Dog Will Have His Day (Three Evangelist 2)

by Vargas, Fred

  ‘I’m off. Try to get a shot of our target.’

  Vincent nodded and watched Kehlweiler disappear with his slow steady steps, leaning a little to one side because of the knee that had been demolished in a fire. He took a sheet of paper and wrote: ‘Didn’t know his grandmother. Check if same for grandfather.’ He made notes of everything. He had picked up from Kehlweiler his mania for wanting to record everything except domestic crime. It was difficult to find out anything about the man though. He didn’t give much away. You might know he came from central France, but that didn’t get you very far.

  Vincent didn’t even hear old Marthe, as she dropped down on to the bench.

  ‘Any luck?’ she said.

  ‘Christ Almighty, Marthe, you frightened me. Don’t talk so loud.’

  ‘So, any luck? The fascist?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’m patient. I’m almost certain I recognised him, but people’s faces get older.’

  ‘You ought to take notes, my boy, plenty of notes.’

  ‘I realise that. Know something? Louis never knew his grandmother?’

  Marthe shrugged her ignorance.

  ‘So what?’ she muttered. ‘Louis can buy himself as many ancestors as he wants, so . . . If you listen to him, he’s got millions of them. Sometimes it’s this fellow Talleyrand, he talks a lot about him, or that other one, what’s-his-name . . . well, millions anyway. Even the Rhine, he says that’s his ancestor. He’s got to be kidding.’

  Vincent smiled.

  ‘But his real ancestors,’ he insisted, ‘not a whisper, we don’t know anything.’

  ‘Well, don’t mention it, you shouldn’t embarrass people. You’re just a shit-stirrer, aren’t you, my little lad?’

  ‘I think you know a lot of things.’

  ‘Just shut up,’ said Marthe sharply. ‘This Talleyrand’s his grandad, OK? Got that? Satisfied?’

  ‘Marthe, don’t tell me you believe that. You don’t even know who Talleyrand is. He’s been dead 150 years.’

  ‘Well, I don’t give a toss who he is, or who he was, OK? If this Talleyrand slept with the Rhine and they came up with Ludwig, then they had good reasons for it, and that’s their own business. Couldn’t care less about anything else. I’m feeling pretty fed up today, so tell me what it is you’re watching for.’

  ‘Oh my God, Marthe, here he comes,’ whispered Vincent suddenly, clutching her arm. ‘The one I’m after. The sleazy fascist. Just look like an old hooker and I’ll be a drunk, we’ll get him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know your methods.’

  Vincent slumped drunkenly on to Marthe’s shoulder and pulled a corner of her scarf over him. The man was coming out of the building opposite, they had to be quick. Under cover of the scarf, Vincent focused his camera and took several pictures through the gaps in the damp knitted fabric. Then the man vanished from sight.

  ‘Got him, have you?’ asked Marthe. ‘He’s in the can, is he?’

  ‘I think so. See you, Marthe. I’m going after him.’

  Vincent went off, still looking wild-eyed. Marthe smiled. He was good at acting like a drunk. At twenty, when Ludwig had picked him up in a bar and rescued him, he was in a bad way, a long story behind him. Nice guy, Vincent, and good at crosswords too. But it would be just as well if he stopped trying to nose about into Ludwig’s life. Affection can become a bit intrusive sometimes. Marthe shivered. She was cold. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was really cold. The shopkeepers had expelled her from under the awning that morning. Where on earth was she going to go? Come on, old girl, get up, start walking, don’t freeze your backside off on 102, get walking. Marthe was talking to herself, which was not unusual.

  IV

  LOUIS KEHLWEILER WALKED into the main police station of the 5th arrondissement, ready and prepared. Worth a try. He glanced at his reflection in the glass door. His thick dark hair, a bit too long at the back, his three-day stubble, plastic bag and jacket creased from sitting on the bench would all work against him, and that was exactly what he wanted. He had waited till he got inside before starting to eat his sandwich. Since his friend Commissaire Adamsberg had left this station, taking with him his deputy Danglard, there was no shortage of imbeciles in there, and others who just put up with them. He had a bone to pick with the new commissaire, and he might have found a way of doing it. It wouldn’t hurt to try. This was Commissaire Paquelin, Adamsberg’s replacement. Louis would willingly have decommissioned him, or at least sent him far away, in any case somewhere different from Adamsberg’s old office, where he had in the old days passed some good moments, some peaceful ones and some intelligent ones.

