01x04 - Chambre Close

[bunniefuu]

Mr. Francoeur?

Hello!

How are you?

Hi guys!

What’s up?

Hello, Arthur!

Hello, Commander.

You still haven’t told her?

Uh?

Astrid?

That you found her mother.

I don’t think it’s my place, actually.

Honestly, I think it’s
the right thing to do, but I…

You don’t want
to meddle with it,

and you’re right.

Astrid has great difficulties dealing with
emotions and the unexpected.

So I don’t know how she'd react to this.

And who am I to interfere
in her life like this?

I don’t know.

Her friend?

Yes, honey?

What?

You want to stay with Dad tonight?

But it’s our night…

A concert?

Who’s playing?

No, it doesn’t bother me hun,
you should go.

Yes, baby,

have fun.

Love you.
Big kisses.

Hello, Commissioner.

Some good news, I hope?
I’m not in the mood right now.

Yes, I’m coming.

The entire lab is on this case.
We’ll be on our way in minutes tops.

Excuse me.

Coste?

Ah, Commissioner!

So far from your office,

it must be really important.

It’s a su1c1de, but it’s a celebrity,
so it must be handled quickly.

You know me,
I’m not one to nitpick.

So?

Who’s our VIP?

- Henry Francoeur.
- Doesn’t ring a bell.

Henry Francoeur.
Born October nd, ,

better known under
the pseudonym Eric Ernest,

crime novelist.

Yes, I know him by name.

I didn’t know what
he looked like though.

Yes, he was a bit of recluse,

but a successful one.

books out in years of career,
all smashing successes.

Hated by the critics,
loved by the readers.

Isn’t it odd to commit su1c1de
when you’re so successful?

Coste, don’t start.

The flat was locked from the inside,
with two bolts. It’s a su1c1de.

Period. We write a report, we classify
and we move on, okay?

Page .

Yeah.

No wonder we never saw
any pictures of him.

There are traces of blood near the mouth,

the lips and the nails
have turned purplish.

There is a body of consistent evidence
indicating that this man

was poisoned with potassium cyanide.

The lab was at top speed on this one.

Your guy was poisoned with KCN.

Also known as potassium cyanide.

Exactly.

We found some in his bloodstream and
there were traces

in the glass next to the body.

The victim mixed it with whiskey.

He really couldn’t have botched it,
there was enough to k*ll a bull.

Commander?

The guy who found
the body is in the kitchen.

He’s the concierge,
he’s a little bit in shock.

Coming with me, Astrid?

I would like to clarify
a point with Dr. Fournier.

Go easy on him.

I do go easy on Dr. Fournier.

I am even being instructive with him.

Yes, but sometimes,
without meaning to,

you… belittle him a little.

- Ah!
- Be careful.

So, you found poison in the glass.

Uh, yes, I did.

- Like I just told you.
- Okay.

Was there any in the bottle?

I don’t know.
Why?

Because if there was poison in the glass
but not in the bottle,

that means that it was
poured directly into the glass.

Uh, well, yes.
That’s obvious.

Could you be clearer instead of
b*ating around the bush?

I am going easy on you Dr. Fournier,

so that you do not feel belittled.

Uh, thanks.

You are welcome.

Ok.

Let’s hear
what you’re thinking.

If there was poison in the glass
but not in the bottle,

that means that it was
poured directly into the glass.

Therefore,

you should have found
the poison container.

Did you find
the poison container, Dr. Fournier?

Hello, Laurent?
It’s Fournier.

Was there any KNC in the bottle or not?

Well, check. Check.

Yes, I’m waiting.

It’s uh, it’s in-

We’re checking it.

Anything else?

No.
Well done, Dr. Fournier.

Thank you, I appreciate it.

I knew right away something was off.

I tried to open,
I’m a locksmith,

but it was locked from
the inside with two bolts.

Why did he lock himself up like that?

He was a weird guy,

half-agoraphobic.

He almost never went outside.

Though,

with the scars on his face,
it’s understandable.

On top of that, he had trouble walking,
he was disabled.

- Do you know what happened to him?
- No.

He never mentioned it.

Did he have any visitors?

Hardly any.

He even refused to have a nurse come over,
even though he was entitled to it.

He’d rather struggle on his own than
let someone inside his home.

Commander,
I think we have a problem.

And you found nothing that
contained this damned poison?

Nothing, Commissioner.

The guys from the lab went through
every inch of the place.

The poison didn’t appear
magically inside the glass.

If Francoeur had poured it himself,
we would have found the container.

