume of the complete works of Agnan Fumerol.
The second letter is decorated with a stamp Magyar Posta: the postcard included is a recipe for borscht-Tokai, is surely the journalist Jean-Pierre Mourlon, party on the banks of the Danube in search of fine wines and aromatic . "Am on Sarkozy, the birthplace of our ancestors Little Caesar, immigrants in France who would have done better to send them back ... ugh ! See you soon! That is the message content.
- Ah, he's lucky, this Mourlon! Tour of the cellars, cabarets, dance halls, with Gypsy violins and czardas. It's not for me ... Anyway! He told me, and it will bring some sweets the country well.
The third letter, wrapped in an envelope Greystone, was drafted by the former Inspector Samenot Philomena.
- Finally, what she wants me, this hag?
"Dear Mr. Editor in Chief ..."
- Chief j't'en fucking, myself. If I could afford to pay employees.
"I have not yet had the good fortune to meet you and I'm very funny ... "
- My word, she takes to the Sevigne, that one!
"I had addressed in a previous letter, a certain Pierre Volto, author of an excellent book entitled No Fire without Fumerol. Having received any response, I undertook to examine the Directory of Nièvre and luckily I discovered the existence of your famous publishing house in the town itself where I hoped to find this writer talent. Maybe you know him, and you work to disseminate his writings? "
- I just moved, I have no customers yet, and she tells me of a famous publishing house, which she obviously had no idea five minutes earlier. Expert in the art of polishing brush, I do not know if this is the function that creates the body, hum!
"The purpose of this is a reissue of No Fire without Fumerol on vellum luxury. My eldest daughter, who pursued a successful literary career, introduced me to a renowned illustrator, Raëlcrodu, which offers its hallmark for series of woodcuts depicting the adventures of quixotic Agnan Fumerol and his companions. In addition, taking advantage of the long winter evenings, a recluse in my barn Clamecy around the corner of my rustic fireplace, I translated this little gem in the five languages that my long studies helped me gain, in addition to our beautiful French language, English, German, Mingrelian, Swahili, Maori, New Zealand north. This will allow you, I doubt not, expand your customer base all five continents. In the hope of a favorable response, I am, dear sir and master, your ... "
- What Spike! Finally, I do not throw the proposal. If the wrinkly willing to advance money from the first thousand draws, it will complement the complete works of Fumerol. I still find this Valot, Volat, Voulet, I'll ask her to return Mourlon ... Ah, well, that's the husband of O ...
Indeed, a large bearded man wearing a ski jacket just ajar the door. Thierry Leray acknowledged. He saw from afar, the day of the funeral.
The moment the two men shake hands, an individual comes into massive gust of wind shakes the waitress who spills a pitcher and two cups hot chocolate. Leray can not prevent a sigh. The inspector Goux, the deputy commissioner, the commissioner ... that
- Not a word! Freeze! Follow me both! screamed the cop.
- But! ventured the publisher.
- Huh? Jérôme Garnier added.
- No, but not much less huh uh! Oh, I wish you, my lads!
Thierry Leray and Jerome Garnier leave the Bar des Deux Gares very bad option, pushed in the back by two bats of the inspector. Behind them, the boss laments
- And the bill? Who is who pays, eh?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE : THE BLUE IN BLUE
Exhausted, sore, disgusted, revolted, Thierry Leray and Jerome Garnier lean on the zinc Agricole. The editor places an order:
- For me, it will be a March beer. And you?
- Oh, I would have needed a stronger back, a double brandy, blows his companion.
- Manure ... All this to argue that we proclaim in their investigation. Shit then there are behaviors that cross the line ...
- Oh, but it will not stop there. I spend a phone call to my lawyer and I filed a complaint for mistreatment. They will pay for their blunder! Ruminants
their anger, the two men reminisce about the afternoon, evening, night, morning, and especially the abuse that cops they have inflicted.
First isolation in tiny cells. Own, but sinister. Blinding neon light. The smell of cresyl. The mesh base without a mattress, as the only furniture. The fresh air constantly passing through the transom. And no explanation. Time
What did they stay, no food, no drinking, no piss, no human presence, although their calls? The apprehension of time passing is terrible when one do not know why we wait, when you do not know why we are there, if you do not know what will happen. Leray compared his situation to several stories of inmates, the testimony of victims of the worst dictatorships. But finally we are in France, in 2007, and the police have nothing to reproach him. Mistake? Burr? Intimidation? Malfunction?
