by Vargas, Fred
Louis switched on the heating, unfolded a narrow sofa bed, and shoved aside some cardboard boxes. Marthe looked around the little room, full of files, books, piles of documents and newspapers on the floor.
‘Now don’t go poking about, please,’ said Louis. ‘This is my little annexe of the Ministry. Twenty-five years of records, tons of dodgy scandals of every kind, the less you know, the better for you.’
‘OK,’ said Marthe, sitting on the little bed. ‘I’ll try.’
‘You all right here? It’ll do? We’ll try to find something else. We’ll rustle up a bit of money.’
‘Ludwig, you’re very kind,’ said Marthe. ‘And when my mother said that to anyone, she always added, “It’ll be the ruin of you.” And do you know why?’
Louis just smiled.
‘Here’s a spare set of keys. Make sure you use both the locks when you leave.’
‘I’m not stupid,’ said Marthe, jerking her chin towards the bookshelves. ‘Plenty of names in the files, eh? Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.’
‘Another thing, Marthe. Every morning, there’s this guy comes here between ten and twelve. So you need to be up. But you can stay while he works, you can explain.’
‘Right. What’s he doing?’
‘He’s filing newpapers, reading, spotting things that look wrong, cutting out and classifying. Then he writes me a summary.’
‘Can you trust him? He might go poking about . . .’
Louis took out two beers and passed one to Marthe.
‘The key stuff’s locked away. And I chose this guy carefully, I think. He’s Vandoosler’s lad. Remember Vandoosler, the commissaire in the 13th arrondissement? Did he ever pick you up?’
‘Several times. He was in the vice squad a long time. Nice man. I went a few rounds with him, we understood each other. He was OK with us girls, have to say that for him.’
‘Plenty of other things one can say for him.’
‘Was he booted out? He was just the type.’
‘Yes. He let a murderer get away.’
‘Guess he had his reasons?’
‘Yes.’
Louis walked around the room with his beer in hand.
‘Why are we talking about this?’ asked Marthe.
‘Because of Vandoosler. He sent this lad to sort my papers. His nephew, or godson, or something. He wouldn’t have sent me just anyone, you know.’
‘And what’s he like?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only seen him three times in three weeks. He’s an unemployed medieval historian. He looks like the kind that asks himself questions all the time, and they pull him in twelve directions at once. So on the question of doubt, he seems very sound, he’s unlikely to incline towards inflexible perfection.’
‘Should suit you then. What’s he look like?’
‘A bit odd, very thin, always wears black. Vandoosler’s got three of them living with him, he sent me this one. You’ll meet him and sort it out yourself. I’m leaving you now, Marthe. I’ve got a lead to follow up, looks intriguing.’
‘Bench 102?’
‘Yes, but not what you think. The deputy’s nephew I’m leaving to Vincent. He’s a big boy now. No, it’s something else, a bit of human bone I found near the bench.’
‘So what do you think about it?’
‘Murder.’
Although Marthe couldn’t see the connection, she trusted Ludwig. At the same time his restless activity worried her. Since he’d been sacked from the Ministry, Ludwig hadn’t managed to slow down. She was wondering whether he was beginning to look for anything anywhere, bench to bench, town to town. He could just have given up, after all. But clearly that wasn’t on the agenda. Before, he didn’t make mistakes, but he’d always been connected, always in charge of a team. Now that he was freelancing, and not in charge of anything, it worried her, she was afraid he’d go crazy. She’d asked him, and Ludwig had snapped at her that he wasn’t crazy, but he had no intention of bringing the train to a halt. Then he had put on his German expression, as she called it. So, OK, I give up.
She looked at Louis, now leaning against a bookcase. He seemed calm, as usual and as she had always known him. She knew a thing or two about men, that was something she was proud of, and this man was one of her favourites, apart from the four she had loved, none of whom had been either as gentle or as entertaining as Ludwig. She didn’t want him to go crazy, he really was one of her favourites.
‘Is there a reason you’re thinking it’s murder, or are you just inventing a good story?’