Someone else must have poured it in
and left with the bottle.

Okay, and how does did
this someone get out

of a flat that’s
locked from the inside?

It is a locked-room mystery.

It is a well-known subgenre of mystery fiction,
a classic.

Except we’re not in a book.

You have until tonight
to find me something concrete.

Until proven otherwise, it’s a su1c1de.

I phoned the others,
they’ll join us in a bit.

Don’t worry, Astrid.

At this hour, it’ll be quiet.

And Michel never plays
any music inside his bar.

You see?

It’s a bit like my very own paper room.

It’s a place that helps me think.

- How are you, Michel?
- Fine.

Pour me the usual?

What would you like to drink, Astrid?

A glass of water.

A glass of water.

Mineral water.

Mineral water.

You seem to know plenty
about crime novels.

I would rather call them mystery novels.

It is solving the case

before the protagonist

that I'm interested in.

So, forbidden love stories,

the destinies of strong
and independent women...

they don’t interest you at all?

Not at all.

When I find the solution,
I close the book.

Or when the author cheats.

I like to be on par with
the investigator when I’m playing.

- When you’re playing?
- Yes.

They’re like puzzles to you?

Exactly.

And Eric Ernest’s cases are
particularly rigorous and complex.

I read all of his books.

In their entirety.

You’ll have to tell me where this passion
for puzzles comes from one day.

You’re interested?

It's called a himitsu-bako,

it’s Japanese.

It’s a box for secrets.

To open it, you have to
do a specific set of moves.

The mechanism is hidden.
Let me show you.

You know, Astrid,

grown-ups can spend
hours getting it to open.

- Are you sure you don’t want my help?
- I will do it on my own.

On my own.

- Hello!
- Hi there.

Ok, so...

I recognized the MO.

It’s a Dutilleul’s trick for sure.

Dutilleul?

Do we have a suspect?

- Did you do some research?
- No. No, Arthur.

Dutilleul is the name of
Marcel Aymé’s “Passe-muraille”.

A guy who could walk through walls.

I mean, your story’s a bit far-fetched...

Francoeur was locked
inside his home, with two bolts.

The k*ller could have gotten out between
the moment he poisoned his victim

and the moment the poison
started to kick in.

Impossible.

Potassium cyanide has
a very short latency period.

Barely a few seconds.

There must be
a reasonable explanation.

There must be
another way out of this flat.

Impossible again.

I got hold of the building
and the flat blueprints,

they match.

No space for a fake partition
or for a secret passage.

Of any kind.

In this case, the culprit could have
poured the poison into the glass

and gotten out
before Francoeur drank it.

I thought about it
but it doesn’t add up.

The concierge was making his round and
talking to tenants for a least an hour.

He would’ve seen them.

The author John Dickson Carr
drew up a list of solutions

to locked-room mysteries.

:

The m*rder was perpetrated with the help
of a concealed mechanical device.

:

We think that the victim
d*ed in the locked room

but they are still alive.

:

We think it is a m*rder,

but it is in fact
a series of coincidences

that makes us think it is a m*rder.

:

- We think-
- yeah, okay, we get the idea!

- I am not finished.
- Anyway, if there is a culprit,

they must have gotten
inside the flat at some point.

Eric Ernest’s publisher, Paul Junot.

According to the concierge, he was one of
the only person who came to see him.

We could start there.

- Want some coffee?
- Yes.

coffees, Michel, please.

What can you tell me about him?

Not a whole lot.

I would stop by once a month
to deal with current affairs.

He never talked about his private life.

Not even about how he got
these scars on his face?

No, but I know the legend.

Rumor has it, he was
injured in a fire that k*lled

his childhood sweetheart.
It made him agoraphobic,

and it also fueled his work.

But, well,

I never knew if it was true, though.

Right out of a novel, you could say.

And in his day-to-day behavior,
did you notice anything...

out of the ordinary?

Everything was out of the ordinary with him.
He was a genius,

with all the quirks that come with it.

He wrote solely on an old typewriter.

And he wrote in one go,

without any proofreading.

All his royalties were
to be transferred onto

an offshore bank account.

He only liked Scottish whiskey.

I once had the unfortunate idea,
I thought he would like it,

to give him a bottle of nice bourbon.

He saw red and
he threw it in my face.

He was quite a character.

I understand
Francoeur’s pseudonym better now.

Eric Ernest?

Eric is the name of
the phantom of the opera.

Ernest is a pianist
who inspired Gaston Leroux.

He was d*sfigured by
a fire in an auditorium

where a dancer he was
madly in love with perished.

