by Fred Vargas
The young woman at reception was barely able to help them. A man had made a reservation by telephone yesterday and she had not seen him check in. Customers were given the door code. She had come on at six o’clock, and he was gone at dawn, around six-thirty. No, she hadn’t seen him, she was laying the tables for breakfast. He had left his key on the counter. No, he had not signed the register yet, and he hadn’t settled up. He had said he would be staying three nights. No, she had not seen his car, or anything else. No, he did not have a dog. There was a man, and that’s all.
“You won’t be seeing him again,” Hermel said.
“Which room?” Adamsberg asked.
“Room 24, second floor.”
“Has the cleaner been in?”
“Not yet. We start with the first floor.”
They worked over the room for two hours.
“He wiped everything,” said the fingerprint specialist. “He’s a wary bugger, and very careful. He’s taken off the pillowcase and he’s taken the towels with him.”
“Give it all you’ve got, Juneau,” Hermel told him.
“Yes, sir,” Juneau said. “They always think they can beat the world, but they always leave something behind.”
Juneau’s colleague called from the bathroom.
“He cut his fingernails on the windowsill,” he told them.
“Because he’d got some of the victim’s blood stuck under them,” said Hermel.
“Two nail clippings got into the fillister.”
The forensic officer slid his tweezers into the narrow gap and extracted the clippings which he put into a Ziploc. Juneau rescued a fine black hair from disappearing down the shower drain.
“He didn’t see everything. They invariably leave something behind.”
Once they got back to the police station at Bourg-en-Bresse, it took them two hours to get the Puygiron police unit to collect samples from Massart’s shack and to send the material they’d gathered to the pathology department at Lyon, for comparison.
“What are we supposed to be looking for?” asked the Head Deputy at Puygiron.
“Hair and nail clippings,” said Hermel. “Every last bit of finger- and toenail you can find. Take fingerprints too, they might be useful.”
“We’ll find what we find,” the Head Deputy said. “We’re not paid to manufacture how should I say evidence for you.”
“That’s my motto, too,” Hermel said, without losing his temper. “Collect what’s there.”
“Massart is dead. He went missing on Mont Vence.”
“I have someone with me who is not convinced that that’s the case.”
“A really tall guy? Athletic? Fair, long hair?”
Hermel looked Adamsberg up and down. “No,” he said. “None of the above.”
“I’ll say it again, Commissaire. Massart fell somewhere up in the how should I say Alps.”
“Perhaps he did. But it would be better to be quite sure, wouldn’t it? For your sake as well as for mine. I need those samples pretty damn quickly.”
“Today is Sunday, Commissaire.”
“That means you’ve got ample spare time this afternoon to rake over Massart’s place and to have the samples couriered to Lyon no later than this evening. We’re dealing with murder, and the murderer is at large. Are you reading me, Head Deputy?”
Hermel rang off a short time later, scowling.
“One of those sorts of people who’ll do anything to put a spanner in the works of the non-military force. I do hope he’ll make a thorough job of the search.”
“He’s been the spanner in the works from the start,” Adamsberg said.
“I can’t risk sending one of my own men down there. That would spark off an unholy row.”
“Do you know anyone in the prosecution service in Nice?”
“Used to, old chap. He moved on two years ago.”
“Try him all the same. We’d be much more comfortable knowing that one of your men was down there.”
Adamsberg got up and shook Hermel by the hand.
“Keep me up to date, Hermel. The lab results and the file of facts. Especially that file.”
“Yes, the file, I know.”
“And about that girl I’ve got trailing me – warn your men to keep their mouths tight shut. Don’t forget.”
“Is she dangerous?”
“Very.”
“Fine by me not to mention your name. Look after yourself, old chap.”
Next morning, Monday, almost all the papers featured the werewolf on the front page. Soliman came back in a sweat from town, laid the moped in the ditch, and threw the fresh bread and an armful of newspapers onto the wooden crate.
