The First Fingerprint Read Free Page B

desk.
    When he was alone again, de Palma repeated to himself the oath that he had sworn to Samir’s body. He had now to go back to La Castellane. His plan was in place, he would just have to wait two more hours before putting it into action. Instinctively, he checked the cylinder of his Bodyguard and went out into the city, with no specialdestination in mind and just one desire: to get this case over and done with as soon as possible—along with that “Otello” air which he could not get out of his head.
    â€œVenga la morte! E mi colga nell’estasi
    di quest’amplesso
    il momento supremo!”
    It was verging on hot for a December night. He drove along the old port, with his window open, the smell of fuel and dry seaweed in his nostrils, then cruised up La Canebière, which was crammed with headlamps coming toward him and Christmas decorations—the same for last twenty-five years—forming two lines of light, one yellow and one white, leading toward the Reformed church. At the far end, he turned right in front of the church and went back up rue Thiers. It was dark and deserted, except for a pair of tatty transvestites who swiveled their hips grotesquely every time a car drove past. They were two black whores who used to work for the Beau Jacques and were now looking out for a pimp. Their previous one had been dug out of a blockhouse in Les Goudes the previous month, with his cute features full of lead. An occupational accident, so to speak. Case closed.
    At the top of rue Thiers, he turned into the empty outskirts of La Plaine. Driving steadily in second gear, his arm leaning heavily on the car door, he surveyed the bars that were still open, now spewing out their clientele of students and dole boys. He almost pulled in to attract the attention of the small groups forming around the crouched figures of dealers. No reaction. Snatches of a blues song drifted out from a weary-looking club. The quavering notes rose up among the red lights of the belvedere only to rest in the branches of the nettle trees which the mischievous mistral had decked with plastic bags. As he passed in front of Les Nuits Bleues, he spotted Serge Pugliesi, or “Petit Serge”—the bent policeman’s godfather—sounding off, crotch forward, arms outstretched, waving his hands with their five fingers and six rings in the stinking atmosphere of his local bar.
    He drove swiftly down to the town center again, taking boulevard Salvator, then the bus lane along rue de Rome toward place LaCastellane. His instinct told him that Samir’s killer was still right there, in the heart of the estate, and maybe in the very same block. Several clues backed up this hypothesis. He had been cruising round the neighborhood for days, each time in a different car so as not to be spotted in such a vertical microcosm.
    Samir had been murdered at 6:00 p.m. At that time of day, no-one could wander around the estate without being noticed by the kids, who acted as lookouts at its entry points. Samir had probably been a lookout too. Not one of the few witness statements he had so far managed to gather made mention of seeing a stranger in La Castellane. This was his only chance: he had to make the witnesses talk.
    â€œAt any price,” he said aloud.
    One way or another, he had to break through the law of silence which governed the small world of drug pushers. He had to rid himself of that feeling of impotence and guilt which rose from his guts.
    He accelerated. His life had a meaning once more. A quarter of an hour later, he was on boulevard Barnier. He parked in traverse des Transhumants and then walked over to the huge La Castellane housing estate.
    A red light was glowing from the tops of the tower-blocks, refracted by the dampness of the cold air. At the entry to the estate, he spotted the group of kids who kept their eyes on any comings and goings. As de Palma walked by the group, he picked out the youngest of them, then