Louis pulled a face.
‘A murder’s not a good story, Marthe, I’m not doing this just to avoid twiddling my thumbs. In the case of 102, I suppose I could be wrong, and perhaps there’s nothing suspicious about this bone. I hope so. But it bothers me, I’m not sure, so I’m keeping my eyes open. I’m going to take a stroll up that way. Sleep well.’
‘Shouldn’t you get some sleep too? What are you going to look at?’
‘Dogs pissing against trees.’
Marthe sighed. Nothing to be done. Louis was determined, a runaway train. Slow, but no brakes.
VII
MARC VANDOOSLER HAD jumped at it when his godfather had suggested this little job for two thousand francs. By combining it with his part-time work at the local library, starting in January, it would help out. In the ramshackle house where he lived, they had been able to switch on three more radiators.
Of course, he had been suspicious at first. You always felt a bit suspicious about any contact of his godfather who, when he was in the force, had always done things his own way. A very special way. You never knew who might be among the elder Vandoosler’s contacts. In this case, the job was to go and classify press cuttings for ‘a friend’, without touching anything on the shelves. His godfather had said it was confidential, that Louis Kehlweiler had gathered kilos of information and now that he had been sacked from the Ministry of the Interior, he was still collecting stuff. All on his own? Marc had asked. And he manages? No, that’s the point, that’s why he needs some help.
Marc had said OK, he wouldn’t poke about in the files, see if he cared. If they’d been medieval archives, of course, it would have been another story. But crimes, lists, names, networks, trials, no, nothing to interest him there. Perfect, the godfather had said, you can start tomorrow. ‘Ten o’clock in his bunker. He’ll explain, he might tell you the story; muddle and certainty – that’s what he’s all about. He’ll put it better than I can. I’ll go out and call him.’
Because they still hadn’t had a telephone installed. It was eight months now, since they’d moved in, the four of them, to this dilapidated house, four men, almost drowned by the 1990s economic recession, with the impossible plan of clubbing together to keep their heads above water. For the moment, the irregular and uncertain resources they managed to contribute allowed them to survive by the skin of their teeth, but without being able to see more than three months ahead. So to make a phone call, they went to a nearby cafe.
And for three weeks now, Marc had been doing his job, conscientiously, Saturdays included, because newspapers were published on Saturdays as well. As he was a fast reader, he quickly finished his daily stack, which was a large one, since Kehlweiler received all the regional papers too. In them, all he had to do was spot echoes of criminal activity of any kind: political, financial, vice, drugs, domestic – and sort them into piles. In the reports, he was asked to pay attention to cold cases rather than recent ones, hard scandals not soft ones, the implacable rather than the crimes of passion.
Kehlweiler had kept the sorting instructions short, no point bothering Marc with the stuff about right hand, left hand. Marc had that built in, and could easily make the distinction between efficacity and muddle. So Kehlweiler left him a free hand in cutting up the newspapers. Marc did the necessary connections, classified and indexed by subject, clipped and put the articles into files, and once a week he wrote a general report. Kehlweiler seemed all right to him, but he wa
sn’t sure yet. He had only seen him three times, a tall guy with a stiff leg, good-looking once you got close to him. He was overpowering at times, which was disagreeable, and yet Kehlweiler’s manner was always gentle and slow. All the same, Marc wasn’t entirely at ease with him. He instinctively felt he had to be on guard, and Marc didn’t like having to do that, in fact it pissed him off. If he himself felt like losing his temper, for example, he usually didn’t hold back. But Kehlweiler didn’t give the impression that he ever lost his temper. Which annoyed Marc, who liked to meet people as nervy as himself, or, ideally, worse.
One of these days, Marc thought, as he used the two keys on the bunker door, he’d try to stop losing his temper. But at thirty-six, he didn’t see how he would manage that.
As he crossed the threshold, he gave a start. There was a bed installed behind his desk and an old woman with brightly dyed hair, who put down her book to look at him.