“It’s all in the fucking papers!” he bawled. “The whole story! It’s a disaster! A monumental leak! Fuck the flics, fuck the papers! The werewolf, the sheep, the murder victims, it’s all there! Even the map! The route! Only thing not printed is Massart’s name. We’re done for! We’re toast! When he sees that, Massart will run for it. Maybe he’s on his way already. He’s getting away, bloody sodding hell! They ought to close the borders, close the roads! Stupid tossers, those flics! My mother was right! The flics are all tossers!”
“Calm down, Soliman,” said Adamsberg. “Drink your coffee.”
“Haven’t you understood?” the young man screamed. “You’ve not given him a safety net, you’ve laid out a bloody red carpet for him to fly away on!”
“Calm down,” Adamsberg said once more. “Show me.”
Adamsberg unfolded the newspapers, passed one to Camille and one to Watchee. He paused, and then put one in front of Woof as well.
“Come on, dog. Have a read of that.”
“You call this the right time for a joke?” barked Soliman, slitting his eyes, looking murderous. “You’re having a joke and Massart’s about to slip out of our grasp and my mother’s going to stay stuck in the stink-pond for ever.”
“The pond stuff’s not altogether gospel, you know,” said Watchee.
“Sod you, you old duffer!” Soliman shouted. “Haven’t you understood anything either?”
Watchee raised his stick and tapped Soliman lightly on the shoulder.
“Shut up, Sol. Respect.”
Soliman stopped, took a deep breath, and sat down in a bit of a daze with his arms hanging loose at his sides. Watchee gave him a cup of coffee.
Camille was poring over the papers, looking at the headlines.
WEREWOLF HEADING FOR PARIS!!
LYCANTHROPY REVIVED!
MERCANTOUR MONSTER ON HUMAN LEASH
THE WOLF-MAN’S WILD RIDE
Several papers gave details of the route Massart had marked out in red, and showed it on a map with stars for the locations of all the previous murders.
After ravaging the departments of Alpes-Maritimes, Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, Isère and Ain, where it committed the latest of its murders, the Mercantour Monster is said to be now heading due north, nine days after the start of its rampage. Under the control of a bloodthirsty psychopath suffering bouts of lycanthropy, the beast is believed to be travelling parallel to the A7 autoroute about 30 kilometres east of it, as far as Chaumont, where it is expected to veer west towards the capital by way of Bar-sur-Aube and Provins.
The man is understood to travel in limited stages of between 60 and 200 kilometres. He moves at night with a wolf and a mastiff, probably in a van with blacked-out windows. He is alleged to have murdered three people so far, as well as more than 40 ewes. All sheep farmers are advised to take precautionary measures to protect their flocks using guard dogs or electrified fences. All persons male or female living along or near the minor roads shown on the map are urged not to go out alone after nightfall. Any persons able to give information likely to be of assistance to the police investigation are requested to contact their nearest gendarmerie or commissariat.
Camille put the paper down in disgust.
“The leak comes from the police,” she said. “They held a press conference. Soliman’s no
t wrong. If Massart has an ounce of sense, he’ll vanish before you can say Jack Robinson.”
“The flics thought they were doing the right thing,” said Watchee. “They preferred to warn people so as to prevent more murders. Setting a trap for Massart involves putting lives at risk. You have to see their point of view.”
“Bugger that,” said Soliman. “It’s a massive cock-up. Just let me get my hands on the dickhead who spewed it all out.”
“Here I am, Soliman,” said Adamsberg.
A ponderous silence ensued in the lorry. Adamsberg leaned over to the dog and tugged the chewed-up paper from his maw.
“Woof liked that a lot,” he said with a smile. “You should trust the dog. Dogs have got real flair.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Soliman, dumbfounded. “I just don’t believe it.”
“You better had believe it, all the same,” Adamsberg said softly.
“Don’t make him repeat himself,” said Watchee. “The man told you.”
“I called AFP yesterday,” said Adamsberg, “and I told them exactly what I wanted them to know.”