An officer came to get him, grumbling, about 23 h 30. The Commissioner was waiting in his office. It was not Tissot was a chubby little fellow, who did not even bother to attend. Sitting upside down, leaning on the back of his swivel chair, he asked a hundred questions. "Your ID? Your job? Is it true that you left a good paying job in Paris to establish yourself in your account? Where? How do you find Decize? Are you married? Odile Garnier did you know? When did you see her alive for the last time? What is the name of your father? The maiden name of your mother? Do you like Brahms? What is the size of your shoes? How old are you? The books you publish are selling well? What are your favorite authors? Have you ever gone to see the F1 races at Magny-Cours? Why not? And the film Taxi Five? Tell me your dreams! Do you have an allergy? What do you think the novel Murder at the Priory? In your opinion, why did he kill Floret the FFI? What was the brand of his bike? What was his weapon? And the bastard who murdered John Vignault dom? Had he been paid? Why? What is your favorite color? The horse of Henri Quatre? The names of Henri Three cute? For whom will you vote in five days? How did you hear about the disappearance of Odile Garnier? Do you get much mail? Why did you go to Paris last month? Do not lie, you were spotted at station, and colleagues from Paris sent us a sample of the handrail filed Rue du Petit Musc! What is manufactured on the docks at odd hours? What books have you purchased in bookshops and at FNAC? At what price? What is the marked car? Where did you buy your jacket? Your socks? Your pants? Your belt? How much money do you have in your wallet? What is the number of your credit card? Why do you not respond? And if I flanking a slap ...? Two slaps ... Three ... It's better like that? What do you think of Bin Laden? Busch? From Baroin, yes Baroin, the new guy? Harry Potter? Jesus Christ? Muhammad? Buddha? D'Amelie Mauresmo? Gustave Eiffel, so that of the Tower? Questions that I ask? Your answers?
Well, thank you, your statement is recorded, you see the camera up there, well, we shoot everything now, is to avoid being accused of misconduct or stuff like that, with the gauchos were wary, ready to attract muddles nothing to harm, and then the computer will transcribe everything you say and print, you'll come back tomorrow morning to sign, you will not right to counsel in 17 hours, is the law, now is the extended detention, the officer on duty will let you out ... "
Second stay in the cell. Thierry Leray tried to sleep. Always the urge to pee. As no one came, he was relieved against the wall, which led to his being beaten up at daybreak, when a guard discovered the wrongdoing, by giving him his breakfast: a bowl of coffee smoking and three croissants.
"It treats you with kid gloves, and you do dégueulasseries cells. You will wash me that speed, or you will be dealing with Tintin, the boy in our band, 8th dan in judo and karate champion Burgundy! ... "As he was busy
fast enough with his handkerchief as a towel, Leray was entitled to first "hugs" the samurai Tintin: Ukemi, ippon-awazaté, ikuzuchi, Osae-komi, chui, aches in the back, two bruises on his forehead and gasped for three minutes flat. New
period of idleness and reflection.
Finally, good news: "Follow me. You will sign your statement and you will be free. "A statement that seemed totally foreign to the questionnaire suffered and the demonstration of judo. Thierry Leray was obliged to file his initials at the bottom of an A4 sheet that included the phrases:
"Arrested in a bar by the inspector Goux, while I was in an advanced state of intoxication and that I indulged in a shameless hype, I underwent a breathalyzer test which was positive (0.62 g / l). Then I spent the evening and night in a drunk tank. After being checked by Dr. Martin, I was released. The minutes will be forwarded to the trial court. "
- It that or a second run with our judoka home ... And not about to complain, my dear sir! We have evidence and testimonies. In fact, here's your accomplice ...
Jerome Garnier, an eye swollen, his shirt wrinkled, wet pants, had an identical treatment.
- After what I experienced in recent weeks. Losing my wife. Undergo hours of interrogation, the full search of my home, my private life under scrutiny, false rumors, I was even accused of having killed her, and then that night! Oh, no, it does not happen like that! I will promise you say. I managed to throw a jacket on the warden's office, in passing, it may interest you ...
