by Fred Vargas
‘But who knew about it? Nobody at the Mounties knew, nor anyone in our squad.’
‘Perhaps he was guessing? Perhaps he just assumed it?’
Adamsberg smiled.
‘No, it was down in the file as a certainty. When I said, “nor anyone in our squad,” there was of course an exception. You knew about it, Danglard.’
Danglard nodded slowly.
‘So you think I might have told him?’ he said calmly.
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s logical enough,’ Danglard agreed.
‘For once when I try to be logical, you should be glad.’
‘No, this time, you shouldn’t have tried it.’
‘I’m in hell, Danglard, I have to try everything. Including the damned logic you keep trying to teach me.’
‘Fair enough. But what does your intuition tell you? Your dreams, your imagination? What do they say about me?’
‘You’re asking me to do it my way?’
‘For once, yes.’
His deputy’s calm demeanour and steady gaze shook Adamsberg. He knew by heart Danglard’s washed-out blue eyes, which were unable to conceal any of his emotions. You could read anything in them: fear, disapproval, pleasure, distrust, as easily as fish swimming in a fountain. But he could see nothing there indicating the least hint of withdrawal. Curiosity and wonder were the only fish swimming in Danglard’s eyes at the moment. And possibly a discreet relief at seeing him again.
‘My dreams tell me you don’t know anything about it. But those are just dreams. My imagination tells me you’d never do anything like that, or not in that way.’
‘And your intuition?’
‘Tells me the judge is behind it all.’
‘Pretty stubborn, your intuition, isn’t it?’
‘Well, you asked. And you know you don’t like my answers. Sanscartier told me to keep on sailing and hang on in there. So that’s what I’m doing.’
‘Can I say something?’ asked Danglard.
Meanwhile, the little boy, tired of reading, had come back to them and was sitting on Adamsberg’s knee, having finally managed to identify him.
‘You smell sweaty,’ he said, interrupting the conversation.
‘I expect so,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I’ve been travelling a long time.’
‘Why are you in disguise?’
‘I was playing games in the plane.’
‘What sort of games?’
‘Cops and robbers.’
‘You were the robber?’ the child said.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Adamsberg patted the boy’s hair to indicate the end of the exchange and looked up at Danglard.
‘Someone’s been searching your flat,’ Danglard said. ‘Though I can’t be sure.’
Adamsberg motioned him to go on.
‘It was over a week ago, Monday morning. I found your fax asking me to send the files to the Mounties. With the D’s and R’s written in big letters. I thought it was just for “Danglard” at first. Like a warning. Meaning, Danglard, look out, be careful. Then I thought of “DangeR”.’
‘Well spotted, capitaine.’
‘So you didn’t suspect me when you sent it?’
‘No, the gift of logic only descended on me the day after that.’
‘Pity,’ muttered Danglard.
‘Go on. The files?’
‘Well, so I was a bit wary. I went to fetch your spare house key where it usually is, in your top drawer, in the box of paper clips.’
Adamsberg nodded.
‘The key was there all right, but it was outside the box. Maybe you had been in a hurry when you left. But I was suspicious. Because of the D’s and R’s.’
‘You were right. I always put the key in the box, because the drawer’s got a crack in it.’
Danglard shot a glance at his pale-faced boss. Adamsberg’s face had almost regained its usual mild expression, and curiously enough the capitaine did not resent the suspicion of treachery. He might have gone through the same thought process himself.
‘When I got to your flat, I looked at everything carefully. Remember I put away the files myself for you, and the box they were in?’
‘Yes, because my arm was in a sling.’
‘It seemed to me that I would have put them back more carefully than that. I’m sure I pushed the box to the back of the cupboard. But that morning it wasn’t right up against the back. Maybe you got them out again, for Trabelmann?’
‘No, I didn’t touch the box.’
‘Good heavens! How did you do that?’
‘Do what?’