“What’s AFP?” Watchee asked.
“It’s like a huge leading sheep for journalists to flock after,” Soliman explained. “All the newspapers repeat what AFP tells them.”
“Good,” said Watchee. “I do like to understand.”
“But what about the itinerary?” Camille said tensely. “Why did you pass on the itinerary?”
“That’s the point. That’s what I wanted most of all to give them. The itinerary.”
“So Massart can scarper?” asked Soliman. “Is that what you’re up to? Is that what the flic with no principles is up to?”
“He won’t vanish.”
“And why won’t he vanish?”
“Because he’s not finished what he set out to do.”
“What’s that?’
“His job. His murder business.”
“He’ll just go and do his business somewhere else!” Soliman shouted as he stood up. “In Amazonia or Patagonia or Outer Mongolia. There are sheep all over the world!”
“I’m not talking about sheep. I’m talking about people.”
“He’ll kill other people in other places.”
“No, he won’t. His work is here.”
There was another pause.
“We don’t get it,” said Camille, on behalf of all three. “Are these things that you know, or things that you believe?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Adamsberg. “But I would like to know. I already said that Massart’s itinerary was precise and contorted. Now his route is known and he’s being looked for, he’s every reason to change track.”
“And he will!” Soliman said. “He’s changing track right now!”
“Or not, as the case may be,” Adamsberg said. “That’s the crux of the whole story. Everything hangs on it. Will he move away from his itinerary? Or will he stick to it? That is the question.”
“What if he sticks to it?” said Camille.
“It changes everything.”
Soliman pulled a puzzled face. Adamsberg explained:
“He’ll only stick to his route if he has no choice. It would mean he has to follow that specific itinerary and that he can’t do anything else, irrespective of the risks.”
“And why would that be so?” Soliman asked. “Because he’s mad? Or obsessed?”
“Or because of his needs, and his plans. If that were so, then nothing that’s happened could be put down to chance. Neither Sernot’s death, nor Deguy’s.”
Soliman shook his head in disbelief.
“We’re letting our minds wander.”
“Of course we are,” said Adamsberg. “What else can we do?”
XXX
THAT MORNING’S NEWS Brought instant relief to the wildlife wardens in the Mercantour. It was decided straight away to drop their efforts to track both packs of wolves.
Johnstone was walking his motorbike, on his way to meet Camille. He had not seen her for days and days. He missed everything about her. Her voice, her face, her body. He had been through a great deal of stress and he needed her. Camille could get him to come out of his shell, out of his silence.
The Canadian was worried. He had not been able to get his visa extended. What he had been sent to do in the Mercantour was well and truly in the bag, and he could not see any way of getting his contract extended beyond its expiry date. He would have to go back, in less than two months’ time, by 22 August at the latest. He was expected back in grizzly country. He had never discussed such an eventuality with Camille; neither of them had talked about what might happen between them then. Johnstone could not see himself going back to his old life without her. Tonight, if he could, if he dared, he would ask her to move to Vancouver. But he wouldn’t dare. Women struck him dumb.
Late on that afternoon Adamsberg had a call from Hermel.
