hand. His smile grew wider and his grey eyes narrowed, the scars meshing with a web of tiny wrinkles. ‘How’re you
doing?’
‘You tell me. In this sea of shit with a storm threatening, I need all the help I can get. This is Frank Ottobre, FBI special agent,’ said Hulot as Froben’s gaze moved to
Frank. ‘Very special. His office sent him to join the investigation.’
Froben said nothing, but his eyes showed he was impressed by Frank’s title. He extended his boxer’s hand with its large, strong fingers and grinned again. ‘Christophe Froben,
humble inspector of Homicide.’
As he returned Froben’s powerful handshake, Frank felt that the other man could have broken his fingers if he’d wanted to. He liked him immediately. He embodied both strength and
grace at the same time. Frank could imagine him with his children after work, making model ships and handling the fragile parts with surprising delicacy.
‘Any news on the tape?’ Hulot asked, coming straight to the point.
‘I handed it over to Clavert, our best technician. A magician, actually. When I left, he was working on it with his gadgets. Come on, follow me.’
Froben went first and they filed in through the same door he had come out of earlier. He led them down a short hallway flooded with diffused light from a window behind them. Hulot and Frank
followed Froben’s broad back that seemed to fill the corridor. He stopped in front of a staircase that led down to the left. Froben gestured a generous sweep of his big mitt.
‘After you.’
They went down two flights of stairs and found themselves in a huge room full of electronic equipment. It was lit by cold neon tubes that supplemented the inadequate light from the
basement’s street-level skylights.
A thin young man with a shaved head was sitting at a workbench. He was wearing a white lab coat over a pair of jeans and an untucked plaid shirt. A pair of round glasses with yellow lenses was
perched on his nose. The three men stopped behind the swivel chair where he was sitting, handling a potentiometer. He turned to look at them. Hulot wondered whether or not the man risked going
blind when he went out into the sun wearing those glasses.
Froben didn’t introduce the newcomers, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Probably, to his way of thinking, if two strangers were there, it was because they were supposed to be.
‘Well, Clavert? What have you got to tell us about the tape?’
‘Not much, inspector,’ the technician said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No good news. I analysed the recording with everything I’ve got. Nothing. The voice is artificial
and there is no way to identify it.’
‘Which means?’
Realizing that not everyone present had his technical knowledge, Clavert backtracked.
‘Every human voice travels along certain frequencies that are part of one’s personal identity. Voices can be identified like fingerprints and the retina. They have a certain number
of high, low and medium tones that don’t vary, even if you try to alter your voice, by talking in falsetto, for example. We can visualize these frequencies with special equipment and then
reproduce them in a diagram. This is fairly standard kit. They use it in recording studios, for example, to distribute frequencies and keep a song from having too many high or low tones.’
Clavert went over to a Mac computer and moved the mouse. He clicked some icons and a white screen appeared, with parallel lines crossing it horizontally. There were two other jagged lines, one
green and one purple, wandering between them.
‘This is the voice of Jean-Loup Verdier, the Radio Monte Carlo deejay,’ the technician said, moving the mouse to point to the green line. ‘I’ve analysed it and this is
the phonic pattern.’ He clicked again and the screen turned into a graph highlighting a yellow line that zigzagged over a dark background, caught between parallel blue lines. Clavert pointed
at the screen. ‘The blue lines
doing?’
‘You tell me. In this sea of shit with a storm threatening, I need all the help I can get. This is Frank Ottobre, FBI special agent,’ said Hulot as Froben’s gaze moved to
Frank. ‘Very special. His office sent him to join the investigation.’
Froben said nothing, but his eyes showed he was impressed by Frank’s title. He extended his boxer’s hand with its large, strong fingers and grinned again. ‘Christophe Froben,
humble inspector of Homicide.’
As he returned Froben’s powerful handshake, Frank felt that the other man could have broken his fingers if he’d wanted to. He liked him immediately. He embodied both strength and
grace at the same time. Frank could imagine him with his children after work, making model ships and handling the fragile parts with surprising delicacy.
‘Any news on the tape?’ Hulot asked, coming straight to the point.
‘I handed it over to Clavert, our best technician. A magician, actually. When I left, he was working on it with his gadgets. Come on, follow me.’
Froben went first and they filed in through the same door he had come out of earlier. He led them down a short hallway flooded with diffused light from a window behind them. Hulot and Frank
followed Froben’s broad back that seemed to fill the corridor. He stopped in front of a staircase that led down to the left. Froben gestured a generous sweep of his big mitt.
‘After you.’
They went down two flights of stairs and found themselves in a huge room full of electronic equipment. It was lit by cold neon tubes that supplemented the inadequate light from the
basement’s street-level skylights.
A thin young man with a shaved head was sitting at a workbench. He was wearing a white lab coat over a pair of jeans and an untucked plaid shirt. A pair of round glasses with yellow lenses was
perched on his nose. The three men stopped behind the swivel chair where he was sitting, handling a potentiometer. He turned to look at them. Hulot wondered whether or not the man risked going
blind when he went out into the sun wearing those glasses.
Froben didn’t introduce the newcomers, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Probably, to his way of thinking, if two strangers were there, it was because they were supposed to be.
‘Well, Clavert? What have you got to tell us about the tape?’
‘Not much, inspector,’ the technician said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘No good news. I analysed the recording with everything I’ve got. Nothing. The voice is artificial
and there is no way to identify it.’
‘Which means?’
Realizing that not everyone present had his technical knowledge, Clavert backtracked.
‘Every human voice travels along certain frequencies that are part of one’s personal identity. Voices can be identified like fingerprints and the retina. They have a certain number
of high, low and medium tones that don’t vary, even if you try to alter your voice, by talking in falsetto, for example. We can visualize these frequencies with special equipment and then
reproduce them in a diagram. This is fairly standard kit. They use it in recording studios, for example, to distribute frequencies and keep a song from having too many high or low tones.’
Clavert went over to a Mac computer and moved the mouse. He clicked some icons and a white screen appeared, with parallel lines crossing it horizontally. There were two other jagged lines, one
green and one purple, wandering between them.
‘This is the voice of Jean-Loup Verdier, the Radio Monte Carlo deejay,’ the technician said, moving the mouse to point to the green line. ‘I’ve analysed it and this is
the phonic pattern.’ He clicked again and the screen turned into a graph highlighting a yellow line that zigzagged over a dark background, caught between parallel blue lines. Clavert pointed
at the screen. ‘The blue lines
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