Danglard pointed to his youngest child who had dropped off to sleep on Adamsberg’s knee, with the commissaire’s hand still resting on his head.
‘Well you know, Danglard, I do send people to sleep. It works for kids too.’
Danglard looked at him enviously. Vincent was a hard child to get to sleep.
‘Well,’ he went on, ‘everyone in the office knows where you keep the key.’
‘You think there’s a mole in the squad, Danglard?’
Danglard hesitated and gave a gentle kick to a ball, sending it across the room.
‘Possibly,’ he said.
‘But looking for what? My files on the judge?’
‘That’s what I can’t fathom. What would be the motive? I took prints from the key – just my own. Either I covered up the previous handler’s, or else the visitor wiped the key before putting it back in the drawer.’
Adamsberg half closed his eyes. Who on earth would have been interested in the Trident case? It was not as if he had ever made a mystery of it. The tension of travelling and a day without sleep were beginning to weigh on his shoulders. But knowing that Danglard was unlikely to have betrayed him was a relief. Not that he had any proof of his deputy’s innocence, apart from the transparency of his expression.
‘You didn’t think of any other way the “DangeR” might have been interpreted?’
‘Well, I thought some elements of the 1973 murder would be better held back from the RCMP. But the visitor had been there before me.’
‘Shit,’ said Adamsberg, with a start, interrupting the child’s sleep.
‘And had put everything back.’
Danglard brought out three folded sheets of paper from his inside pocket.
‘I’ve kept these on me ever since,’ he said handing them to Adamsberg.
The commissaire glanced over them. Yes, those were the documents he had been hoping that Danglard would spot. And the capitaine had been carrying them round on him ever since, for eleven days. That must be proof that he had not betrayed him to Laliberté. Unless he had sent copies.
‘This time,’ Adamsberg said, handing them back, ‘you understood what I meant when I was thousands of kilometres away, and on the strength of an inconspicuous signal. So why is it that sometimes we can’t communicate when we’re only a metre apart?’
Danglard threw another ball up in the air.
‘A matter of what it’s about, I dare say,’ he said with his thin smile.
‘Why are you keeping the papers on you?’ Adamsberg asked after a pause.
‘Because since your escape, I’ve been under constant surveillance. They’re watching my building, because they’re hoping that if you slip through their fingers, you’ll try to see me. Which is what you were about to do, just now. That’s why we’re sitting in this school.’
‘Brézillon?’
‘Of course. His men went into your flat officially, as soon as the RCMP sounded the alarm. Brézillon has his orders and they’ve turned everything upside down. One of their own commissaires a murderer and on the run. The Minister has agreed with the Canadian authorities to arrest you the minute you set foot in France. The entire French police force is on alert. So you can’t go home. Or to Camille’s studio. Your usual haunts are all watched.’
Adamsberg stroked the child’s head automatically. It seemed to make the little boy sleep more soundly. If Danglard had betrayed him, he wouldn’t
have taken him to the school to help him avoid the police.
‘My apologies for my suspicions, capitaine.’
‘Logic isn’t your strong point, that’s all. In future, don’t count on it.’
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you for years.’
‘No, not logic in general, just your logic. Where can you find a safe house? That make-up won’t protect you for ever.’
‘I thought of going to Clémentine’s.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ said Danglard approvingly. ‘They won’t think of that, and you won’t be disturbed there.’
‘But cooped up there for the rest of my days.’
‘I know. That’s what I’ve been thinking of for the last week.’
‘Are you sure, Danglard, that my lock wasn’t forced?’
‘Certain. The visitor used the key. It must be someone from the office.’
‘A year ago, I didn’t know anyone there except you.’
‘Well, perhaps one of them knew you. You’ve put plenty of people behind bars, after all. That can spark off hate, thirst for vengeance. Perhaps a family member who wants to make you pay? Someone who’s trying to get back at you, using this old business of the judge.’
‘But who would have known about the Trident case?’
‘Everyone saw you go off to Strasbourg.’
