Chương 9
I looked at Claire.
“Then who did?”
“He says he was approached by someone else after the accident.”
“Henri Vallon?”
There was a pause.
“How do you know that name?”
My hand tightened on the back of the chair.
“Answer me.”
“We are trying to verify the claim.”
“Did Renaud name him?”
“Yes.”
Chloé whispered, “Oh my God.”
The officer continued.
“Vasseur alleges Vallon arranged the payment and instructed him to say he had been driving.”
“What about my husband?”
“He says your husband knew about the arrangement afterward.”
I closed my eyes.
That difference should have brought relief.
It did not.
Henri had still known.
He had still allowed it.
Claire asked, “Why would Vallon protect Maxime?”
“That is not yet clear.”
“Where is Vallon now?”
“We are attempting to locate him.”
I opened my eyes.
“Is he still alive?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“Then locate him quickly.”
The officer ignored my tone.
“We will contact you when we have more.”
The call ended.
Chloé sat down slowly.
“Maxime knew Vallon?”
“I don’t know.”
“He must have.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I heard.”
She looked at me.
“He said Henri cleaned up the first mess.”
Claire nodded.
“If he meant Vallon, then yes.”
I walked toward the window.
The street below was nearly empty.
A taxi stopped at the corner.
Two men got out laughing.
Ordinary life kept arriving with insulting confidence.
“Renaud took money,” I said.
“Yes,” Claire replied.
“He lied to police.”
“Yes.”
“He kept lying for seven years.”
“Yes.”
“And now I’m supposed to trust him because he became frightened.”
“No.”
I turned.
“Good.”
“We’re supposed to test what he says against records.”
I looked at Chloé.
“Did Maxime ever mention Vallon?”
She shook her head.
Then stopped.
“Wait.”
Claire immediately reached for her notebook.
“Think carefully.”
“Last summer.”
“Where?”
“At your house in Provence.”
I frowned.
“What happened?”
“Maxime got a call during dinner.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“He left the table?”
“Yes.”
That was not unusual.
Maxime often treated meals as inconvenient gaps between phone calls.
“What did he say afterward?”
“He was angry.”
“With whom?”
“I asked, and he said, ‘Rico thinks he still gets to give orders.’”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Rico,” I said.
Chloé nodded.
“I thought it was some contractor.”
Claire’s pen moved quickly.
“Did Maxime say anything else?”
“He said the old man had already been paid.”
My mouth went dry.
“Paid for what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“What did Maxime tell you?”
Chloé looked ashamed.
“He said it was business.”
I almost snapped at her.
Then I remembered how many times Henri had said exactly the same thing to me.
Business.
A small word used to close large doors.
Claire looked at me.
“Marianne, if Vallon organized the cover-up, then the accident may not be the secret Maxime feared most.”
“What else could there be?”
“That is what we need to find out.”
Chloé hugged the robe tighter around herself.
“He said ‘first mess.’”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“On the balcony.”
Her face had gone pale again.
“He didn’t say ‘the mess.’”
Claire stopped writing.
“He said ‘the first mess.’”
None of us spoke for several seconds.
The implication settled slowly.
If the accident had been the first mess, there had been another.
Possibly more than one.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
A message had arrived from an unknown number.
Claire reached it before I did.
“Don’t touch it.”
She read the screen without opening the attachment.
Her face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
She turned the phone toward me.
The message contained only seven words.
Ask your husband what happened in Room 312.
Below it was a photograph of Henri, alive and unmistakable, standing beside Maxime in the corridor of a rehabilitation clinic.
The timestamp on the image was September 15, 2019.
The morning after Luc Garnier was hit.
Claire enlarged the photograph without opening the message thread.
“Do you recognize the clinic?”
I stared at the corridor behind Henri.
White walls.
A green handrail.
A blue sign with half a word visible above Maxime’s shoulder.
Nothing useful.
“No.”
Chloé leaned closer.
“Wait.”
Claire raised a hand.
“Don’t touch the phone.”
“I’m not.”
Chloé squinted at the image.
“That logo.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Where?”
“At Maxime’s office.”
My eyes moved to her.
“Why would a rehabilitation clinic logo be in Maxime’s office?”
“I don’t know.”
She frowned.
“There was a folder in one of his drawers.”
Claire looked at her sharply.
“What folder?”
“Blue cover, same symbol.”
“When did you see it?”
“A few months ago.”
“Were you looking through his things?”
Chloé gave her a flat look.
“I was looking for a passport.”
“Did you open it?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“I barely looked.”
Claire waited.
Chloé sighed.
“Patient forms, I think.”
“Names?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Any photographs?”
“No.”
“Bills?”
“Maybe.”
I could see Chloé becoming irritated under the questioning.
That was good.
I trusted irritated answers more than eager ones.
Claire photographed my phone screen with her own device, preserving the message as it appeared.
Then she called the officer again.
This time, his patience had thinned.
“We will need the device itself if this continues.”
“You can have it when you send someone for it.”
“We can arrange that.”
“Now.”
He paused.
“Yes.”
When Claire hung up, I looked at the photograph again.
Henri was wearing the brown jacket I had bought him in Florence.
He hated that jacket.
He said the sleeves were too narrow.
I had made him keep it because it had cost far too much.
That small detail told me the picture had been taken on a day he wanted to look respectable.
Not rushed.
Not accidental.
He had dressed for something.
Maxime stood beside him in jeans and a dark sweater.
His left hand was in his pocket.
His right was holding a paper cup.
He looked exhausted.
Not frightened.
Not injured.
Just tired.
“Room 312,” I said.
May you like
Claire nodded.
“We need to identify the facility.”
