I rubbed my eyes. “It’s like you’re writing a screenplay for a B movie, Pianelli.”

“So you’re saying that there is no Rockwell case?”

“Oh, there is. It’s a clichéd story of a girl who ran away with the guy she loved.”

He pulled a face. “Even you don’t believe that theory for a second. Take my word for it, Vinca’s disappearance is like a tangle of wool. Someday, someone’s going to pull the right thread and the whole thing’s going to unravel.”

“And people will find out what, exactly?”

“Something much bigger than anyone ever imagined.”

“You’re the one who should write novels. Maybe I can help you find a publisher.” I looked at my watch. I needed to find Maxime urgently.

Suddenly calm, Pianelli got to his feet too and patted me on the shoulder. “Later, Mr. Potboiler. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

He sounded like a policeman releasing a prisoner on bail. I buttoned up my jacket and walked down a step, hesitated for a second or two, and turned around. So far, I hadn’t put a foot wrong. I had to make sure I didn’t give him anything useful, but there was one question I was dying to ask. I tried to adopt as nonchalant a tone as possible.

“You said they found the money in an old locker?”

“Yeah.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was canary yellow. The same color as the Henri Matisse dorm.”

“Vinca didn’t even live in that dorm!” I said triumphantly. “Her room was in the Nicolas de Staël dorm, the blue one.”

“I know, I already checked. For someone who’s moved on, that’s some memory you’ve got.”

He stared at me again, eyes glittering, as though he had tricked me, but I held his gaze and advanced another pawn.

“And this locker, did it have a name on it?”

He shook his head. “After so many years, obviously any writing had worn off.”

“Aren’t there any records detailing who the lockers were assigned to?”

“Back then, no one bothered with things like that. At the start of the school year, students bagged any locker they liked, first come, first served.”

“But in this case, which particular locker was it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curiosity. You know, that thing journalists are famous for.”

“They published the photo next to my article. I don’t have it on me, but it was locker A one. Top left, first one. Ring any bells?”

“No, none. So long, Stéphane.”

I turned on my heel and walked away quickly so I could leave the square before the end of the headmistress’s speech.