Babayaga

He did wind up dropping Vidot off at his tailor’s by the Madeleine church and then headed back to work. It was still early in the afternoon, and, after parking the car, Maroc strode in through the station’s front doors, feeling as good as he had felt all day and going at full steam. The adrenaline from his little adventure still had his blood coursing and he was thinking up ways to make the most of it. He would only stay in the office a few minutes, he thought, check in with his staff, and then head to the bar again and get his hands on that sweet Camille. Striding down the corridor, Maroc was so distracted thinking about grabbing hold of Camille’s perfectly pear-shaped rump that he did not notice the other officers in the station staring as he passed by. He ran through his options with rough logic. He could not realistically spend a whole night again with the barmaid right on the tail of last night, his stupid wife might finally see the light, but the case of money in his hand inspired him to think he could dash out and buy Camille some Ladurée macaroons and maybe some shiny earrings and then get in a quick fuck with her before heading back home to his wife. Of course, though he’d try to buy her off with macaroons too, his wife would also probably be in need of some physical attention; she was always like that after he spent a night away. What was he complaining about? So, there would be a lot of serious fucking ahead? That would not be so bad, he thought with a grin, he only hoped he could get it up for— Maroc’s train of thought shuddered to a halt as he came upon the small crowd that was assembled around his office door.

“What is going on, why are you here?” he asked, but the group of policemen standing there did not say a word, merely parted to reveal the shivering, stark-naked man, with a coat wrapped around him, who was sitting alone on the floor in front of Maroc’s desk.

“Bemm?” Maroc said, recognizing the officer. “Bemm! What are you doing here?”

“That is what we were wondering,” said Officer Pingeot. “The maid says she came in to clean early last night and the office was empty. She locked it up when she left. Then a little while ago, I came to drop off the transcripts from Madame Vidot’s phone tapping. You were not here yet, so I got your key from Anna and unlocked the office, and that is when I found him curled up, shivering there, like he is now, only without the coat.”

Maroc was bewildered. “How did he get in? Does he have an explanation?”

“He has been unable to speak, he clearly has been through some sort of horrible trauma. We are awaiting the ambulance.”

“Well, there must be some explanation!”

The officer gave him a polite smile. “We were hoping you could provide that.”

“How would I know? I was not here last night, I was home.”

“We called your wife, looking for you, and she said you were not home last night, that you had told her you had to work late, in your office.” The last three words came out with a barely restrained emphasis that managed to offend Maroc to his core.

He looked again at the shivering Bemm. This was too impossible and absurd for words. He knew this whole thing was a trap that Vidot had set for him, that was the only explanation that made any sense, and his only thought was to go find the little detective and beat him unconscious. “I am taking personal charge of this investigation, starting immediately!” he announced.

“You were not here”—Pingeot looked slightly nervous as he spoke now—“so I had to call someone…”

“So? So?” All the nerves in Maroc’s body were now screaming. “What are you saying to me?”

“What I mean to say is, I called the prefect and he is now on his way.”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” screamed Maroc, shaking violently. “You called Papon’s office! He is on his way here? Right this moment? Are you an imbecile? Are you insane?” Enraged, he lunged out furiously for the officer, intending to throttle him. In the process, the case flew out of Maroc’s hands. Falling to the floor and bursting open, its contents spilled all over the floor. Maroc was too mad with anger to notice and continued choking Pingeot.

It was at this point in time that the prefect of the Paris police, Maurice Papon, strode around the corner to find his recent appointee, Maroc, standing in the center of a small crowd who were all energetically trying to keep him from strangling some boggle-eyed subordinate. Beneath this eruption of violence, a naked man sat at the foot of Maroc’s desk, awash in an enormous pile of loose ten-thousand-franc banknotes. The naked man, seemingly oblivious to the men struggling above him, stared out at the world with a troubled look of awe and confusion. And that was the last day of Superintendent Maroc’s once promising career in the Prefecture of Police.

II