The extent of the damage was discovered on the morning of December 25 by the dean of preparatory classes, Mme. Annabelle Degalais. Obscene graffiti had been sprayed on the walls of the gym. The culprit or culprits also shattered a number of windows, set off fire extinguishers, and broke into several lockers.

The dean—who reported the incident to the police—feels that there is no question that those responsible were not students at the school.

The police have carried out the usual searches and, pending further investigation, the school authorities have already begun an intensive cleanup and such construction work as will be necessary so that the gym is fit for use when classes resume on January 5.

Two photographs accompanied the article. The first showed the extent of the damage to the gym: the graffitied wall, fire extinguishers lying on the ground, broken windows.

“No one’s going to find the bodies of Vinca and Clément now, are they?” Pianelli raged. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Francis and your mother were too shrewd, too Machiavellian, to leave any evidence. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Potboiler, you and your friends can thank your parents for digging you out of a whole heap of shit.”

The second photograph showed my mother standing with her arms folded, wearing a smart pantsuit, her hair in a neat chignon, her expression deadpan. Behind her loomed the hulking figure of Francis Biancardini in his trusty leather jacket. He was posed with a trowel in one hand and a pen in the other.

What had happened was obvious. In 1997, five years after the murders and a few months before my mother resigned her post, she and her lover decided to move the bodies that had been buried in the wall of the gym. They were not prepared to live with such a potential threat hanging over their heads. They had faked the vandalism in order to give Francis free rein during the cleanup. The repair work had been carried out during the Christmas vacation, the one time of year when the lycée was almost deserted, making it easy for Francis—this time without Ahmed’s help—to move the bodies so that they would never be found.

We had spent years terrified that the bodies might be discovered when, in fact, they had not been in the gym for more than two decades.

A little stunned, I looked again at the photograph of Francis. His eyes seemed to be staring right through the photographer and anyone else who might one day stand in his way. A steely, swaggering expression that seemed to say, I’m not afraid of anyone, because I will be one step ahead of danger.