“It’s the same hair, old chap,” Hermel told him. “Same thickness, same shade, same make-up, same genetic fingerprint. No doubt about it. If it isn’t him, it’s his twin. You’ll have to wait a bit longer for the nails. We’ve only just spotted some by the bed in his shack. That idiot from Puygiron searched only the bathroom. A man can just as well chew his fingernails and spit them on the floor from his bunk, am I right? I sent one of my own men over there this morning with instructions to comb the bedroom and find nails from each of the man’s ten fingers, nothing less would do. So if you hear of a fresh outbreak of hostilities between the police and the gendarmerie, you’ll know what it’s about. In any event, your Massart is the man, almost absolutely certainly. You know what lab people are like. You can never get them to say ‘yes’ without some piddling reservation. Hang on, I haven’t told you everything yet. There really were particles of blood on the fingernails we picked up from the groove on the hotel windowsill. And there’s not the slightest doubt now – that blood belonged to Fernand Deguy. So the man who stayed in the hotel really did let his beast loose on Deguy. By the way, we did have the body looked at again as you requested, but we didn’t find one single unexplained animal hair on Deguy. There were some dog hairs, but they came from his own spaniel. We’re working on Deguy, we’re scooping up all there is to know about him. Don’t expect to be entertained when you read it, Adamsberg. Mountain guide, old chap, then mountain guide. It’s all there is. He lived all his life long in Grenoble and retired to Bourg-en-Bresse because Grenoble has ceased to be anything more than the bottom of a bowl filled to the brim with exhaust. Never put a foot wrong either, never did anything exciting, never even had a mistress as far as we know at this point in time. I talked to Montvailland at Villard-de-Lans. He’s made progress with his file on Jean-Jacques Sernot. He never put a foot wrong, never did anything exciting, never even had a mistress as far as is known at this point in time. Sernot taught maths in Grenoble for thirty-two years. Grenoble is the only common factor, but it’s rather broad, as common factors go. Oh, I’m forgetting, they were both good sportsmen. There are lots of them in this place. The Alps are full of folk determined to walk for hours and hours up and down the rocks. That’s not news to you, old chap, seeing as you’re from the Pyrenees, or so they tell me. Nothing to indicate that the two men ever met each other. And even less likelihood that either of them ever met Suzanne Rosselin. I’ll keep at it all the same and fax the final results wherever you tell me.”
Adamsberg ended the call and went back to the lorry. Soliman had quietened down and had got his blue plastic bowl out again. Camille was in the cab, with the door open, writing music. Watchee was sitting near the back steps, humming. He was delousing the dog: he cut the insects neatly in half with his thumb and the nail of his index finger. Life around the sheep wagon was settling into its own rituals: each now had his and her own home patch. Camille had the front area, Soliman the side, and Watchee the rear.
Adamsberg went to the front.
“The hair is Massart’s,” he told Camille.
Soliman, Watchee and Camille
gathered round the commissaire. They were silent, serious, almost stupefied. They had known it was Massart from the start, but having it confirmed cast a kind of fright upon them. It was the same kind of difference as between the idea of a knife and the sight of a blade. It gave an extra dose of precision and realism. It made it a certainty that cuts to the quick.
“We’re going to light a candle in the lorry,” Adamsberg said, breaking the silence. “Watchee will make sure it doesn’t go out.”
“What’s come over you?” asked Camille. “You think that’ll help?”
“It’ll help to find out how long it takes to burn down.”
Adamsberg went to his car and scrabbled about in his case and came back with a tall candle. He melted the bottom so that it would stand straight in a saucer. He put it in the lorry and lit the wick.
“There you are,” he said, stepping back with an air of satisfaction.
“Why are we doing this?” Soliman asked.
“Because we’ve nothing better to do. You’re going to come with me on a lazy drive down the side roads so that we can visit all the local churches. If Massart was overcome with contrition after murdering Deguy, then we’ve got a chance of seeing where he went. We have to check whether he’s still following his itinerary or whether he’s switched track.”
“Good idea,” said Soliman.
“Camille, if we do come across a trace of Massart, you’ll drive the lorry over to where we are.”
“No can do. I’m not planning on driving this evening.”
“Because of the candle?” Soliman exclaimed. “Watchee will keep it safe in his lap.”
“No,” Camille said. “I’m staying in Bourg-en-Bresse. Lawrence is coming tonight.”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes, I see,” said Adamsberg. “Laurence Johnstone is coming tonight. Fine.”
“The trapper could join up with us further north,” said Soliman. “What difference does that make to him?”
Camille shook her head. “He’s en route and I can’t contact him in the meantime. I made a date with him at Bourg, so I’m staying at Bourg.”
Adamsberg nodded. “OK,” he said. “Stay at Bourg. That’s quite all right.”