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"So the murderer didn't make it?"
"I doubt it. A specialist group would almost certainly have been commissioned to produce it.
In the case of the curare, the criminal himself could have dipped the needle in the poison, but hydrogen cyanide requires special techniques."
Savoy's thoughts immediately go to Marseilles, Corsica, Sicily, certain Eastern European countries, and terrorist groups in the Middle East. He leaves the room for a moment and phones Europol. He explains the gravity of the situation and asks them for a complete rundown on laboratories equipped to produce chemical weapons of that type.
He's put through to someone who tells him that they've just had a call from an American intelligence agency asking exactly the same thing. What's going on?
"Nothing. But please get back to me as soon as you have any information--in the next ten minutes at the latest."
"That's impossible," says the voice on the other end. "We'll give you the answer as soon as we have it, not before or afterward. We'll have to put in a request..."
Savoy hangs up and rejoins the group.
More paper.
This appears to be an obsession common to everyone working in the field of public security. No one wants to risk taking a step without first having a guarantee that their superiors approve of what they're doing. Men who once had a brilliant career ahead of them and began working with creativity and enthusiasm now cower fearfully in a corner, knowing the enormous problems they face: they need to act swiftly, but, at the same time, the hierarchy of command must be respected; the media are always quick to accuse the police of brutality, while the taxpayers complain that crimes are never solved. For all these reasons, it's always best to pass responsibility on to someone higher up.
His telephone call was really just a bit of play-acting. He knows who the killer is, and he alone will catch him; he doesn't want anyone else snatching from him the glory of having solved the biggest murder case in the history of Cannes. He must keep calm, but he's nevertheless impatient for this meeting to end.
When he goes back into the room, the commissioner informs him that Stanley Morris, formerly of Scotland Yard, has just phoned from Monte Carlo, telling them not to worry because he very much doubts that the criminal will use the same weapon again.
"We could be facing a new terror threat," says the foreigner.
"Yes, possibly," replies the commissioner, "but unlike you, the last thing we want to do is sow fear among the population. What we need to do is draw up a press statement to prevent journalists from leaping to their own conclusions and broadcasting them on tonight's TV news. This is an isolated terrorist incident, and may involve a serial killer."
"But..."
"There are no 'buts.'" The commissioner's voice is firm and authoritative. "We contacted your embassy because the dead man comes from your country. You are here at our invitation. In the case of the two other Americans murdered, you showed no interest at all in sending a representative, even though in one case poison was also used. So, if you're trying to insinuate that we're facing some kind of collective threat in which biological weapons are being used, you can leave now. We're not going to turn a criminal matter into something political. We want to have another Festival next year with all the usual glitz and glamour, so we're taking Mr. Morris's advice and will draw up a statement along those lines."
The foreigner says nothing.
The commissioner summons an assistant and asks him to tell the waiting journalists that they will have their conclusions in ten minutes. The pathologist tells him that it's always possible to track down the origin of hydrogen cyanide because it leaves a kind of "signature," but tracking it down will take not ten minutes, but a week.
"There were traces of alcohol in the body. The skin was red, and death was almost instantaneous. There's no doubt about which poison was used. If it had been an acid, we would have found burns around the nose and mouth, and in the case of belladonna, the pupils would have been dilated, and..."
"Please, Doctor, we know that you studied at university and are therefore equipped to tell us the cause of death, and we have no doubts about your competence in the field. Let us conclude that it was hydrogen cyanide."
The doctor nods and bites his lip, controlling his irritation.
"And what about the other man, who's currently in hospital. The film director..."
"We're treating him with pure oxygen, six hundred milligrams of Kelocyanor via intravenous drip every fifteen minutes, and if that doesn't work, we can add sodium thiosulfate diluted in twenty-five percent..."
The silence in the room is palpable.
"...Sorry. The answer is, yes, he'll survive."
The commissioner makes some notes on a sheet of yellow paper. He knows that he's run out of time. He thanks everyone, and asks the foreigner not to come out with them, so as to avoid any further needless speculation. He goes to the bathroom, adjusts his tie, and asks Savoy to adjust his as well.
"Morris says that the murderer won't use poison next time. From what I've gleaned, the killer is following a pattern, although it may be an unconscious one. Do you know what it is?"
Savoy had thought about this as he was driving back from Monte Carlo. Yes, there was a pattern, which possibly not even the great Scotland Yard inspector had noticed. It was this:
The victim on the bench: the murderer was close.
The victim at the lunch: the murderer was far away.