It sounds a lot like
Francoeur’s legend.

Still doesn’t mean it’s true.

If it truly happened,
there should be records of it

at the Criminal Documentation.

There are always records.

Not right now.

Fournier wants to see me and
he insists that you come with me.

Ah.

What is he up to again?

Following your remark,
I wondered how the poison

got into Francoeur’s drink.

So, I searched for poison traces

on the victim’s hands and
I found some on his thumb

and his index.

And?

And they must have landed there
when Francoeur was holding the bottle.

So I’m sorry, Miss Nielsen.

We may not have been able
to find the bottle,

but it’s Francoeur himself
who poured the poison in his glass.

It’s a su1c1de. QED.

It is not logical.

You should have found the container.

But, we have proof
he had poison on his fingers.

Or maybe,
there just never was any container.

Impossible.

Potassium cyanide does not
present itself in a solid enough form

to be able to be manipulated this way.

Ah.

Unless...

Unless someone solidified it.

Exactly.

Well done.

An ice cube tray?

You had to see me right away

to show me an ice cube tray?

Not any ice cube tray.

The one in Francoeur’s freezer.

In which the lab just found traces of cyanide.

You’re saying he poisoned his drink

- with an ice cube full of cyanide?
- No.

He didn’t know
the ice cubes were poisoned.

Henry Francoeur was m*rder*d.

The cyanide could have been
there for weeks.

We can’t know for sure
when the assassin visited the flat.

Did you make any progress
on the offshore account?

Dead end.
We won’t get anything,

even with an international warrant.

- The joys of tax havens.
- Dammit.

But I have something else.

Francoeur opened an account in
a French bank two months ago.

He opened it with
a very large deposit.

Wow,

that much money
makes for a good motive.

Even I could k*ll for this.

And where does all of this come from?

That's where it gets interesting.

It’s a transfer from Paname,
an important publishing house.

I called them and
they transferred the money after

signing a big contract.

They had bought Eric Ernest’s next book.

Was it a commission?

I know someone who probably didn’t like that they stole his golden goose.

I filed in the paperwork to
get you a temporary accreditation.

You’ll be able to do your research.

Thank you.

Are you sure that what
you’re looking for is in this section?

We only keep the
administrative documents here.

There’s no criminal cases.

No criminal cases.

I am looking for information
about an accident.

A fire.

You are sitting on my desk.

It must have hurt to find out
he had betrayed you.

I didn’t know.

When Eric Ernest sends you
his first manuscript, he’s a nobody.

But you agree to publish him
before even meeting him.

Stop it.

And then,

You meet the man
behind the pseudonym.

Henry Francoeur lives a
secluded life, he’s difficult,

but you grow up together.

He may have the talent
but you make him a star.

He doesn’t want to go outside?

Fine.

Let’s build up a myth.

The crowd will love it and the mystery
will fuel Eric Ernest’s legend.

You have no idea

of the sacrifices I had to make.

And then, he betrays you.

He uses the fame
you helped him build

to sell himself to your competitor.

Powerless.

Everything you’re not.

That’s true.

When I saw he had signed a book

with Paname,

under the name Eric Ernest,
I was disgusted.

It drove me crazy.

But I wouldn’t have k*lled him.

What does his death bring me?

I thought it was just a whim

and that he would quickly
come back to work with us.

Unfortunately, you were the only one
who came to see him.

And you have a motive.

Everything points towards the publisher
but I’m pretty sure it’s not him.

Francoeur cheated on him,

but Junot still liked him, that’s clear.

It is never the first suspect.

What?

The first suspect is only here
to distract your attention.

What do you mean?

In Eric Ernest’s books,

the goal of the mystery
is to confuse the reader,

to put on a smokescreen.

I didn’t find anything
about Francoeur’s accident.

It is natural.
There was no investigation.

- There wasn’t?
- But I found something else.

A fire incident report from
the Bourg d’Oisans fire department

in the Alps, dated from December th, .

A cabin hosting seasonal workers
of the Alpe d’Huez b*rned down.

Henry Francoeur was one of the victims.

No casualties?

One casualty.

A young woman.
Sophie Nobel.

Maybe the great love
from the legend.

Wait, there was a death
but no investigation?

- You’re sure?
- Absolutely.

There was another casualty but
they only had superficial wounds.

The name is Alain Lamarque.

Everything is in here.

- Weren't those the papers on the victim?
- Yes.

We were hoping to find a trace of
the book promised to Paname.

And?

And we have manuscripts.

Tapuscripts.

Uh?