- Let me see! Ah ... probably a guy who preceded us here.
INTERMEZZO:
- Someone told me I had the first prize. So ...
- Then, like a big fool, thou hast believed.
- Yes, I was trapped. Note that I must not be the only ...
- Always be wary of premature announcements. And that was it, that someone?
- A member of the jury. A childhood friend. I not understand what game he played.
- The disappointment had to be tough. Especially given the stakes of the contest.
- It's not for 2000 €. It is rather a matter of pride. For ten years, I participate regularly in competitions and I've only had runners at first. The past five years, I have not had a radish. And yet you've read my texts ...
- Yes. But the jury is chosen. Not me. While I agree that you donate. We'll have to rework your works. Believe me, if I can plead your cause well, you no bail as a light sentence. You will have a little time to write new texts. And why not a novel?
- I thought. But you did not come to talk about literature.
- To prepare your defense. Good. Let us at first. Someone told you you were winning. His name?
- Oh, it bothers me a bit that is compromised. You certainly know. It's ... Regis.
- Regis! I expected better of him.
- Yes, Regis! The bastard! In my opinion, it was handled. The president has a grudge against me. As I was traveling in Lyon this week, I could not attend the announcement of prizes. But it seems that the session was stormy. Three board members have slammed the door. The next day in the newspaper, the ranking was published. A small leaflet end of the article, stated that my account had been downgraded "for want of form."
- "flawed"? It is a legal term. What do we blame you?
- Three lines too. The contest rules stipulated that the news must be between 3 and 4 pages in block 12, or 150 to 200 lines, or from 1800 to 2500 words ... and my text lines reached 203, and 2512 words.
- They are completely Frosted. What's the point of counting words? And you do not protest?
- Si I even threatened Regis trial. But it was outright anger. Because I do not know on what basis ...
- Me neither, it seems difficult to blame on mere verbal indiscretions. What makes you think a manipulation?
- Handling? Ah yes! Chair. She has not digested that I should have staged in one of my new in 2002.
- You seriously think it deserved such a vengeance? You do not measure risks?
- The theme was "You explode." So I wanted to achieve the most explosive, the most explosive ....
- You have pushed the plug too far. The theme was thought provoking, you might have to stick to words. I do not see how I can defend yourself, unless you plead temporary insanity. Were you fasting? ... I mean sober?
- Sure. I organized my revenge for two weeks. Carefully. Methodically. This is a completely voluntary act, lucid.
- In the current atmosphere of struggle against terrorism, your case will again bring water to the mill of supporters of all repressive. I've brought you some papers. We initially thought a terrorist attack, which some have attributed, as might be imagined, an Islamic group, the cops have cordoned off a dozen of the ZUP immigrants, they were released the next day. And then when you're pointing to the police, it took you to a patient. Now, the last sounds that have leaked to the press t'attribuent the worst atrocities. The bloated ego of the writer misunderstood, delusions of persecution, "condemnation of hacks introverted" as wrote a shrink. You'll definitely see him tonight or tomorrow Marchereau this doctor, he was appointed by the judge for t'expertiser. But tell me, your new one that had originally been awarded, then disqualified, what was she talking about? The text will probably shelled by the experts, like your other writings, and manuscripts to the most diverse.
- was also a story of revenge. Aftermath of a cockfight ...
- De Cock, you say well?
- Yes, it's too long to explain. You'll certainly my new folder. Asks the judge.
- And the bomb. Tell me how you're the procured.
- Not difficult. I prepared myself. I found the instructions on the Internet. A site open to all curious. Then I made the shelves of hardware stores. White spirit to ignite the package, the weeding, three rocket fireworks, aerosols for hair stylists, nail and seed upholsterer to disperse in all directions. Firing by two mobile phones. All stored in an old suitcase. That is not rocket science, as they say on TV. Note that I did less damage than Total in Toulouse, I have not had the same stocks.
- Hard to argue the sudden access of madness, after such preparations. I advise you to confuse your answers a bit ...
- Too late, I gave all the details to the investigating judge. He even called an explosives expert who found the craft remarkable is what the judge said, I think it does not frost.