Adamsberg shook his head.
‘Nobody else could have known the link between Schiltigheim and the judge. Unless I’d told them. There’s only one person who would make the connection. Himself.’
‘Do you really think your walking corpse went to the office? Took your keys, searched your files, to find out what you thought you were on to at Schiltigheim? Anyway the living dead don’t need keys, they just walk through walls.’
‘Very true.’
‘Look, can we agree just one thing about the Trident? You can call him the Judge, or Fulgence if you like, but let me call him the Disciple. A real live person who for some reason is trying to carry on the judge’s work. I’m willing to grant you that much and it’ll avoid a lot of tension.’
Danglard threw another ball up into the air and caught it.
‘Sanscartier,’ he said, changing the subject abruptly. ‘You said he wasn’t that convinced?’
‘According to Retancourt. Does it matter?’
‘I liked the guy. A bit slow of speech, yes, but I liked him. His reaction on the spot is interesting. And what about Retancourt? What did you think of her?’
‘Exceptional.’
‘I’d have liked to do a bit of close combat with her,’ said Danglard with a sigh which seemed to contain genuine regret.
‘I don’t think it would work with someone your size. It was a remarkable experience, Danglard, but it’s not worth committing murder just to give it a try.’
Adamsberg’s voice had become gruff. The two men walked slowly to the back of the room, since Danglard had decided Adamsberg had better leave by the garage exit. Adamsberg was still carrying the sleeping child in his arms. He knew the endless tunnel he was about to enter, and so did Danglard.
‘Don’t use the metro or bus,’ Danglard advised him. ‘Go there on foot.’
‘Danglard, who else could possibly have known I had no memory of 26 October? Apart from you.’
The capitaine thought for a moment, rattling his coins in his pocket.
‘Just one other person,’ he concluded. ‘The one who helped you lose it.’
‘Logical.’
‘Yes, my sort of logic.’
‘But who, Danglard?’
‘Someone who was there with us, among the eight people? Take out you, me and Retancourt, that leaves five, Justin, Voisenet, Froissy, Estalère, Noël. Someone who could look in your files.’
‘And the Disciple, what do you make of him?’
‘Nothing much. I’m concentrating on more concrete elements.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as your symptoms that night of the 26th. Now that’s something that really bothers me. The wobbly legs for instance.’
‘I’d had a hell of a lot to drink, as you know.’
‘Yes. Were you taking any pills? Tranquillisers?’
‘No, Danglard, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who normally needs a tranquilliser.’
‘True. But your legs wouldn’t carry you, that’s what it felt like, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg in surprise. ‘They just wouldn’t hold me up.’
‘But only after you hit the branch. That’s what you told me. Sure of that?’
‘Yes, but what of it?’
‘It just bothers me. And the next day, no bruises, no pain?’
‘My forehead was hurting, I had a headache, and I felt sick, I told you. What’s bothering you about the legs?’
‘Let’s just say it’s a missing link in my logic. Forget it for now.’
‘Capitaine, can you give me your pass-key?’
Danglard hesitated, then opened his bag and took it out, slipping it into Adamsberg’s pocket.
‘Don’t go taking risks. And you’d better have this,’ he said passing him some banknotes. ‘You can’t go near a cash machine.’
‘Thanks, Danglard.’
‘Do you mind giving me back my kid before you go?’
‘Sorry,’ said Adamsberg passing the child across.
Neither man said ‘au revoir’. An indecent expression, if you don’t know whether you will ever meet again. An ordinary everyday expression, Adamsberg thought, as he went off into the night, but which he would not now be able to use.
XLI
CLÉMENTINE HAD TAKEN IN THE EXHAUSTED COMMISSAIRE WITHOUT showing the least surprise. She had settled him in front of the fire and forced him to eat up some pasta and ham.
‘This time, Clémentine, I haven’t just come for supper,’ Adamsberg said. ‘I need a safe house. I’ve got every flic in France after me.’