‘Come in,’ said Marthe, ‘and pretend I’m not here. I’m Marthe. You’re the one who comes to work for Ludwig? He left a note for you.’
Marc read a few lines, in which Kehlweiler summed up the situation for him. OK, but did he think it was so easy to work, with someone living her little life one metre behind your back? Hell’s bells.
Marc nodded a greeting and sat at the table. Best to keep your distance from the start, because this old lady looked as if she was chatty and nosy about everything. You had to think Kehlweiler wasn’t worried about leaving her with his files.
He could feel her looking at his back, and that made him tense. He’d picked up a copy of Le Monde and found it hard to concentrate.
Marthe was examining the newcomer from behind. Dressed entirely in black: drainpipe trousers, canvas jacket and cowboy boots, black hair too, a smallish man, a bit too thin, the nervous, agile type, didn’t look strong. His face was all right, a bit lined, a bit Sioux Indian, but not bad, delicate, attractive. Good. It would be all right. She wouldn’t bother him, he looked the jumpy kind who needs to be on his own to work. She had experience of men.
Marthe stood up, and put on her coat. She had some stuff to fetch.
Marc stopped halfway through a line, and turned round.
‘Ludwig? Is that his name?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ said Marthe.
‘He isn’t called Ludwig.’
‘Mmm, yes he is, he’s called Louis. Louis, Ludwig, same name, isn’t it? Anyway, talking of names, seems you’re the nephew of Vandoosler? Armand Vandoosler? When he was commissaire, he was good to us girls.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Marc drily.
The older Vandoosler had never been able to restrain himself, he had spent his life seducing with passion, abandoning carelessly, distributing pleasure, excess and also damage, for which Marc, who was rather cautious with women, bitterly reproached him. It was a constant subject of dissension between them.
‘He never once hit any of the girls,’ Marthe went on. ‘When I met your uncle, we’d talk it through. Is he OK? You’re a bit like him, now it occurs to me, looking at you. Anyway, I’ll let you get on.’
Marc stood up, sharpening a pencil.
‘But Kehlweiler, why do you call him Ludwig?’
Though really, what did it matter to him?
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Marthe. ‘Don’t you like Ludwig as a name?’
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
‘Well, I like it better than Louis. Louis, Louis . . . that’s a bit of a posh name in French.’ Marthe buttoned up her coat.
‘Yes,’ said Marc. ‘Where’s he from, Kehlweiler? Paris?’
Now what, really, did it matter, for heaven’s sake? All he had to do was let the old woman push off, that’s all. Marthe seemed to have buttoned herself up, like her coat.
‘Paris?’ Marc repeated.
‘He’s from the Cher département, in central France. People have the right to be called what they want, haven’t they, far as I know?’
Marc nodded, he was missing something here, it seemed.
‘Anyway, what sort of name is Vandoosler?’ Marthe went on.
‘Belgian.’
‘Right, well, there you are.’
Marthe went out with a wave of her hand. A wave that also meant ‘Put a sock in it’, if Marc wasn’t mistaken.
Marthe grumbled to herself as she went downstairs. Too nosy and too chatty that guy, like herself. Oh well, if Ludwig trusted him, that was his own business.
Marc sat back down, a little preoccupied. If Kehlweiler had once worked for the Ministry of the Interior, all right. That he went on poking his nose into anything and everything and organising this demented archive, with no rhyme or reason, seemed crazy to him. Big words didn’t explain everything. Big words often hide little personal matters, sometimes honest, sometimes sordid. He looked up at the shelves where the box files were all lined up. No. He had always kept his word, he was an honest man, honest to the point of annoying everyone with his honest talk, he wasn’t going to poke about. He didn’t have so many good qualities that he could afford to sacrifice one of them.
VIII
LOUIS KEHLWEILER HAD spent part of the night in thought.
The previous evening, he had counted the people who had brought a dog to lift its leg against a tree in the little square near bench number 102. At least ten: it was all go, what with bladder-emptying dogs and docile owners. Between ten thirty and midnight, he had looked at the faces and noted details to try and distinguish them, but he didn’t see how he was going to trail everybody. It might take days and days. Not counting the legion who had no doubt gone past before ten thirty. An exhausting task, but he was resolute that he could not let this rest. A woman had perhaps been killed. He had always been able to sniff out wrongdoing, and he couldn’t simply drop it.
