Free Nazis in the Metro by Didier Daeninckx

will be surrounded by the profoundest media silence … To be completely frank, and it might be the alcohol talking now, I have to admit that I don’t believe your story about being a self-employed detective for a minute! Are you independently wealthy?
    Gabriel lifted his eyes to the sky and sighed.
    —Strictly speaking, that is not far from the truth. I’m not rolling in it, but I manage to live comfortably from my job. If I wanted to show off, I could even tell you that I’m the owner of a small private plane that I keep at the Moisselles airport, but that would be unnecessary, wouldn’t it?
    —Life is like poker. You’ve got to play your hand … What kind of bird is it?
    —A Polikarpov I-16 …
    Ledoeunf set down the glass of Cognac that he’d been warming in his hands.
    —Seriously? The one Malraux writes about in
Man’s Hope
?
    —One and the same! You’re one of the few people who remembers that … I bought mine in Catalonia, a few years back … The Soviets had sold it to the Spanish Republic in 1937, through France-Navigation, the Communist Internationale’s maritime company, which acted as an intermediary. It was part of the Fourth Squadron, Mosca 31 …
    —Are you allowed to fly a fighter plane?
    —Yes, once it’s been disarmed … For the moment, I’m restoring it, piece by piece. The reason I’m here is that someone whose work I love was badly beaten, just the day before yesterday, by some thugs, and I have every reason to believe that they wanted to prevent him from divulging what he’d learned about the Audiat affair …
    The journalist leaned back to drink his liqueur. The chair creaked beneath the force of his weight.
    —What does your friend do? Is he also a private dick?
    —No. He does what I’ve always dreamed of doing. He’s a writer.
    Ledoeunf nearly choked.
    —Don’t tell me you mean André Sloga!
    —You know him too?
    —What do you mean, do I know him! I know him better than anyone! We ate together at this very table three months ago … I haven’t seen anything about him being attacked. What happened?
    Gabriel told him the little he knew about the attack on Rue Jeanne d’Arc, recounted his visits to the Pitié-Salpêtrière, and invented a plausible story to explain hisacquaintance with
Moon over the Marshes
, the novelist’s manuscript-in-progress. Ledoeunf listened to him attentively while indulging in a genuine cinnamon-scented Davidoff cigar.
    —I don’t want to discourage you, but I think you’re on the wrong track. I don’t see who would want to risk reviving the Audiat affair by attacking a Parisian writer …
    Gabriel interrupted him.
    —But it’s obvious: the murderer!
    Ledoeunf sent a stream of Caribbean smoke up toward the ceiling.
    —I can assure you that he is no longer capable of doing so!
    —How can you be so sure?
    —For the simple reason that he, too, is dead! The hand of justice has been dealt. That’s the story I’m preparing for my paper.
    Gabriel was stunned. The scenario he’d constructed while driving on the Aquitaine melted into nothing. If what the journalist was saying was true, then the trail of Valérie-Yolanda had ended abruptly, a red herring in a cul-de-sac. His dining companion planted his elbows on the table.
    —This is a strange place, both endearing and repellent. When I arrived here in ’73, still glowing from my brief stint at the crown jewel of the Parisian press—that’s what they called
France-Soir
back then—my goal was to transform the old
Vendée Echo
into the
Vendée Fury
! I went public with some real scoops. That continued for two, three months … Then in one fell swoop, every source went silent. I lost access to everything from the civil registry to the cafeteria menu!
    Gabriel waved his credit card to call for the bill.
    —And then?
    —And then nothing … I waited for it to pass, and then I joined the ranks … I just needed to learn that around here, people will tell you anything