Manuscript is for when it’s handwritten,
tapuscript is

for when it’s from a typewriter.

Right, Astrid?

Exactly, Commander Coste.

Okay.

- Well anyway, we have , uh-
- Tapuscripts.

tapuscripts that are novels published by
Junot over the last few years

under the pseudonym Eric Ernest.

But there was this.

A single page.

Page .

Is it a page of the book
promised to Paname?

It’s likely.
It would only add to the publisher’s motive.

Junot would have k*lled him
to steal his manuscript

to publish it himself.

Yeah, but to publish a book,
having it isn’t enough.

There are contracts for that.

Ask Arthur to dig
into the other victims.

There’s Sophie Nobel,

the young woman
who d*ed in the fire

and another guy…
What’s his name, again?

Alain Lamarque. Caucasian.
Born January th, .
and another guy…
What’s his name, again?

Alain Lamarque. Caucasian.
Born January th, .

- You’re kidding me?
- No.

Lamarque?

You don’t know Alain Lamarque?
The writer?

- No.
- Uh...

Adam’s Mountain?
Doesn’t ring any bell?

- No.
- That’s his latest book.

It was widely talked about
in literary circles.

No?

This book is incredible.

It’s the chronicle of a raw passion that
inexorably leads to madness.

It’s deeply moving. Read it!

Yes, I love these kinds of books.

Let's pay him a visit.

Him and Francoeur were in the same fire,
maybe they stayed in touch.

I have the address, Astrid.
Let's go?

Mr. Lamarque?

Yes.

Who allowed you to
get inside my property?

The gate was opened.

We'd like to ask you a few questions.

Wait, if you want an interview,
do like everyone else.

Contact my press office.

I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.

Commander Coste, Criminal police.

Did you see Henry Francoeur
since that fire in the Alps?

What are you talking about?

That fire in the Alps was ages ago.

No.
It was on December th, .

Mr. Lamarque...

Henry Francoeur is dead.

Come in.

That's horrible.

I can’t believe it.

Henry was like a brother to me.

A brother?

After the horror we went through,
you can imagine.

We were already friends before the fire.

It brought us closer.

This picture.
There was the same one at Henry Francoeur’s.

Here.

It was taken in the Alps.

We were seasonal workers.

Henry was happy at that time,

radiant even.

He never could handle Sophie’s death.

It destroyed him.

Sophie?

Sophie Nobel?

Yes.

The young woman who
d*ed in the fire?

It wasn’t a legend?

We met every winter.

He loved her like
we all love at that age.

We think it’s forever.

Do you see each other often?

Every chance we get,
which means not much.

You know, I...

I receive a lot of requests
and Henry wasn’t very social.

Did he ever mention
a book in the making?

We found an isolated page
of a tapuscript at his place.

No, no, not at all.

We talked about everything except work.

Spending time together was enough.

We were very much alike.

Expect he was snubbed by the critics

and you, by the public.

Yes, I did my homework
before coming over.

I feel like your books aren’t
selling all that well,

unlike his.

His are sold at supermarkets.
That’s his customer base.

Henry wrote airport novels.

You read it, you forget it.

Me? I write to leave a mark.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.

I always favored quality over quantity.

Just like with wine.

You’ve got common, table wines,
and then you've got the others

with more subtlety,

the grand crus.

You write grand crus.

I’ll give it to you as a gift.

I'll let you be the judge of that.

Thank you so much.
It is very nice of you.

The affection I had
for Henry was deep, sincere.

But we just didn’t have
the same job.

Now, if you don’t have any more questions,
I won't keep you.

I’m tired and I have
a lot of work to do.

Ma'ams.

I don’t like him.

Isn’t denigrating a witness by
talking about his bad sales

socially improper?

I did it on purpose.

Ah.

What for?

To know who I was dealing with.

And now, I know his weak spot.

It’s his pride.

Oh no.

Théo was supposed to be home tonight.
I’ve been waiting for this for two days

and his dad is buying him off
with stupid concert tickets.

Now, I’m all alone.

Why are you telling me this?

Does it have anything
to do with the investigation?

No. No. I’m just saying.

Sorry,
I didn’t mean to bother you.

I cannot do anything to help you.

I do not even know Théo’s dad.

Sorry, I-

I need to confide in someone.

Why?

Why what?

Why do you need to
confide in someone?

I don’t know, Astrid!
Because,

because I trust you.

Ah.

Very well.

Goodbye, Commander.

It’s crazy, this habit of

leaving in the middle of a conversation.

That’s completely insane.