- Now for the consequences. I'll just read the minutes which was forwarded to the insurance company. The hall was badly damaged by the explosion. The platform, curtains, interior paints, cables, power grid, the central heating pipes, the projectors were charred and riddled with nails and metal objects. All the windows were broken, as well as those of five neighboring buildings. The roof was blown over an area of twelve square meters. Several walls and pillars are undermined, the tile is cracked in front of the stage. As for plastic chairs, most have melted or is irreparable. Fortunately, the human toll is smaller: a dozen neighbors complained of hearing problems.
- Obviously, there was nobody. I I'm the wrong day. The show was announced for Tuesday evening in the newspaper and it was actually Wednesday.
- You really wanted to kill?
- Yes.
- But do you realize? Between a disappointment and the author misunderstood you would have caused carnage, there is such a disproportion! And the consequences? The court will have you ...
lifer - and I had the opportunity to write thousands of new, warm, at the expense of the princess.
- If you take it like that, the doctor is sure you declare Marchereau irresponsible. Wise guy, you play crazy and you play well. So I plead insanity?
- No, I'm perfectly in control of my decisions. I organized this explosion knowingly. Hate, I say ...
- hatred, hatred of what? Who? You're not going to make me believe that it is the jury president ... Or, what would the heartache ...
- You put your finger in the eye. Hate competitions, juries, critics alleged, all those that parasitize the literature.
- So, if you detest the contest, why did you join these masquerades?
- An additional act of hate.
- Completely paranoid, the guy! If I did not know you, I will plates, the, with your claims with your vindictiveness, with your hatred. Hate you, I hope that we will lay the shrink a good expertise. After we arrive to make you commit a year or two in a nursing home. With a little luck you will even succeed to avoid insurance costs. Temporary irresponsibility. Okay for tactics?
- Not at all. I never cease to confess, and proclaim, I carefully prepared my act and I'm proud.
- Irresponsibility temporary, I tell you. Since you've changed, you have to have some remorse if you pretend you so lucid. Two or three million euros repairs at the expense of the municipality. In your office, this will be reflected in your taxes.
- do not care. In prison I will not pay more taxes. Besides, my boss put me immediately on leave without pay and he talks to fire me if I am condemned.
- Really, anything you say. Here, I'll leave. I have another client on the second floor. Think carefully about what I have proposed. I will return Monday morning.
- Wait, Jean-Jacques! Monday, I'll give you a Papelard to ...
- Another explosive statement, no doubt?
- Maybe I'll transcribe the discussion. You see, I left my mini-tape recorder. Good news for about an upcoming contest.
- Next Contest, but you told me you hated contests, literary salons and all these kinds of events ...
unnecessary - Okay. I do not want to hear about it. For cons, the warden told me that a major survey of prison conditions is pending. We asked detainees of France and Navarre to write what they think of their lives. And, apparently, who has written the most original text will have a remission. You're kidding, right ... You think that I taken for a ride?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE PUPPET
"Five hundred films in thirteen years, King's X is running live, it really explodes, there are things more exciting than in other films, contacts with actresses. We sell everything at the show of eroticism. Pulp tweezers, 34 € box of 100 grams. The sex that plucks it sex appeal, the demonstrator's fate ... "
Thierry Leray changes wavelength: Leaving salon erotica, he moved to the jazz club. For the flight of Bird of Paradise Miles Davis on trumpet, Wayne Shorter tenor sax, Tony Williams on drums, Herbie Hancock on piano, Ron Carter on bass. The quintet is unleashed as ten.
"Dring, dring, dring! Gaston! Y al'téléfon that sound! "
- new in the case of your writer!
- But who ...?
- Mourlon, back from the Danube. I also for you a credit of Tokay extra to help ... uh ... our editorial collaboration, our joint venture as saying the Anglo-Saxon.
- All Fumerol on Bible paper.
- Wow, not so luxurious! Moderate our spending, buyers are near their pennies these days, especially with taxes being prepared for us!
- Resist much happening now. Well, enough of rants. What have you learned?
- A friend of Odile. An employee at the Library of Nevers. She had a part of the manuscript, a copy without doubt, or a draft. It would have taken to Lenoir. Why? How? I am the first hypothesis. No, the police are not informed, but it will not be long ...
- How did you get this pipe? Hungary is in you ...
