The Three Evangelists

by Fred Vargas

  He stopped speaking and looked at them both in turn.

  ‘You seem to be alright,’ he said after examining them carefully. ‘You don’t look as if you would dismiss it out of hand. But I would still rather wait a bit before I ask you to help me. I went to see Madame Siméonidis’ father at the weekend, in Dourdan. He showed me all his personal archives, and I think I might have found one or two little pointers. I left him my contact number in case he finds any more documents, but he didn’t seem to be listening at all. He is absolutely devastated. And the killer is still at large. I’m looking for a name. Tell me, have you been her neighbours for long?’

  ‘Only since March 20,’ said Marc.

  ‘Oh, that’s not long. She won’t have confided in you. She went missing about May 20, didn’t she? Did anyone come to see her before that? Somebody unexpected? I don’t mean an old friend or acquaintance. No, someone she thought she would never see again, or even someone she didn’t know at all?’

  Marc and Mathias shook their heads. They had not known Sophia for very long, but perhaps one could ask the other neighbours.

  ‘Well, someone very unexpected did come to see her,’ said Marc, frowning. ‘Not someone, exactly, something‘

  Dompierre lit a cigarette and Mathias noticed that his thin hands were trembling. Mathias had decided he would like this man. He was too thin, and far from handsome, but he was principled, he was following his hunch, his own private conviction. That was how Mathias was, when Marc teased him about hunting the bisons. This fragile-looking man would not abandon his bow and arrow, that was certain.

  ‘It was a tree, actually,’ said Marc. ‘A beech sapling. I don’t know if that would mean anything to you, because I don’t know what it is you’re looking for. But I keep thinking about that tree, although everyone else has stopped caring. Shall I tell you about it?’

  Dompierre nodded as Mathias brought him an ashtray. He listened to the story attentively.

  ‘Yes. Well,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. And right now, I can’t see what it has to do with anything.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ said Marc. ‘I suppose it doesn’t mean anything. And yet I keep thinking about it. All the time. I don’t know why.’

  ‘I’ll think about it too,’ said Dompierre. ‘Can you let me know please, when Relivaux reappears. He may have been visited by this person without realising how important it was. I’ll leave you my address. I’m staying at a little hotel in the 19th arrondissement, Hôtel du Danube, rue de la Prévoyance. I used to live near there as a child. Don’t hesitate to call me, even at night, because I could be recalled to Geneva at any minute. I’m here on official European business. I’ll give you the hotel address and phone number. I’m in room 32.’

  Marc gave him back his card and Dompierre wrote his address. Marc got up and slipped the card under the five-franc piece on the fireplace. Dompierre watched him. For the first time, he smiled and for a moment looked almost charming.

  ‘This is the Pequod, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Marc, smiling in turn. ‘It’s a research deck. We do research on all periods, all mankind, all continents. From 500,000 BC to 1918. From Africa to Asia and from Europe to the Antarctic.’

  ‘“And hence”’,’ Dompierre said, quoting, ‘“not only at substantiated times, upon well known separate feeding grounds could Ahab hope to encounter his prey; but in crossing the widest expanses of water between those grounds he could, by his art, so place and time himself on his way, as even then not to be wholly without prospect of a meeting.”’

  ‘Do you know Moby Dick by heart?’ asked Marc, greatly impressed.

  ‘No. Just that sentence, because I have often had occasion to use it.’

  Dompierre shook hands with them warmly. He looked back once more at his card, wedged on the fireplace, as if checking that he had forgotten nothing, picked up his briefcase and left. Each standing at a window, Marc and Mathias watched him walk away towards the gate.

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Marc.

  ‘Very,’ said Mathias.

  Once one was standing in one of the big window bays, it was difficult to move away. The June sunshine lay serenely over the untended garden. The grass was growing at top speed. Marc and Mathias stayed looking out of their windows for a long while. Marc was the first to speak.

  ‘You’ll be late for your lunchtime shift,’ he said. ‘Juliette will be wondering what you’re up to.’