That’s what all neurotypicals do.

They talk about themselves
to establish contact.

That’s absurd.
I don’t see the point.

Personally, I do.

I don’t always have
the appropriate answers

but when my neurotypicals friends
do it, I let them.

And how do you answer?

Maybe by confiding in return?

By confiding in return.

But I am more comfortable when
we talk about the investigation.

It makes more sense.

What are you investigating this time?

I cannot say anything.

Come on, Astrid.

We won’t tell anyone.

I cannot say anything.

It’s your special interest,

don’t tell me you
don’t want talk about it.

But I am not allowed to.

That being said,

we all signed
an agreement stating that

whatever is said here, stays here.

Yes.

So...

So?

Yes, it’ll be great.

Yes, yes.

Oh no!
Don’t worry about me.

Please.

I'll go out...

Go for drinks with a few colleagues,
come home late...

You know me!

Yes, I made dinner.

It’ll do me some good to spend the evening
without kids around, you know?

Okay, baby.

Yes.

Me too.

Love you.

Astrid...

You haven’t eaten
anything since yesterday.

You have to move on.

This box,
it's becoming an obsession.

Come on, stop!

Astrid! Stop!

Stop!

Here.

Astrid. Astrid...

At least, let me help you.

I think there is a link
between page and the fire.

The single page
we found at Francoeur’s,

I think it refers to the fire
of December th, .

Francoeur was writing
a book about his accident?

There is a body of consistent evidence
that would indicate so.

On page ,

a name caught my eye.

Moncenis.
De Moncenis, to be more precise.

This name doesn't appear in the
firefighters’ intervention report.

But, by going into more depth,

I discovered that he was in fact
the owner of the b*rned cabin.

You had a very productive evening.

I read the first two chapters
of Alain Lamarque's book,

Adam’s Mountain.

I couldn’t quite get into it.

- Get into it?
- Right, sorry.

It didn’t really catch my interest.

Ah.

Of course.

Did you start reading it too?

I finished it.

Last night,
after my discovery,

I couldn’t get any sleep.

That's offending.

I barely read the first two chapters
and you just finished it.

You didn’t miss anything.
It is extremely boring.

It’s the story of a boy who loves a girl
who doesn’t loves him back.

She tells him right from the start,
she’s very clear.

But the boy perseveres
during the entire book.

It’s absurd.

It happens sometimes.

Love is a complicated feeling.

No.

He loves her.
She does not.

Everything is clear from the very start.

No mystery. No enigma.

Why did you read
the whole thing?

If there was no mystery to solve?

Because there was one.

I wanted to understand why Henry Francoeur
had written this kind of book.

It was so different from the ones
he wrote under the name of Eric Ernest.

Wait, you lost me.

Adam’s Mountain was
written by Lamarque.

No.
It is indisputable.

It has
the same writing patterns

and the syntactical structure
is identical.

It is like a fingerprint.

On the cover, it reads Lamarck,

but Adam’s Mountain

was written

by Henry Francoeur.

I still do not understand how it is considered as a motive.

But it does Astrid, it does.
Francoeur wrote dime-store novels at lightning speed.

When he decided to publish his first serious book,

publishers probably laughed right in his face.

For them, he was Erik Ernest, a low-grade writer.

He would have asked Mark to be his pseudonym.

Maybe to mock literary circles.

Like Romain Gary did with his nephew,

Paul Palvovitch, who he asked to publish
under the name Emile Ajar.

Except we can assume that when
Francoeur wanted to come clean,

Lamarck had gotten used to be this great
author and he didn’t want it to stop.

He would have k*lled him to keep this secret hidden

and keep on peacefully enjoying the success.

- It adds up, doesn’t it?
- It’s missing a few things to back up this hypothesis.

Astrid, not that I want to doubt your analysis
but the Comissaire will want concrete proof.

Not just two similar writings.
- Identical. Identical writings.

- Ah, there we go! Thanks Arthur.
- What is it?

I’m looking at something that you’re going to like.

Lamarck’s offshore bank account where
his publishing company transfer him his royalties.

An offshore account? Like Francoeur?

Even better. The same offshore account.

Henry brought up his plan to me
two years ago, I couldn’t refuse.

- Why? Money?
- Not only, I did it for him.

What do you mean?

He had been writing under the pseudo Eric Ernest for years.

When he wrote a more personal book,
nobody wanted to buy it.

So he came up with an idea:
to publish it under my name.

And it became a classic. literary prizes.

That I had already guessed.

What I want to know is what happened
when he wanted to come clean.

