un garçon se fait assassiner dans une rue
un garçon se fait assassiner dans une rue
The rain hammered against the cobblestones, a relentless rhythm accompanying the symphony of sirens that echoed through the narrow Parisian street. Inspector Dubois, his trench coat slick with the downpour, knelt beside the body. The victim, a young man no older than twenty, lay sprawled in a pool of crimson, his face contorted in a silent scream. His name was Pierre, a student at the Sorbonne, and his life had been brutally cut short.
“Any witnesses?” Dubois asked the young officer who stood shivering under a flimsy umbrella.
“Just a couple of people walking their dogs, sir. They heard a commotion, but didn’t see anything,” the officer mumbled, his voice barely audible over the wind.
Dubois examined the scene. No signs of a struggle, no wallet, no phone. Just a single, crimson rose lying near the body, its petals stained with the victim’s blood. It was a macabre tableau, a silent scream for justice in the pouring rain.
The investigation started with the victim’s apartment. Barely furnished, it was the picture of student life – stacks of books, a half-empty coffee mug, and a lone, framed photograph of a young woman with laughing eyes.
“His girlfriend, Marie,” Dubois murmured, picking up the photograph. “She’s the last person to see him alive, according to the neighbors.”
Marie, a vibrant art student, was devastated. She told Dubois that Pierre had been meeting someone that night, a mysterious individual he refused to name. She couldn’t offer any clues to his identity.
Dubois felt a nagging suspicion. The lack of struggle, the single rose, the unnamed meeting – it all pointed towards a targeted killing, a personal vendetta. But who would have wanted Pierre dead?
Days turned into weeks, the initial shock of the murder giving way to a slow, unsettling dread. The only lead came from a cryptic note found in Pierre’s pocket. Scrawled in a shaky hand, it read: “The clock is ticking. Meet me at the Fontaine des Quatre Saisons. Don’t be late.”
The Fontaine des Quatre Saisons was a grand fountain in the heart of the city, a popular spot for tourists and locals alike. Dubois, his gut churning with a sense of foreboding, arranged a stakeout. He waited for hours, the night air thick with tension, the sound of water cascading from the fountain a constant drone.
Then, a shadowy figure emerged from the alleyway behind the fountain. A man, clad in a long black coat, his face obscured by the hood. As he reached for the rose he had placed in his pocket, Dubois lunged. The man, caught off guard, dropped the rose, a familiar crimson stain blooming on the cobblestone.
The man was a professor at the Sorbonne, a man who had been having an affair with Marie. Jealousy, fueled by the realization that Pierre had discovered his secret, had driven him to kill.
The rain had stopped, leaving behind a glistening city, reflecting the harsh reality of the truth. The case was closed, but the memory of Pierre’s life, cruelly cut short, lingered in the air, a silent testament to the darkness that could lurk beneath the glittering façade of Parisian life. The rose, discarded on the wet pavement, seemed to whisper a final message: even in the darkest nights, justice will bloom.