- Not at all. The lawyer for Jérôme Garnier Matoux master. In Returning from my trip, I fall on him in the cell Avenue station in Nevers. And as we had known ... Since when? Whatever. He dragged me into a greasy spoon Chaméane room, where he has his habits. And yarn needle, bourbon whiskey, I should say, high quality, believe me, he told me unpack the package.
- So Lenoir knew the novel before us.
- That's why he wrote Our dearly departed. And that fiction is closer to reality, it has removed the author of Murder at the Priory. The police should clarify the procedure. Another one of those authors fools who live their dreams. Disordered psychic watching a lot of novelists. Remember the Horla, The Diary of a Madman, these hardened criminals repent or who engage in crime fiction, Auguste Lebrun, Georges Darien, José Giovanni, Cesare Battisti, or that everyone is talking about this week ...
- J 'in had a presentiment. Each time I had contact with him by telephone or personal meetings, it seemed illuminated. But not to the point of passing the act itself ...
- "Creator not actor, an old Latin adage. Quintilian, De Institutione Oratoria. Joel Lenoir identified with the creator, God. Besides, his name means "God says." El is God, Elohim. Yo it is, indicate the subjunctive, the assumption, the subjective, and finally in the ancient Hebrew conjugation, and Joel, son of Phatuel is a prophet of the Bible. Black is the color of Satan, the antithesis of God. We, therefore, we face a demiurge of evil. He pulls the strings. At the end of the string, it stirred some funny puppets.
- Say, what culture!
- I had time to consult notes that the deceased had Fumerol written shortly before his death, his assassination ... by who you know ...
- Him too?
- You doubt? The demiurge mad prophet of destruction were competitors. In Touch of Evil has cut some Martineau, I have not yet identified, that one ... then he drowned and poisoned Fumerol Odile Garnier. I found in the Bible predictions that should have alerted us, Fumerol has had time to copy the quote ...
"The Day of the Lord is near
It comes as a devastation brought about by the Almighty
The knife, the scorpion, the flooding of the river will
False messages are destroyed, burnt, annihilated "
- It Joel?
- From the prophet Joel, Book 1, verse 28. According to notes of Fumerol. Because, I, Prophets, is not my cup of tea. I have long believed in Karl Marx. Since the fall of the Wall, I no longer believe in anything, except good food and juice of the grape. If you have a moment, come Saturday night at the Village Hall. I am invited to the banquet of white hair.
- Hair White? You're done dying?
- No, the club's former neighborhood Agnan manger. It seems that the old know how to rinse the slab like kings. It's the neighbor who invited me. And, as she says, "when yad'la cake for one, Hits for two and why not three? So, anyone?
- OK A Saturday.
- 19 o'clock. Then dancing, java, dance hall, paso doble and toe polka. And if you do not sleep, onion soup at dawn and jog on the canal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: MOOD RETRO
On the track, accompanied by a yellowish halo projector, a couple dancing a tango languorous. She: red hair wearing a shimmering metallic sauerkraut, push-up cleavage around a pink fabric on a dress slit fishnet stockings, high heels. Him: gominée wig, tinted glasses, bow tie, jacket studded with sequins fluorescent, black pants, platform shoes. The movements are mechanical, the gentleman local reverses his sweetheart, the twirls, heels slam, gams knit, the body bend, straighten up, meet, shake, to recross
... Until the first course guests attending a demonstration that this Club Dance Show. The village hall was packed. Arranged in staggered rows, tables gather the cream of the Third Age - and some tough guys of the Fourth Age - Decize and town circumjacent. White hair, partial or total baldness, gray heads, impeccable styling hair thinning or past, seniors have come to share a half-day usability over a good meal. Their supreme pleasure: the banquet, the big food very heavy, very fat, drunken, in a hubbub of shared memories, gossip, political statements, which sometimes covers the sound. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon is installed at the last table near the kitchen, surrounded by two beautiful creatures, dressed in tight black suits and little white aprons, crowned with crowns of paper: the two waitresses occasional hired by the caterer. The vacancies are for two other helpers, and Nanard Gilou, responsible service of order, and Thierry Leray.