There was no point checking the morning dog walkers – the grid round the tree had been clean when he left the bench at 2 p.m. on Thursday. The dog had come along afterwards. And if there was at least one thing you could count on, it was that dog walkers are regular in their habits. Always at the same time, and one or two possible routes, ending back at the start. As for the dogs’ habits, that was trickier. Degenerate creatures that they were, town dogs didn’t mark out their territories any more, they did their business on any old spot, but obviously it was on their owner’s route.
So there were very good chances the same dog would return to this grid. Dogs like grids, even better than the tyres on cars. But even if he managed to identify twenty-five dog owners, how could he get their names and addresses without spending a whole month on it? Especially since these days he wasn’t too good at tailing people. With his stiff leg, he walked more slowly and was more easily spotted. Being so tall didn’t help.
He needed someone to give him a hand, but he had no money for that now. It was over, missions with all expenses paid. He was alone, he should really give up. So he’d found a piece of bone on a grid round a tree, he should just get over it.
For a long stretch of the night he’d tried to force himself to forget it. It could just be left to the police. Who couldn’t give a toss. As if, every day, dogs swallowed bits of someone’s toe which they then excreted here and there. Kehlweiler shrugged. The cops would never mobilise unless they had a body, or a missing person was reported. And a stray little toe joint is not a corpse, it’s just an isolated bit of bone. But no, he wasn’t going to drop it. He looked at his watch. He just had time to catch Marc Vandoosler in the bunker.
Marc was leaving the office when Kehlweiler called out to him in the street. He stiffened. What did Kehlweiler have to say to him on a Saturday? He usually dropped by on a Tuesday, to pick up the previous week’s report. Had that old Marthe woman said something? Reported the questions he’d asked? Very quickly, Marc, who didn’t want to lose this job, concocted in his head a rapid web of defensive lies. He was gifted at this, could do it in a flash. Being fast at defending yourself was a useful skill when you were bad at attacking. When Kehlweiler was close enoug
h for him to see his face, Marc realised that there was no attack to parry, and he relaxed. One day, as the next new year’s resolution perhaps, he’d try to stop getting so worked up. Or the year after that – the way things were, there was no hurry.
Marc listened and replied. Yes, he had time, yes, OK, he could go along with him for half an hour, what was it about?
Kehlweiler dragged him to a nearby bench. Marc would have preferred to go to a nice warm cafe, but this big fellow seemed to have an irritating fondness for benches.
‘Take a look,’ said Kehlweiler, pulling a crumpled ball of newspaper from his pocket. ‘Open it carefully and tell me what you think.’ He had started to address Marc familiarly as ‘tu’.
Though why he was asking this question, Louis wondered, since he himself knew perfectly well what he thought about the bone. Probably so that Marc could start at the exact point he had started from himself. The young relation of the elder Vandoosler intrigued him. The summary reports he had provided so far were excellent. And he had solved the Simeonidis affair, two terrible crimes, six months ago. But Vandoosler had warned him: his nephew was only interested in the Middle Ages and unrequited love. St Mark, he called him. Apparently he was very good in his field. But it might transfer to other things, might it not? Louis had learned three days ago that the painter Delacroix was thought to be the son of Talleyrand, and this combination had given him much pleasure. Genius for genius, painting and diplomacy, incompatible itineraries might fit together.
‘Well?’ Louis asked.
‘Where was this found?’
‘Paris, grid round tree near bench number 102, the Contrescarpe. What do you think?’
‘At first sight, I’d say it’s a piece of bone, extracted from some dog shit.’
Kehlweiler gave a start and looked at Marc carefully. Yes, this guy interested him.
‘No?’ asked Marc. ‘Am I way off beam?’
‘Not off beam at all. But how did you know? You have a dog?’