He didn’t want to. You don’t understand.

The only thing that mattered to him was writing.

He lived like a hermit.

- That doesn’t stop one from wanting the recognition one deserves.
- He didn’t care about recognition.

Not at all. It was even part of the deal.

The dinner parties, the honors,
the low bows… those were for me.

He just wanted to write, to be alone.
Writing was his life.

Think about it, I had no reason to k*ll him.

He gave me glory and recognition… he paid me well for this.

Today, I have nothing. I never wrote a sentence.

I’m screwed.

Moncenis. That was your landlord during the fire.

What happened exactly?

Francis De Moncenis. A shithead.

He bothered all the female seasonal workers who lived there.
- You mean?

He had wandering hands, when it was not worst.

I don’t know what he did to Sophie but
she wanted to press charges against him.

But it was the ’s, there was no “me too” movement.

And everything stopped with the fire?

Yes.

Well, at first Henry wanted to initiate
a legal procedure in the memory of Sophie.

He was crushed, at his wit’s end.

Moncenis was well connected.

Time flew by and the statute of limitations came
and passed by, there was nothing left to do.

Of course, there was.
Write a book to denounce.

Henry Francoeur had just done so.

Moncenis is in the database. Numerous cases
for harassment, but they were all dismissed.

That fire came at the right time for Moncenis, didn’t it?

Sophie Nobel was about to press charges against him.

Where are you going with this?

Look, Francoeur was k*lled while
in the middle of writing a book

about the fire in which Sophie Nobel perished.

It’s hard to not see a link.
- You’re overstating.

We need proof before accusing people like this.

You want proof? I’m gonna find you evidence.

Yes, come in.

Oh, what do you want? I did something wrong?
I missed something? I flunked the operational mode?

I do not know.

I would like to ask for your help.

So, I was able to reach Sophie Nobel’s parents.
Henry Francoeur contacted them a month ago.

- Why did he call them?
- He asked them plenty of questions about their daughter.

He allegedly wanted to set the record straight about her death.

Am I still overstating now?

Henry Francoeur investigated this
and he wanted to make a book out of it.

- What could he have dug up years later?
- Maybe the fact that Sophie Nobel was assassinated.

Miss Nielsen came to see me with her research.

The intervention report has nothing
to do with an official criminal report.

There is a body of consistent evidence that indicates that
Sophie Nobel was already dead when the fire started.

- Okay, that changes everything.
- There.

I think Francoeur was writing a book about
the truth about what happened years ago.

A truth that accuses Moncenis of murdering Sophie Nobel.

We sent a team at the victim’s.
The concierge recognized Moncenis’ picture right away.

He was in the building a few days ago.

He would have k*lled Francoeur to keep him quiet?

- And to steal his tapuscript.
Except that page was forgotten at the crime scene.

Moncenis didn’t realize that.

Okay. And why would Francoeur wait
so much time to write this testimony?

Because he only became aware of the truth recently.

I don’t know what tipped him off
but he led a real investigation.

We contacted the Bourg d’Oisans fire department
to know if Francoeur had gotten in touch with them.

A month ago, he filed a request to read the
intervention report from the night of the fire.

He must have drawn the same
conclusion as Astrid and Fournier.

That makes sense. Did you locate Moncenis?

I spoke with a colleague from the Savoy region.

Moncenis’ wife said he left for Paris yesterday

and she hasn’t heard from him since then.

Okay, look for his phone, his credit card…
That guy didn’t vanish into thin air.

I’ll keep you updated. Thank you, Astrid.

Yes, goodbye. There.

Yes?

I still don’t understand the point of sharing
personal information outside of their context

but I am willing to try and adapt
to your neurotypical features.

So. My interest for puzzles dates back
to my mother’s departure.

When she left home, she left one item behind her.
One single item that my father kept.

You were really hoping to find
an answer inside this box?

I did find an answer inside this box.

It was empty.

There was no reason to my mother’s departure.

She left, that was all.

Astrid, I really have to tell you something
of the uttermost importance.

Yes, Nicolas?

Raph, we spotted Moncenis.

He’s in a hotel room in Montmartre.
Come on guys, let’s go!

It’s going to be hard to interrogate him. Damn.

KCN. It was still inside Monceni’s hand.

It comes from Eastern Europe.

You can find that filth easily if you
know how to navigate the dark web.

He k*lled himself with the poison
that was used to k*ll Francoeur.

Hey! I found Francoeur’s tapuscript.

And page is missing.

It looks like a real defense speech against Moncenis.

