“I’ve got to get going,” continued Bourne. “Trignon’s place is only a couple of blocks from here.
I want to reach him before ten.”
“Be careful.” Marie spoke as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
“I will. I love you.”
“I believe in you,” said Marie St. Jacques.
The street was quiet, the block an odd mixture of shops and flats indigenous to the center of Paris, bustling with activity during the day, deserted at night.
Jason reached the small apartment house listed in the telephone directory as Pierre Trignon’s residence. He climbed the steps and walked into the neat, dimly lit foyer. A row of brass mailboxes was on the right, each one above a small spoked circle through which a caller raised his voice loudly enough to identify himself. Jason ran his finger along the printed names below the slots: M. PIERRE TRIGNON --42. He pushed the tiny black button twice; ten seconds later there was a crackling of static.
“Oui?”
“Monsieur Trignon, s’il vous plaît?”
“Ici.”
“Télégramme, monsieur. Je ne peux pas quitter ma bicyclette.”
“Télégramme? Pour moi?”
Pierre Trignon was not a man who often received telegrams; it was in his astonished tone. The rest of his words were barely distinguishable, but a female voice in the background was in shock, equating a telegram with all manner of horrendous disasters.
Bourne waited outside the frosted glass door that led to the apartment house interior. In seconds he heard the rapid clatter of footsteps growing louder as someone--obviously Trignon--came rushing down the staircase. The door swung open, concealing Jason; a balding, heavy-set man, unnecessary suspenders creasing the flesh beneath a bulging white shirt, walked to the row of mailboxes, stopping at number 42.
“Monsieur Trignon?”
The heavy-set man spun around, his cherubic face set in an expression of helplessness. “A telegram! I have a telegram!” he cried. “Did you bring me a telegram?”
“I apologize for the ruse, Trignon, but it was for your own benefit. I didn’t think you wanted to be questioned in front of your wife and family.”
“Questioned?” exclaimed the bookkeeper, his thick, protruding lips curled, his eyes frightened.
“Me? What about? What is this? Why are you here at my home? I’m a law-abiding citizen!”
“You work in Saint-Honoré? For a firm called Les Classiques?”
“I do. Who are you?”
“If you prefer, we can go down to my office,” said Bourne.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a special investigator for the Bureau of Taxation and Records, Division of Fraud and Conspiracy. Come along--my official car is outside.”
“Outside? Come along? I have no jacket, no coat! My wife. She’s upstairs expecting me to bring back a telegram. A telegram!”
“You can send her one if you like. Come along now. I’ve been at this all day and I want to get it over with.”
“Please, monsieur,” protested Trignon. “I do not insist on going anywhere! You said you had questions. Ask your questions and let me go back upstairs. I have no wish to go to your office.”
“It might take a few minutes,” said Jason.
“I’ll ring through to my wife and tell her it’s a mistake. The telegram’s for old Gravet; he lives here on the first floor and can barely read. She will understand.” Madame Trignon did not understand, but her shrill objections were stilled by a shriller Monsieur Trignon. “There, you see,” said the bookkeeper, coming away from the mailslot, the strings of hair on his bald scalp matted with sweat. “There’s no reason to go anywhere. What’s a few minutes of a man’s life? The television shows will be repeated in a month or two. Now, what in God’s name is this, monsieur? My books are immaculate, totally immaculate! Of course I cannot be responsible for the accountant’s work. That’s a separate firm; he’s a separate firm. Frankly, I’ve never liked him; he swears a great deal, if you know what I mean. But then, who am I to say?’ Trignon’s hands were held out palms up, his face pinched in an obsequious smile.
“To begin with,” said Bourne, dismissing the protestations, “do not leave the city limits of Paris.
If for any reason, personal or professional, you are called upon to do so, notify us. Frankly, it will not be permitted.”
“Surely you’re joking, monsieur!”
“Surely I’m not.”
“I have no reason to leave Paris--nor the money, to do so--but to say such a thing to me is unbelievable. What have I done?”
“The Bureau will subpoena your books in the morning. Be prepared.”
“Subpoena? For what cause? Prepared for what?”
“Payments to so-called suppliers whose invoices are fraudulent. The merchandise was never received--was never meant to be received--the payments, instead, routed to a bank in Zurich.”
“Zurich? I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve prepared no checks for Zurich.”
“Not directly, we know that. But how easy it was for you to prepare them for nonexistent firms, the monies paid, then wired to Zurich.”
“Every invoice is initialed by Madame Lavier! I pay nothing on my own!”
Jason paused, frowning. “Now it’s you who are joking,” he said.
“On my word! It’s the house policy. Ask anyone! Les Classiques does not pay a sou unless authorized by Madame.”
“What you’re saying, then, is that you take your orders directly from her.”
“But naturally!”
“Whom does she take orders from?”
Trignon grinned. “It is said from God, when not the other way around. Of course, that’s a joke, monsieur.”
“I trust you can be more serious. Who are the specific owners of Les Classiques?”
“It is a partnership, monsieur. Madame Lavier has many wealthy friends; they have invested in her abilities. And, of course, the talents of René Bergeron.”
“Do these investors meet frequently? Do they suggest policy? Perhaps advocate certain firms with which to do business?”