The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Read Free Book Online Page A

lead, but what sort of lead? Eventually it would get its author caught. But when?
    No-one could answer that question. They would have to wait. De Palma shuddered at the very idea of waiting for the next death, and the next hand. The next autopsy. Then comparing, analyzing and theorizing. The steamroller of the police force: entire days spent cogitating for nothing, waiting for a third corpse, starting all over … Until the killer slipped up. If he did.
    It bugged de Palma—it was a matter of pride—the gendarmes had already solved the two finest serial-killer cases so far. They had checkmated the police force, no doubt about it. When he had gone to bed late the previous night, completely exhausted, he had cursed the prosecutor for handing the investigation over to the gendarmerie.
    He emerged from his thoughts. Moracchini was talking with Vidal about a case of legal identity. Maistre walked over to him looking mysterious.
    â€œDo you know what happened to me last night, Baron?”
    De Palma shook his head and grunted, his mouth working on a particularly resistant olive.
    â€œWe got a message …”
    Still struggling with his olive, de Palma grunted again.
    â€œA message from the M.L.A., do you know what that stands for, M … L … A …?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe Marseille Liberation Army …”
    â€œAre you feeling O.K., Jean-Louis? You’re with friends here, having a nice quiet drink … So calm down and quit raving!”
    â€œI swear to you, it’s true! The message read: ‘We are the M.L.A., the Marseille Liberation Army. We demand the release of Eric Laugier, the Marseille patriot. The people of Marseille are behind us.’”
    â€œAfter the Corsicans, the Bretons and the Basques, now we have theM.L.A. … Really, Le Gros, you’re so funny. When you’ve had one too many, you wax amphigorical!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAmphigorical. It means an intentionally obscure spoken or written style. Gibberish, in another words. It’s in the police force handbook. So who is this Laugier?”
    â€œHe’s the guy from La Plaine who planted some bombs at the National Front’s premises two years ago. Remember? You’re getting past it too! There was a death. We were on the scene together.”
    â€œSo what’s the connection between a spotty militant and the Marseille Liberation Army?”
    â€œThey’re a group of agitators. They want to liberate Marseille from French colonialism, from the domination of Paris, that kind of thing … They want to return to the days when Marseille was a republic. It all goes back to the year dot.”
    Laugier had set a large amount of explosives in the premises of the National Front on rue Sainte like a real pro. At the time, they had thought that the Corsicans were behind it. A man had been killed during the explosion, a former paratrooper who was also a member of regional counselor Francis Codaccioni’s entourage.
    A few months ago, Laugier had been tried and sentenced to ten years. Ever since, a group of militants had been campaigning for his liberation, covering the walls of La Plaine and surrounding areas with posters demanding justice, and writing regularly to the President and Prime Minister, either to ask for a pardon, or to insult them, depending on the mood of the writer. Laugier was a new-look terrorist, a shadowy fighter for an unexpected cause, and had become the off-beat martyr of Marseille’s independent fighters. The Che Guevara of La Plaine, minus the beard and the cigar.
    â€œI thought Laugier was a good guy,” de Palma said, swallowing a final olive, which turned out just as stubborn as the others; its flesh stuck firmly on to its stone, like a limpet resisting the knife of a starving fisherman. He turned to Dédé.
    â€œWhere do you buy your olives?”
    â€œMy mother-in-law makes them. It’s a time-honored recipe. Just like olives