  Actually Paquelin was far from being an imbecile, that was often the problem. God, as Marthe would say, had distributed a good dose of intelligence to the mean bastards of this world, so you had to wonder about God.

  For two years now, Louis had had Commissaire Paquelin in his sights. Paquelin, a petty sadist, didn’t like the Justice Ministry to meddle in his affairs, and he let that be known. He considered that the police could do without investigating magistrates, and Louis considered that the police should urgently consider doing without Paquelin. But now that he was out of the Ministry, the fight was rather more complicated.

  Kehlweiler planted himself, arms crossed and sandwich in pocket, in front of the first policeman he found sitting at a computer.

  The officer looked up, made a quick estimate of the man in front of him, and reached an anxious and unfavourable judgement.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I wish to see Commissaire Paquelin.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A little thing that might interest him.’

  ‘What kind of little thing?’

  ‘It wouldn’t mean anything to you. It’s too complicated.’

  Kehlweiler didn’t have anything against this particular cop. But he wanted to see the commissaire unannounced, in order to start the duel in a manner of his own choosing. And to do that, he needed to be sent from lowly constable to sergeant to inspector, until, by forcible means, he would land up face to face with the commissaire.

  Kehlweiler took out his sandwich and started to munch it, still standing up. He let crumbs fall everywhere. The policeman got cross, not unnaturally.

  ‘So what’s this little thing, what’s it all about?’

  ‘Cooked pigs’ trotters. Look, it won’t interest you, it’s too complicated to explain.’

  ‘Surname, first name?’

  ‘Granville, Louis Granville.’

  ‘Your papers?’

  ‘Haven’t got them on me. I didn’t come for that, I came in to cooperate with the police of my country.’

  ‘Get lost. We can do without your cooperation.’

  An inspector approached and took Louis by the shoulder. Louis turned round slowly. It was working.

  ‘Is it you causing this trouble?’

  ‘Not at all. I want to make a statement to Paquelin.’

  ‘Commissaire Paquelin?’

  ‘The very same.’

  The inspector made a sign to the first cop and pulled Louis towards a glass-fronted office door.

  ‘The commissaire can’t be disturbed. You can tell me about whatever piddling nonsense is on your mind.’

  ‘It’s not piddling nonsense, it’s pigs’ trotters.’

  ‘Surname, first name?’

  ‘Gravilliers, Louis.’

  ‘Just now you said Granville.’

  ‘Don’t let’s quibble over it, inspector, I haven’t much time, I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh really, is that a fact?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Blériot, the guy who got it into his head to fly the Channel, so as to get there quicker? Well, he’s my ancestor.’

  The inspector put his hands to his cheeks. He was getting pretty cross.

  ‘So,’ Louis went on, ‘you can imagine the problem. It’s in my blood. Has to come out, as Paquelin says.’

  ‘You know the commissaire?’

  ‘
Yes, well. Very well in fact. But he doesn’t know me. He can’t remember faces, which is a drawback in your job. Tell me, were you here when there was that regrettable incident in the cells over there?’

  The inspector passed his hand across his eyes. This one didn’t look as if he had had much sleep, and Kehlweiler understood that kind of suffering better than anyone. While waiting for the inspector to decide to push him higher up the hierarchy, Louis took Bufo out, and held him in his left hand. He couldn’t allow Bufo to suffocate in his pocket, police station or no police station. Amphibians have their needs.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ asked the inspector, recoiling.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Louis, a little snappily. ‘Just my toad. He’s not bothering anyone, as far as I can see.’

  It’s true that people are very disappointing in their attitude to toads, they make a huge fuss about them. And yet they’re a hundred times less of a nuisance than a dog. The inspector passed his hand over his eyes again.

