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it’s a woman like you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause you’re extremely rich and you can pay for men like me just as you please, and not have to stir yourself!”
    â€œYou think so? Don’t put yourself down! Money can’t buy everything,and
Es ist höchste Zeit!
as we say in German—we’re out of time.”
    She opened her cigarette case again. Her fingers were shaking slightly. She looked toward the islands.
    â€œYou have to help me, M. de Palma.”
    The tone of her voice had darkened. Her whole body was tense. De Palma felt sorry for her.
    â€œYou have heard of my husband, William Steinert, haven’t you?”
    â€œNo, sorry, I haven’t.”
    Ingrid Steinert’s expression hardened, and her chin jutted out as though to stress her determination. She clasped her hands on the table. In the distance, the hills of L’Estaque were fading into the twilight. In Mourepiane, the lights from the gantries glittered on the ro-ro ships bound for North Africa or the Black Sea.
    â€œMy husband has been murdered,” she said calmly. “And I want to find the person or persons who did it.”
    â€œLook, I understand how upset you must be, but I can’t help you. Really I can’t. I’m just not allowed to.”
    â€œYou tell me what’s allowed? The Tarascon police are shelving the case. So far as they’re concerned, my husband has gone off somewhere and there’s nothing they can do about it! No one will believe me. What does it all mean?”
    She kept her hands clasped tightly together, which gave even more strength to her bearing.
    â€œAll I can advise you to do is to go to the authorities, to the public prosecutor, and try to have them open an investigation. That’s what Chandeler should have told you to do. The
Brigade Criminelle
in Marseille has some very good people, the Tarascon section too. I’ve an old friend I could phone up if you want. You could …”
    â€œThere are things that I can’t tell you here. We’ll have to meet again.” Then she added: “If you want to, that is. And don’t forget that money is no object.”
    De Palma remained silent for some time. His migraine was returning and he gently massaged his temples. Ingrid Steinert was observing his slightest reactions. He looked up and met her steady gaze.
    â€œO.K., tomorrow, I’ll try to get to know your husband’s case.”
    The lights of the cargo boats heading for Corsica lit up one after the other. The wind had turned again, barely a breath of air.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œLet’s get this straight, I am promising you nothing.”
    A voice inside told him he’d just been snared by Ingrid Steinert. He wanted to say something spiteful, but swallowed it back. The woman in front of him wasn’t just trying to clear up her husband’s death. In fact, all through their conversation she had spoken his name just once, and hadn’t shown the slightest sign of sadness. Anxiety, yes, but not sadness.
    â€œHere’s my card,” she said. “It has all of my addresses and phone numbers, personal and professional. You can contact me whenever you want.”
    She smiled and raised her glass. He had the impression that she was about to propose a toast to their unlikely collaboration.
    â€œTry the mobile numbers first,” she said in a strangely muted voice. “They’re the most reliable.”
    The moment she stood up, a Mercedes 500 with German number plates drew up at the pavement. De Palma had no idea how Ingrid had summoned her watchdogs. The driver got out and opened the door. She disappeared behind the smoked-glass windows.
    A few sailing boats were roaming around the port of Marseille, propelled by their outboard motors. As it passed by the seawall, the
Danièle-Casanova
gave two blasts of its siren, filling the sky.
    He strolled for a while in the little quartier of Malmousque