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bone. So I came to see whether it was a matter for the police, whether there had been any reports of missing persons in the
quartier
. I found it on the Place de la Contrescarpe. Because, you see, there may have been a crime, since I’ve got a bone.’
    ‘My friend, I’ve seen plenty of bones in my career,’ said Paquelin, his voice rising. ‘Burnt, crushed, pulverised. And that is not a human bone, I can tell you.’
    Paquelin picked up the object in his large hand and shoved it towards Kehlweiler.
    ‘You just have to feel its weight. It’s hollow, empty, nothing. A bone would be heavier than that. You can take it away again.’
    ‘I know, I weighed it too. But it might be prudent to check? Get it analysed? A report?’
    Paquelin rocked on his feet, ran a hand through his fair hair; it’s true that he would have been really good-looking if not for that detestable mean mouth.
    ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You’re trying to trap me, Granville, or whoever you are. You’re pushing me to go on a wild goose chase, make me look ridiculous, then plant a newspaper article, it’s a little game of fool the cops . . . Well, it won’t work, my friend. The stupid attempt at provocation, the toad, the little mystery, the big joke, the silly music-hall act. Find another trick. You aren’t the first or the last person who’s tried to make a fool of me. And I’m the boss around here, OK?’
    ‘I insist, commissaire. I want to know if anyone’s been reported missing in this
quartier
. Yesterday, day before, recently.’
    ‘You’re out of luck, nothing to report.’
    ‘It could be that no one’s called you about it yet. Sometimes people wait a long time. I’ll have to drop in next week to find out.’
    ‘And then what? You want copies of all our day records?’
    ‘Why not?’ asked Kehlweiler, shrugging.
    He screwed up the piece of paper and put it back in his pocket.
    ‘So that’s a no, is it? Not interested? Still, Paquelin, I think you’re being very negligent.’
    ‘That will do!’ said Paquelin, standing up.
    Kehlweiler smiled. At last, the commissaire was losing his temper.
    ‘Lanquetot, chuck him in the cells,’ Paquelin muttered, ‘and get him to cough up his identity.’
    ‘Ah, no,’ Kehlweiler said, ‘not the cells. Impossible, I’ve got a dinner date.’
    ‘The cells!’ Paquelin repeated, with a sharp gesture towards Lanquetot.
    Lanquetot had stood up.
    ‘Permit me, please, to phone my wife,’ asked Kehlweiler, ‘to let her know. That’s my right, Paquelin, you know that.’
    Without waiting for an answer, he had seized the telephone and dialled a number.
    ‘Extension 229, please, personal and urgent. From Ludwig.’
    Half perching on Paquelin’s table, Louis looked at the commissaire, who was now standing up as well, with both fists on the table. Good-looking hands, pity about the mouth, really.
    ‘My wife. Busy,’ Louis explained. ‘Might take a bit of time. Ah, no, there she is. Jean-Jacques? Ludwig here. Listen, I am having a little argument with Commissaire Paquelin in the 5th arrondissement . . . Yes, the very same. He wants to lock me up, because I came with an enquiry about a possible missing person in the quartier . . . Yes, I’ll explain . . . Could you sort it please? . . . Very kind of you . . . Hang on, I’ll put him on the line.’
    Louis held out the receiver to the commissaire with an amiable expression.
    ‘It’s for you, commissaire. The Minister of the Interior, Jean-Jacques Sorel, would like a word.’
    As Paquelin took the phone, Louis dusted himself down and put Bufo in his pocket. The commissaire listened, answered briefly and hung up, quietly.
    ‘
What
is your name?’ he asked again.
    ‘Commissaire, it’s your job to know who you’re dealing with. I know quite well who you are. So, what’s the verdict? You don’t want anything to do with my little object? Or to collaborate? Or to let me see the day lists?’
    ‘Nice little scam,