The reporter declared that this banquet is a great opportunity to observe the social life of the town and provide the necessary elements for writing an article for Happy Retreat, a magazine which he has just proposed freelancing. It is also an opportunity to converse with the publisher, protected from eavesdroppers. Because the two men have so many, many secrets to share. About Fumerol and its masterpieces, Lenoir and his dirty work, Odile Garnier and his novel stillborn. They are even quieter than the two waitresses come and go, sit and do that to devour the slapdash few lettuce leaves, and the two inseparable gorillas prefer breakfast standing, facing the main door to prevent free riders, SDF and other freeloaders to come and take part in the feast. Between
salmon tartare with fennel and hare pie crust to windfall wet, they turn their publishing projects, journalistic and commercial. The glass of calvados Norman hole allows them to abandon the Reverend Mironton, its plunge into the Jordan and its new songs in rap.
In the chewing pad Charolais accompanied with wine sauce, they hold forth about the friend Diaz, blogs, bloggers, bloggers. The first bottle of Cote de Beaune-Villages is soon dried up, a snap and is replaced by its twin, the two men then embraient on the website of Joel Lenoir, indiscretions, word games muddy the pranks, quotes Jean Yanne, Michel Galabru, Regis Laspales and Pierre Dac. Ingestion of three parts poults Morvan is more laborious. Swallowing prevents any use of ropes voice. In the room a calm reigns again, dentures, gums, recent snags suck, suck, smack, eat, and the diffuse sound mezza voce air Alain Souchon, "We're fucked, we eat too much! We're fucked, we eat too much! Papa Mambo! "Deaf in the words of common sense, the guests stuff their faces.
Between the cheese platter, sake and dripping, and fruit sorbet for five seasons, Thierry Leray finds time to whisper a new revelation to his neighbor.
- I learned how Odile Garnier has fallen into the trap.
- Pineapple? What do you ...?
- La-na-sseuh, net, trap, the trap, the trap.
- Oh, good! J'me of Rwandese ...
- Here. Her husband, Jerome, who told me. In his sanctimonious, he found a series of addresses, including mine incidentally. She organized a survey of documentation around St. Révérien. Traders, old people who have lived Liberation or underground. Then, by extrapolation, the former guerrillas. They are becoming increasingly rare. Former police. Former teachers. Veterans, former pacifist, former prisoners, etc. ...
By sheer chance, she found a son of the famous Doutray Gaby, who ekes out a living somewhere in the woods, near Châtillon or Corbigny, I forgot. She had already visited last summer and had prepared a series of cards.
- You've had these cards?
- No, I have never seen. After the disappearance of Odile, Jerome forwarded to the police. But he withheld some information ...
Again, the decibels rising powers. The assembly, sated, a little drunk, tops, sighs with delight, says the benefits of such gluttony, issues forecasts about the next meal of Heads Grey, the association beyond the Loire, while waitresses stack dishes and glasses, pour hot coffee into the cups and circulate a few bags of baking soda and boxes of pills digestive.
On the track, Club Dance Lounge then rushes for his second demo, this time more dramatically as these acrobatic rock. Few pairs of guests join the pros and try to imitate them, quickly interrupted by lumbago and sprained ankles. Fortunately, the ambulance was parked fire a short distance.
Under a driving rain that Thierry and Jean-Pierre Leray Mourlon return to their homes respectively and on the way, ending their conversation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH: Z'AVEZ JOEL NOT SEEN?
Thierry Leray arrives at the police dragging their feet. His misadventure has left traces Nevers. Traces the psychological, deeper than the bruises that cover her forehead and left cheek. What the police may well want him? He thought he had settled everything with Commissioner Tissot. He had sold the manuscript, the letter of Odile Garnier, notes, telegram, everything. So?
- Mr Leray? Chief Warrant Officer Caillac will receive you. Rest assured, this is a simple statement. The
gendarmette let fly a nasty stare. The editor wonders if it's not a trap. He sits in the armchair in rattan and leafing distractedly three magazines that are arranged on the coffee table. Would he have imagined that the waiting room of the police would be similar to that of dentists? Besides the official journal of the Department of the Army, filled with pictures of tanks, aircraft, Dassault and nuclear submarines in the water, the brave pandores decizois have made available to the public the celebrity magazines and That Here . It is true that this week, several pages of two tea are devoted to the happiness of the Minister and his companion, photographed from every angle. MAM wear shorts, fencing, aviator, sailor in bobble, gala dressed in bathrobe, pajamas armored khaki bikini, not a string, but a more intimate story is announced for the next delivery ... The
gendarmette under beguiling is back. A discreet gesture of a finger, and it is understood. The Chief's ready. The look of
supervisor is less engaging. Eye revolver as a crooner singing the last century.