  ‘Right, off you go, out of here,’ he said.

  ‘Impossible. I wouldn’t have come in if I’d wanted to go out again. I’m a persistent guy. You know the story of the man who wouldn’t leave even when threatened with bayonets? Well, never mind him. All you need to know is, he was my ancestor. I don’t say it’s an advantage but that’s just how it is. You’ll have a job to get rid of me.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about your ancestors!’ shouted the inspector.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Kehlweiler.

  He sat down and munched the sandwich slowly. It had to last. It wasn’t very praiseworthy to be harassing a cop who was short of sleep, but he was enjoying himself all the same. Pity the cop didn’t want to enjoy himself too. Anyone can play the ancestor game, it’s not forbidden. And as far as ancestors were concerned, Louis was prepared to lend out as many as you like.

  Silence fell in the office. The inspector dialled a number. His superior officer no doubt. He was saying ‘captain’.

  ‘There’s a guy here, won’t go away . . . Yes, perhaps . . . You can come and take him and cook him in a pie if you want, you’ll be doing me a favour . . . I don’t know . . . Yes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kehlweiler, ‘but it’s Paquelin I wanted to see.’

  ‘What nationality are you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Bloody hell, are you French?’

  Kehlweiler spread his arms evasively.

  ‘Could be, Lieutenant Ferrière, it’s quite possible.’

  Now was the moment to bring out ‘lieutenant’.

  The inspector leaned forward.

  ‘You know my name?’

  The chief inspector opened the door quietly, with aggressive calm. He was a small man and Kehlweiler took immediate advantage of that to stand up. Louis was about one metre ninety, and it often helped.

  ‘Please get rid of him, sir,’ said Ferrière, ‘but you may need to check him out first. This guy knows my name, he’s playing games.’

  ‘What did you come in here for? Lunch?’

  There was something about the chief inspector’s eyes that seemed to hint that he might not greatly appreciate the doings of his boss. Kehlweiler decided it was worth taking the chance.

  ‘No, I’ve got something for Paquelin, to do with pigs’ trotters. Do you get on with Paquelin? I find him a bit severe, a bit prejudiced.’

  The other man hesitated briefly.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said Kelhweiler, ‘I have this damaged knee.’

  Louis picked up his bag, and they went to the first floor; the chief inspector closed the door.

  ‘Did you know Adamsberg?’ Louis asked, putting Bufo on a chair. ‘Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg? The casual one? The untidy cop who sniffs things out by intuition.’

  The inspector nodded.

  ‘Are you Lanquetot? Captain Yves Lanquetot? Am I right?’

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked Lanquetot defensively.

  ‘The Rhine.’

  ‘And that’s a toad? A common toad?’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet someone who knows about toads. Do you have one?’

  ‘Not exactly . . . Well, in the country, near the doorstep, we have one living there.’

  ‘And you talk to him?’

  The inspector hesitated.

  ‘Now and then,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. Bufo and I have great chats. He’s nice. A bit slow but you can’t expect him to change the world now, can you?’

  Lanquetot sighed. He wasn’t sure what to do. If he sent this individual and his toad packing, he was taking a risk, because Louis seemed to know a lot. Keeping him in his office would obviously be pointless, it was Paquelin he wanted to see. And if he didn’t get to see him, he might go on causing mayhem and scattering crumbs all over the station. But if he sent him through to Paquelin with his pigs’ trotters story, that would be taking a risk too, and a good chance he’d get torn off a strip himself. Unless this guy was aiming to put Paquelin on the spot, in which case it could be worth it, rather pleasing in fact. Lanquetot looked up.

  ‘You’re not finishing your sandwich?’

  ‘I’m waiting till I’m with Paquelin, it’s a strategic weapon. Obviously you can’t use it all the time, you have to be hungry. It’s called keeping your powder dry.’

  ‘And your name is? Your real name, I mean.’

  Kehlweiler looked appraisingly at the chief inspector. If this man hadn’t changed, if he was still as Adamsberg had described him, it was OK to go ahead. But sometimes if the boss is strict, other people get the same way and change their spots. Kehlweiler decided to trust the face.