He would have k*lled Sophie and
used fire to cover up his tracks.

Well there. The puzzle is now complete.
You must be happy, Astrid.

What’s wrong?

I do not know. But something is not working right.

The pieces of the puzzle do not fit perfectly together.

He kept his socks.

The concert with dad was crazy.

You don’t like Skcus, maybe?

Skcus? It’s metal, it’s not for your age.

And I found their music a bit old-fashioned.

And it sucks.

Stop! You can’t say that.
I know you have all of their albums.

You wouldn’t be jealous, would you?
- No. Look, it sucks.

Look. It’s written here, sucks.

Oh, I had never seen that! It’s crazy.

It’s an ambigram, we can read it from both sides.

That’s crazy.
- An ambigram…

Well, damn.

You’re a genius!

I’m calling the neighbor. I’m probably
going to come back home late tonight.

- Thanks.
- Sorry, baby. Everyone gets a turn.

Well, does anybody want to share something?

Me. I got a new job.

- Ah, you changed company?
- No,

I’m still working at the same place
but I’m not in maintenance anymore.

Thanks to all of you, I managed
to talk to a colleague and

I was hired in IT.
- Congrats, Max!

We’re all very, very-

Raphaëlle, good evening.
- Good evening.

I’m really sorry, I don’t mean to bother you.
- Take a seat.

Thank you. I came to see Astrid,
but it can wait. Actually, no, it can’t wait.

Astrid, you’re free to go if you wish to.

It was not planned.

Yes, I know Astrid but… It’s an emergency.

Look, I can’t talk about it here

but I wonder if we don’t have the story backwards from the
beginning. Who you know is maybe not who we think he is.

Wait, you think it’s Alain Lamarck and not
Henry Francoeur hiding behind the pseudo Eric Ernest?

I talked about the investigation with the group members.

I am sorry, it is against regulations.
It is totally against regulations.

- That’s the least you could say. You astound me, Astrid.
- Me too, I astound myself.

I do not know if you have a good
influence on me, Commander Coste.

Ah, we’ll talk about it later.

Right now, we have to go to Lamarck’s.

I think he’s playing us.

And what if he was the one who
wrote everything from the start?

And if it was Francoeur, the straw man?
It’s possible, isn’t it?

Technically, yes.

I recognized that it was the same writing,
but it can work both ways.

An ambigram?

- Not exactly, no.
- You lost me there.

But yes! Lamarck writes precise
novels that aren’t very lucrative

but he could very much also be hiding behind
the pseudo Eric Ernest to write mystery novels.

And to save faces, he asked his
friend Francoeur to take on the part.

Yes. Of course, all of this stays
between us, don’t we all agree?

Be without worry, Raphaëlle.

A secret couldn’t be better kept than in an autist’s hands.

Provided you specify that it is indeed, one.

Because sometimes, with
neurotypical people, it’s not very clear.

Okay. Then, this is a secret,

very, very, secret, alright?

There you go.

Um, Astrid. We need to go right away because

we only have a small window left
to legally interrogate him before it’s too late.

Let’s go?

Are you certain to need me?

Yes, of course I need you Astrid.
You see things that I don’t.

Ah.

Let’s go. Thanks. Thanks.

- Goodbye.
- Goodbye.

Sorry.

Commander Coste. Miss Nielsen.

You’re here just in time for a legal visit.

We have just under minutes left.

- minutes? You better be concise.
- Concise? I know you are Eric Ernest.

- Took you some time.
- You’re not denying it?

It doesn’t make me an assassin.

What’s in it for you? All of this staging?
Making us believe Francoeur was writing your books?

Those books sell like hotcakes. Literally, I mean.

You can find it at the supermarket,
between baby wipes and appetizers.

- So what?
- So, with such a success,

you can imagine that it arouses curiosity.

Everybody wanted to know who was Eric Ernest.
- It couldn’t be you, of course.

Of course not.

Henry was the perfect candidate.
Discreet, invisible, always locked inside his home.

A hermit.

He wasn’t about to say some nonsense during
interviews or do anything stupid in your name.

And he didn’t cost me much either.

A great whiskey bottle every once
in a while, and he was happy.

Whiskey that you laced with cyanide.

Careful Commander.
I could get you to court for defamation.

Don’t touch that.

Commander Coste.

You can put this typewriter under seal.
It is the proof of Alain Lamarck’s culpability.

I knew right away that something was off with the
tapuscript we found next to Francis De Moncenis’s body

but I did not know what it was.

And it is when I saw Alain Lamarck’s typewriter
that everything fell into place.