- If we have summoned you, Mr. Leray, because that your testimony is crucial. In the case Garnier, of course. And in the case Lenoir. Because these two cases are linked. You know, Lenoir ...
CWO Caillac pauses, takes a deep breath, as if he lacked air.
- Joel Lenoir again disappeared. And I'm afraid ...
Second suction that moves the nose of the policeman.
- ... That he followed the path ... you understand me. Unless ... Third
respiratory effort.
"Is he asthmatic? "Asks Leray. "The gendarmerie is a strange universe .
- ... Unless the murderer to be him. Have you read our dearly departed?
- Dear masculine or feminine?
- Well, Mr. Editor, you play with the spelling?
- Not at all, Lenoir wrote Our dearly-HU-EUH. But it has pumped U.S. history in a book, Our Dear Missing-HU.
- You do not say. On the occasion, give me this thriller, I like to read, between two surveys.
- At your orders, m'n Warrant!
- Chief Warrant Officer, please!
The conversation is staggering, it follows a path unusual, she wanders into digressions moult. Of rooster to the donkey, the donkey donkey, the tit for tat, the tajine with rillettes du Mans, local radio thermo tires, generic drugs jumping beans, the cranial capacity of man Neanderthals at the waist of Miss Squadron, from egg to chicken, Cabernet d'Anjou at the Cafe de Colombia, finally the little black big Lenoir.
- Again, it slips through our fingers. A true Lupin. No, I have no lupins in the garden, it Arsene, you enter? Me, I can not grasp it. I have the impression that he has superhuman gifts. Deus ex machina. Makina, it is not machine. Not at home, either. His wife arose one evening in tears yesterday Specifically, we just blandly declare that he fainted. I thought he was in apples. I advise him to call the ambulance, the fire department. Swooning, not swooning, it's funny like "no-swooning, not vanished in smoke. Reminds me of a guy who has also gone. Fumerol, you know? Of course, after you've arrived. Him, he was stung on the chin. Poison overwhelming. Curare or equivalent. I suspected Lenoir, but no clear evidence. And then everyone has cleared, beginning with the mayor. You should read no fire without Fumerol. What? You do not text, I'll lend you a CD, I recorded the text on a very exciting site that just opened. Yes, perso.orange.fr @ histoiresdedecize. This is the last refuge of culture decizoise. Two guys who are knowledgeable. The technician is a friend of my son, I'll introduce, Alexis Julien, a computer whiz, he campaigned for the UMP with my kid. The other, the narrator, I know less, it seems that he teaches at the College and would be jealous of Lenoir. Hence some exaggerations, but good literature is wrong with good feelings. You've read the blog of Lenoir? Not bad, funny. I expected to find clues, but peanuts! You too? So ... I'm reduced to asking the prosecutor whether to consider it as an outlaw on the run, a ghost, held hostage by Al Qaeda, a political exile, an undocumented sarcophobe. You know he's afraid of being caught up by taxes, like Johnny? Although not yet the fortunes of the Swiss-Belgian-rocker Monaco ... In any case, we have a warrant.
After this last comment he said with a blow from chin martial Chief Warrant Officer Thierry Leray tends to a blank form.
- You will notice that you said to the reporter ...
- What journalist?
- Innocent! Jean-Pierre Mourlon is a journalist. No leaks in the press. If you have information to provide, that we receive them first.
- But how do you know?
- You are being watched closely. Tissot Commissioner's decision.
- Ah, that one ...
- Yes, that one, I do not esteem. Methods thug. However, solidarity, efficiency. Especially the statistics. The premium, you understand.
- You want me to testify against Lenoir?
- Eguezacte! Between us is a manipulator. You saw the biter ...
- Got it! Good luck with the hunt!
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH: THE CRIME OF VECTOR
- Yes, I admit it was me who pushed him into the water. But not for me. For two months I was under the influence ...
- Under influence? You were drugged?