  ‘Kehlweiler,’ he answered. ‘Louis Kehlweiler. Here’s my ID.’

  Lanquetot nodded. Yes, he recognised the name.

  ‘And what do you want with Paquelin?’

  ‘I’m hoping he’ll take early retirement. I want to make him an offer which he will refuse. If he accepts, well, that’ll be the worse for me. But if he refuses, which I’m counting on, I’ll handle it myself. And if this affair gets me anywhere, he’ll be in trouble for neglecting to follow up a potential crime lead.’

  Lanquetot was still hesitating.

  ‘You needn’t be implicated,’ said Louis. ‘All I’m asking you to do is get me in to see him, and then look blank. If you could be present during our conversation, that would provide a witness, if one should be needed.’

  ‘That’s easy. You just have to ask permission to leave for Paquelin to make you stay. But what’s this all about?’

  ‘It’s just a little something, unusual, perplexing and very interesting. I think Paquelin will chuck me out before he’s realised its importance. He doesn’t understand about muddle.’

  Lanquetot picked up the phone.

  ‘Commissaire? Yes I know, you’re very busy. It’s just that I’ve got with me this oddball, who insists he wants to see you in person . . . No, I think it might be wise to see him . . . He has a few tabs on us . . . That, er, tricky business . . . Yes, in the cells . . . He mentioned it. Perhaps he’s looking for nits to pick, perhaps he’s just boasting, but I’d prefer you made an estimate yourself. It should be all right, he hasn’t even got his ID on him. Right, I’ll bring him up.’

  Lanquetot picked up Kehlweiler’s papers and stuffed them in his pocket.

  ‘Here we go. I’ll push and shove you a bit, into the office, to give it a bit of realism.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Lanquetot threw rather than ushered Kehlweiler into the commissaire’s office. Louis grimaced, the realism had hurt his leg.

  ‘Here he is, sir. No ID. He changes his name every couple of minutes. Granville, Gravilliers. I’ll leave him to you, shall I?’

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, Lanquetot?’ asked the commissaire. He had a hoarse voice, very bright eyes, a thin and quite handsome face with that detestable mouth which Louis well remembered. Louis had started on his sandwich again, and wa
s dropping crumbs on the floor.

  ‘I’m going to get a coffee, sir, with your permission. I’m exhausted.’

  ‘You’ll stay right where you are, Lanquetot.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Commissaire Paquelin examined Kehlweiler, without asking him to sit down. Louis put Bufo on the empty chair. The commissaire observed the scene without a word. He wasn’t stupid, Commissaire Paquelin, he wasn’t going to explode just because of a toad on a chair.

  ‘So, my friend, you’ve come to stir up a little shit in our offices.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Last name, first name, nationality, occupation.’

  ‘Granville, Louis, French, none.’

  ‘None what?’

  ‘Occupation, I don’t have a job any more.’

  ‘So what’s your game?’

  ‘I’m not playing games. I just came here because it’s the principal police station in our district, that’s all.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘I’ll allow you to judge. It’s about a small object that’s bothering me. I thought the correct thing would be to tell you about it. No need to look for any other motives.’

  ‘I’ll look for motives where I please. Why didn’t you leave this object with one of my staff?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have taken it seriously.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Louis put his sandwich down on the commissaire’s desk and slowly searched his pockets. He brought out the scrap of newspaper, which he carefully unfolded under the policeman’s nose.

  ‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘It stinks.’

  Paquelin leaned gingerly over the object.

  ‘What’s this bit of filth?’

  ‘Just what I asked myself when I found it.’

  ‘Do you pick up every piece of rubbish you see and take it to the police station?’

  ‘I’m just doing my civic duty, Paquelin.’

  ‘Monsieur le commissaire to you, as you well know. Your provocative behaviour is contemptible and pathetic to see. So what is this rubbish?’

  ‘You can see as well as I can. It’s a bone.’

  Paquelin leaned over the object more closely. The little thing was gnawed, corroded, pieced with dozens of pinpricks, and slightly brown in colour. He’d seen bones before, but no, this fellow must be having him on.