The First Fingerprint Read Online Free PDF

carried him, struggling like a captured beast, as far as the car.
    â€œListen to me, son. I’ve got just one question for you. If you tell me who killed Samir, then I’ll let you go at once. And no-one will be any the wiser. Otherwise, we’re taking you with us and putting your name around. O.K.?”
    The kid did not cry. He stared into the Baron’s eyes and saw in them a tiny glimmer of cruelty. He looked for a little comfort from Maistre, who just stared at the end of the street. The boy’s entire body started to shake and he tried to stammer something, but the words stuck in his throat. De Palma gave him a terrific, violent slap.
    â€œKarim,” he said. “Look at me. Do you remember me?”
    The kid did not dare look into the Baron’s eyes. He nodded his head vigorously. He was no longer trembling.
    â€œWho was it?”
    â€œIt was Givre, monsieur.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œNordine … or ‘Givre’ … We call him that because he’s completely crazy.”
    â€œLe Gros, call the boys. Tell them to drive straight to where we are, with sirens flashing and the whole works.”
    â€œNo, for fuck’s sake, not them!”
    â€œDon’t worry, son. It’s for your protection. Your dickhead friends will just think you’re being chased, that’s all. Oh, and I’ll give you your stuff back. I’ll just keep a little bit for later on. But first you’ve got to tell me something. This bastard, ‘Givre’ as you call him … where does he live?”
    â€œBlock C, third floor, door on the left.”
    The squad’s sirens were rising up in the night. When de Palma heard the tires of the Safrane screech at the roundabout at the bottom of avenue Henri Barnier, in front of the swimming pool, he took Karim by the arm and pulled him out of the car.
    â€œListen up, kid. Run like hell, as fast as you can to warn your pals. I’ll run after you. Don’t worry, I won’t catch you. Go on, kid, beat it.”
    De Palma waited until Karim had turned at the end of the street before setting off after him. The Safrane boomed into the street, flashing ultramarine on to the walls of the rabbit hutches. When it stopped beside the Baron and Maistre, who was laboring in his wake, Karim had already vanished into his universe.
    Untraceable.
    Two days later, at 6:00 a.m., Givre was sleeping like a cretin. His little old mum heard a knock at the door. Through the spyhole, she saw the friendly face of her neighbor, old Madame Oumziane. She opened it. Trustingly.
    De Palma surged in, stuck his hand over her mouth and forced her outside. She made no protest, tired of protecting her shit of a son.
    The Baron walked down the corridor, its wallpaper covered with huge round flowers dotted with red and golden medallions. A pleasant aroma of harissa, mild honey and halva came from the dining room. It smelled of a sweet, simple life. He walked on, gun outstretched, as far as the bedroom at the end, then gently pushed open the door andsaw Samir’s murderer curled up under his duvet in the fetal position. On the wall was a poster of Zinedine Zidane, the infant king of La Castellane. A crumpled Olympique de Marseille shirt trailed out of the rickety wardrobe. De Palma tugged on it and uncovered the dark form of a Scorpio, the preferred weapon of the Palestinians.
    Nordine was still asleep, his fine profile resting on his pillow like an icon of piety. He looked fragile, barely out of adolescence. Sleep had returned the innocence which society’s buffetings had stolen from him.
    De Palma raised his Bodyguard and aimed it carefully, straight at the center of the left temple.
    A heavy hand appeared on the revolver’s short barrel.
    â€œDon’t kill him,” Maistre whispered.
    The Baron’s bottom lip trembled. He lowered his gun.
    He looked round at the bedroom’s dirty walls once more. He spotted some brownish stains and