‘It happens,’ said Clémentine calmly, passing him a pot of yoghurt with a spoon planted in it. ‘The police don’t always think the same way we do, it’s their job. Is that why your face is all made up?’
‘Yes, I had to escape from Canada.’
‘That’s a smart suit you’re wearing.’
‘And I’m a flic too,’ said Adamsberg, going on with his idea. ‘So I’m chasing myself. I’ve been so stupid, you can’t imagine, Clémentine.’
‘How was that?’
‘By doing something very, very stupid. In Quebec, I got roaring drunk, met a girl and killed her with a trident.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Clémentine. ‘We’ll pull out the sofa and put it near the fire with two nice quilts, you’ll sleep like a prince. I’ve already got Josette sleeping in the little office, so that’s all I can offer you.’
‘Perfect, Clémentine. Your friend Josette – can we can count on her keeping her mouth shut?’
‘Josette’s seen better days. When she was young, she was a real lady, rich, you can’t imagine. Not like now. She won’t talk about you, any more than you will about her. And that’s enough of your nonsense about tridents, m’dear, it sounds to me like your monster’s been at it again.’
‘I just don’t know, Clémentine. It’s between him and me now.’
‘That’s good, a real fight,’ said Clémentine approvingly, as she fetched the quilts. ‘That’ll buck you up.’
‘I hadn’t looked at it that way.’
‘Of course it will, or else you’d get bored. You can’t spend all day sitting here eating pasta. But do you perhaps have some idea whether it was him or you?’
‘Trouble is,’ said Adamsberg as he helped pull the sofa over, ‘I’d drunk so much that I can’t remember a thing about it.’
‘Something like that happened to me when I was expecting my daughter. I tripped on the pavement and afterwards I couldn’t remember anything at all.’
‘Were your legs too wobbly to carry you?’
‘Oh no. Apparently I went running all over the place
afterwards like a rabbit. What was I running after? Goodness knows.’
‘Goodness knows,’ repeated Adamsberg.
‘Well, what’s it matter, m’dear? We never know what we’re running after in this life. So if you run a bit more or a bit less, makes no difference.’
‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay, Clémentine? I won’t be in your way?’
‘Ah no, m’dear, not at all, I’m going to fatten you up. You’ll need your strength to run.’
Adamsberg opened his bag and gave her the bottle of maple syrup.
‘I brought it from Quebec for you. You can eat it with yoghurt or bread or pancakes. It would go well with your cookies too.’
‘Now, that’s really kind of you. With all your troubles, that touches my old heart. It’s pretty, that bottle. They get it from trees, I do hear.’
‘Yes. Actually the bottle is the most difficult thing to make. For the syrup, they just cut the tree trunks and out it comes.’
‘Now that’s practical, if you like. If only pork chops grew on trees.’
‘Yes. Or truth.’
‘Oh truth, you won’t find that so easily. Truth now, it hides away like mushrooms, and no one knows why.’
‘How do you get at it then, Clémentine?’
‘It’s the same as mushrooms. You have to lift up the leaves, one by one, in dark places. It can take a long time.’
For the first time in his life, Adamsberg slept until midday. Clémentine had re-lit the fire and was tiptoeing around to do her cooking.
‘I need to make an important visit, Clémentine,’ said Adamsberg as he drank his coffee. ‘Can you help me get the make-up right? I can shave my head, but I don’t know how to put this foundation stuff on my hands.’
The shower had left his complexion streaky, as his own dark skin showed through.
‘Not my department, dear,’ said Clémentine. ‘You’d do better to ask Josette. She’s got lots of make-up. She takes an hour in the morning doing her face.’
Josette, with somewhat trembling hands, set about applying the light-coloured foundation to the commissaire’s hands and then touched up his face and neck. She helped him replace the cushion round his waist, which made him look portly.
‘What do you do all day on your computer, Josette?’ asked Adamsberg as the old woman carefully arranged his bleached hair.