There is a defect on the letter E on page .

It is a little like a fingerprint from
the typewriter used to type it.

- Why two tapuscripts?
- The first was stolen at Francoeur’s.

It lost page . The one we found in the
hotel room next to Monceni’s body is a fake,

re-written by Lamarck based on page
to make us believe it was the original.

- He re-wrote a book in one night?
- A hundred pages that he probably copied from the original.

But why would he do that?

Because Francoeur’s original depicts a whole
other story of what happened years ago.

A story where Sophie Nobel’s m*rder*r
and the fire culprit isn’t Moncenis.

But Alain Lamarck.

What are you basing that on?

Why else make a fake tapuscript?
Because the first one was accusing him.

Wait, Raph, that’s not enough.
We’ll need a confession.

I can get it easily. I know his weak spot.

What is it? Pride?

Sophie Nobel.

The great love from the legend. There.

I read your book, you know. Adam’s mountain.

A story about a passionate and
unrequited love that drives a man to madness.

- Did you like it?
- Not very much, to be honest.

And Henry Francoeur probably didn’t either.

Maybe that’s what tipped him off and drove him
to investigate what really happened years ago.

This picture he had all this time,
he started to see it under a new light.

He wondered if it wasn’t depicting another story.

Your hand, like a claw onto Sophie’s shoulder.

That’s absurd.

All we have to do is read the tapuscript
we found next to Monceni’s body

and to replace his name by yours
to understand what happened.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I’m talking about the fact that you k*lled Sophie Nobel.

And to cover your m*rder up, you set the cabin on fire.

Your victim’s body carbonized, your rival hurt
and d*sfigured… The perfect crime.

You were never worried about that

and you kept Henry Francoeur under your grip until he found out

the truth and decided to write a book about it and to publish it.

That’s a good story.
You should write mystery novels, Commander.

You already lost the game, Mister Lamarck.

It’s going to be hard to explain how a tapuscript
typed with your typewriter turned up at a m*rder scene.

- Sophie Nobel, you loved her, didn’t you?
- Yes.

I loved her like we all love at that age.
We think it’s forever.

But she loved Henry Francoeur.

So you took by force what she refused to give you.

You r*ped her and you m*rder*d her so she would shut up.

Something eludes me.

How did you know Henry Francoeur
was writing a book against you?

That’s quite eccentric.
I eat regularly with Paname publisher in chief.

Right away, he told me about it,
way too proud to hold his tongue.

He had paid a fortune for Eric Ernest’s next book.

You’d think of course I was surprised!

I’m Eric Ernest.

You stole the manuscript,
but you forgot page on the scene.

Without this page, we would never have gone back to you.

That’s the difference with your mystery novels.
You don’t control every aspect.

Yes, I confess I was upset.

After your first visit, I checked into the manuscript
and indeed, page was missing.

My plan was at risk of failing because of a careless mistake.

I found a solution, I had to make stuff up,
to improvise. Surprise the reader.

That’s when you thought of accusing Moncenis instead of you.

Exactly. We can’t hide anything from you.

I typed the manuscript during the night,
changing the details accusing me

and improving Henry’s disastrous style of course!
There was work to do.

The rest was a child’s play,

making Moncenis come to Paris telling him
Henry was going to accuse him.

Making him drink the cyanide and wipe off everything,

all traces off the crime scene. The work abc’s.

The next Eric Ernest will be my biggest success,

based on true facts, written by a m*rder*r.

People will pounce on it.

You and your colleague who is a little…

are going to become incredible mystery novel characters,

sensational,

stars.

You’re freaking crazy

and you’re going to spend the rest of your life in jail.

Do you think we are mystery novel characters?

Of course not!
Lamarck’s a megalomaniac.

Yesterday evening, you said you had
something important to tell me.

Yes.

I found your mother, Astrid.

Ah, that was it.

I was scared, I thought it was something important.

It is pretty important.

No. At least, I - I do not think so.

Okay. I get it. You blame her,

it’s very understandable, it’s a very natural reaction.

No, I cannot blame her because I never knew her.

Precisely. Don’t you want to get to know her?

To know why she left?
To choose to blame her or to forgive her?

To get all of your anger out?

It might do you some good.

I do not have any anger inside me, Commander Coste.

And I am very sorry, but I do not see how that would be useful.

This woman left my life over years ago,
I do not see any reason to change that now.

It is common sense.

And congratulations again on
Francoeur’s investigation, Commander Coste.

Without you, we would never have understood
that we were reading the story backwards.

Goodbye.