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others. Why he is being called a Nazi, well, that’s certainly a lead to pursue.”
    Barbaroux wiped a drop from the end of his nose and stared at the winemaker. There were dark circles under his tired eyes.
    “You’re a shrewd one, Mr. Cooker.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “In Lot-et-Garonne, where I come from, we would even say you’re a sacré mariole— which means pretty clever, and a bit of a smart-ass.”
    “Is that so?”
    “You’ve put your finger on the only really interesting point. Clearly, this desecration is connected to the two murders. But from the beginning, we’ve assumed that the person doing this might be planning twelve murders. It seems now that there won’t necessarily be twelve victims.”
    “I agree with you,” Benjamin said, “Some of the people who’ve been targeted might already be deceased. Just consider the ages of the two men who were slain and the man in this grave.”
    “That’s what I mean about being clever!”
    “It all seems very logical. Our challenge is finding out why these men have been targeted.”
    “Yes, it’s useful to know what drives the perpetrator of a crime. It usually has to do with passion, whether it’s hatred or love, vengeance or remorse.”
    “So you have to find out if this Jouvenaze has a past, and why he’s being called a Nazi. I’m sure you’ve already looked into the backgrounds of the two victims, right?”
    “Obviously,” the inspector said. He sighed and dabbing his nose with his balled-up tissue. “What do you take me for? That’s a basic part of the job.”
    “I’m sure it is. And what have you found out about them?”
    “As a rule, I am not allowed to give you such information.”
    “Of course, but let me remind you that as a rule, I am not obliged to help you in this sort of investigation. And I suppose that my name has not been mentioned officially in regard to these cases, am I right?”
    “I see where you’re going with this, Mr. Cooker! You’re trying to dig something out of me.”
    “Which seems appropriate in a cemetery…”
    Benjamin could see that Barbaroux was trying to smile. He heard him snicker instead.
    “Okay, two can play this idiotic game, but you have to promise absolute discretion. Things are heating up.”
    “In this investigation, I assure you that things are heating up. The higher-ups are getting agitated, which is affecting the mood in the department. And the reporters are swarming.”
    “You can at least tell me if there is any connection between the victims?”
    “It’s unclear at this point. It’s possible that they have a connection with the criminal without necessarily having anything to do with one another.”
    “Do you really believe that?”
    “No, not at all. But you have to take everything into consideration. And besides, I wanted to see how you would react to that kind of theory.”
    Barbaroux sneezed and pinched his nose. Benjamin remained silent, knowing perfectly well that the inspector would eventually part with some information. All he had to do was wait patiently.
    In the silence of the cemetery, Benjamin could make out the distant noises: the whiny mopeds, the barking dogs, the construction, the squeals from the schoolyard. They were all signs of life seeping into this final resting place for the dead.
    The inspector looked annoyed. He wiped his hand across his face, stomped his feet, and cleared his throat.
    “Okay, I’ll give you the basic details, and you can sort them out later. Here are the main points. Jules-Ernest Grémillon lived his whole life in that apartment on the Rue Maucoudinat where he was killed. He was actually born there; it belonged to his grandparents and then his parents. He worked for thirty-eight years at the Massip Company. You know it, the old leather company that—”
    “Yes, I know Alain Massip very well. He runs the business,” Benjamin said. “He has a store on the Places des Grands Hommes and a workshop nearby.”
    “Grémillon worked