The First Fingerprint Read Online Free PDF Page A

mates. He’s standing there right now, in the doorway of the tower-block. I want him, Jean-Louis.”
    â€œAnd how do you intend to go about it?”
    â€œWhen someone shows up for a fix, he’s the kid who goes to fetch the stuff. From under the wing of an old Mercedes parked on avenue Yves Giroud. For that moment, he’s out of sight of the others. We’llstake him out there, at the corner, wait for him to have something on him and then collar him quietly. From what I’ve seen, he goes there roughly every fifteen minutes.”
    â€œBaron, they run faster than bats out of hell. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re no spring chicken.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Le Gros. When you see the place, you’ll understand. All I ask is that you have a squad of plain-clothes boys on hand. But tell them not to drive up and down outside the estate. Have them patrol around it. Because they’ll have to be with us in twenty seconds flat. Go and change. You look like a policeman from four hundred meters.”
    They drove through the deserted northern districts: a complex web of dual carriageways and dead-end streets as broad as boulevards, lit by the yellow sentinels of the municipality; a maze of asphalt which now looked more like a shopping center, then an estate, with the occasional tiny cluster of swanky pads in winding alleys.
    As ever in this kind of situation, the Baron did not say a word. His friend glanced across at him, as usual unable to resist admiring his tenacity and insight. He knew that the Baron would get what he was after because he knew that he had prepared everything down to the last detail. Leaving nothing to chance.
    As they drove back up avenue Henri Barnier, they saw the group of youngsters at the top of the slope, at the foot of the immense tower-block. The kid was there, in a blue and white tracksuit, the collar of his fleece jumper turned up, his woolly hat down over his ears. He was stamping the ground in his brand new Nikes to warm himself up.
    Without slowing down, the two officers drove past the estate and took the first right into chemin de la Barre, then turned right again toward the Grand Littoral shopping center.
    The place was deserted. A burned-out Ford Fiesta had been dumped on the pavement. Red blotches of light from the streetlamps reflected in the windows of Collège Elsa Triolet. After taking the two grass roundabouts at the bottom of the shopping center, Maistre and de Palma turned back into avenue Henri Barnier. They drove up its two hundred meters, then, just before the estate, turned into avenue Yves Giroud. De Palma spoke at last.
    â€œLe Gros, see that doorway there, just by the Mercedes? I’m going to wait there. You stay in the car. As soon as the kid bends down and slips his hand under the wing, I’ll be on top of him. If he manages to make a run for it, too bad. But really I shouldn’t miss him.”
    â€œThen what do we do?”
    â€œWe sing him a Johnny Hallyday song.”
    De Palma got out of the car and walked to the end of the street. Maistre saw him peer round up the avenue then withdraw quickly. He walked back toward the Mercedes, felt under the wing and removed a small packet—a bar of shit—which he slipped into his pocket before vanishing into the doorway.
    A good half-hour went by. Jean-Louis, who was no longer used to stake-outs, began to find the wait a little tedious. He had to keep rubbing his eyes to stop himself from falling asleep. His mind was starting to wander among some vague memories when he saw the figure of a young boy appear at the end of the street.
    The kid bent down without even looking around. Casually, he felt under the wing of the Mercedes. When he found nothing, he bent down even further and ended up on his knees to look under the belly of the car. It was then that the Baron jumped him like a big cat. He picked him up off the ground, put one hand over his mouth and