- As hynop, hytop, no, hyp-no-ti-se, more master of my actions ... I was like a puppet, a puppet
- You do not care about me? You had no control over your actions. So tell me why you went to throw the Clio in the lock ... rather than burning it in the woods.
- was stronger than me. It was written.
- Written? Where? Show me where it was written! Benedict
Doutray collapses in tears. He repeated, without much conviction: "It was written ... it was written ..." the other side of the little table, arms folded, Tissot Commissioner, nonplussed, runs the gaze the farmhouse kitchen. Henry II buffet rickety doors. Rosieres stove to an old model, with peeling paint. A dresser loaded cracked porcelain covered with dust. The grandfather clock whose flying swings and creaks to the rhythm of time blip. Along the wall under the window, a dirty mop, a dustpan and brush the cat's basket, a tin filled with stagnant water. And, below, beyond, striping the wallpaper off the walls and gray, a few cobwebs.
Not poverty, but almost. Abandonment. Old age away everything. A marginal influenced. A little out of whack. Like his father, Gaby Doutray, the petty criminal who had thought assertive, take revenge by "clearing the bush ... the king of Prussia." Doutray Benedict had also led a mediocre life. Single. Farmhand between two periods of unemployment, sickness between stops. In the limit of mental retardation. Lost, bullied, exploited, frustrated, he fell on some vague memories of childhood, stories that his father had embellished, just before disappearing in Indochina in May 1953.
is what he has described the sentence two policemen.
- was a young bearded man. A writer, he was, he said. He had learned of the shooting in St. Révérien a book of another writer, he told me.
- And then you wanted to avenge your father ...
- Wash his honor because c'te dirty old woman, she had a killer, a bastard. And I swear I, my father was a hero, not a bastard. The bastards, they were the other, whom he has soldered ...
- What was his name, the writer? Whoever came.
- I dunno, myself. He not say. He just left a book, and then a bunch of ... j'vous say no, it is thanks to him if I could eat my fill.
- And what he looked like? Great? Small?
- Rather slender. Bearded j'vous said earlier. Just a little necklace. He spoke well. And then her eyes. I like the idea to me ...
Spellbound - Spellbound! It was not a wizard, anyway?
- No, I will understand it myself.
Again, the Commissioner Tissot let his gaze wander to either side of his interlocutor. Under the stove, the cat returns and progresses slowly toward the bowl where are glued into a shapeless mass of leftover spaghetti, meatballs and mashed yellow. The pendulum of the clock still squeaks, a breath of wind through a broken window and snapped a shift schedule attached to the latch.
Alerted by the rot that has just issued his deputy Goux, Commissioner Tissot turns. No, the inspector has nothing to say, it's difficult digestion occurs, protesting his larynx. Normal, with the plateful of fries at the restaurant he has ingested.
The two men arrived in mid-afternoon on the farm isolated, away from the hamlet of Fusilly near the arches of the Colancelle. Fusilly, a name destined to find a killer, to find the son of another killer. The paved road ends at the last house. Then it's a muddy road, smashed by tractors. The suspension of the Alfa Romeo has suffered in the ruts. And then, this court full of logs into disorder, ruin wrapped with ivy round the door, pointing a gun barrel through the window missing. Goux the inspector who managed to disarm Doutray, he went through the back the house while parleying Tissot, away from the car.
Intimidated by the inspector, the right arm capilotade, Doutray suddenly became as gentle as a lamb. And he answered questions.
- was written.
- Where? You have the book? That the writer has left you.
- No, I swung into the pond ... With the right woman.
- Why?
- was written. And then, the writer told me to run everything. To the letter. Otherwise, I would not ...
Part Two - Part Two?
- From the premium. You believe I get paid?
- Not sure. Now, it is compromised, your story premium.
- Ah, the bastard! Stop him. He is the responsible ...
- we know. Constables Decize load it right now. You will certainly face tonight or tomorrow. Come en route. Benedict
Doutray whines. He twists his lower lip, crackles on his left hand, plucked from his pocket a handkerchief and wiped his face doubtful.
The examination is finished. Inspector Goux out the handcuffs hanging from his belt and hampers Doutray. Commissioner packs a gun in a piece of cloth torn from his couch on which he was seated. The two officers lead their prisoner.
LOOK ...