  Mathias sprang up, went upstairs to put on his waiter’s uniform, and Marc saw him leave at a run, buttoned up in his black waistcoat. It was the first time Marc had seen him run. He ran well. A very good hunter.

  XXV

  ALEXANDRA WAS DOING NOTHING. WELL, NOTHING USEFUL OR PROFITABLE. She was sitting at a table, her head in her hands. She was thinking about tears, the tears that nobody sees, that nobody knows about, the tears shed in vain and unheeded. But which flow all the same. Alexandra pushed hard on her temples and gritted her teeth. It didn’t help, of course. She sat up. ‘Greeks are free, Greeks are proud,’ her grandmother used to say. She said a lot of things like that, Grandmother Andromache.

  Guillaume had said he wanted to spend a thousand years with her. Well, it had lasted just about five. ‘Greeks take a man at his word,’ her grandmother used to say. Maybe so, Alexandra thought, but in that case, the Greeks are stupid. Because afterwards she had had to walk away, trying to hold her head high and her back straight, leaving behind familiar places, sounds, names, and a face. To walk away with Kyril along churned-up paths, trying not to fall headfirst into the bitter ditch of lost illusions. Alexandra stretched her arms. She had had enough of this. She looked at the clock. Time to go and fetch Kyril. Juliette had suggested a special rate for Kyril to have his lunch after school at Le Tonneau. It had been a stroke of luck to find people like this: Juliette, the evangelists. Here she was, in this little house near them all, and it was restful. Perhaps because they all seemed to have plenty of troubles of their own. Talking of troubles, Pierre had promised her he would try to find her a job. If she believed Pierre, she would be believing in someone’s word again. Alexandra quickly pulled on her boots and put on her jacket. Too much crying left you with a headache. Combing her hair with her fingers, she set off for the school.

  There were few customers in Le Tonneau at this time of day, and Mathias gave them the table in the window. Alexandra was not hungry and asked him only to give some food to Kyril. While the little boy ate, she went up to the bar and gave Mathias a big smile. He found her brave, and would have preferred to see her eat. To keep her courage up.

  Juliette gave her a little dish of olives and Alexandra nibbled them, thinking of her old grandmother who had an almost religious respect for black olives. She had really adored Andromache and all the damned sayings she came out with at every turn. Alexandra rubbed her eyes. She was drifting away, dreaming. She had to pull herself together, and say something. ‘The Greeks are proud.’

  ‘Tell me, Mathias,’ she asked, ‘this morning while I was dressing Kyril, I saw Monsieur Vandoosler going off with Leguennec. Has anything happened? Do you know?’

  Mathias looked at her. She was still smiling, but she had wobbled a little while back. The best thing to do was talk to her.

  ‘Vandoosler didn’t say anything when he went out,’ he said. ‘But Marc and I met a weird guy, name of Christophe Dompierre, from Geneva, very odd character. He had a story about something that happened fifteen years ago, that he wanted to sort out all by himself, and somehow connected with Sophia’s murder. It was some ancient bee in his bonnet. But he absolutely insisted that we weren’t to say a word to Leguennec, so we promised. I’ve no idea what he’s on about, but I wouldn’t want to give him away.’

  ‘Dompierre? The name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ said Alexandra. ‘What was he hoping to find?’

  ‘He wanted to see Relivaux, ask him some questions, find out if he had had any unexpected visitors lately. It wasn’t clear. But he’s definitely waiting to see Relivaux,
he’s determined to do that.’

  ‘He’s going to wait for him? But Pierre’s away for a few days. Didn’t you tell him? You didn’t know? We can’t let this guy hang about in the street all day, even if he is crazy.’

  ‘Marc told him. Don’t worry, we know how to reach him. He’s taken a room in rue de la Prévoyance-nice name, isn’t it? Danube Métro station. I’ve seen the real Danube. Well this won’t mean anything to you, but it’s a quiet part of town, where he was brought up apparently. Odd chap, very single-minded. He even went to see your grandfather in Dourdan. We only have to let him know when Relivaux gets back, that’s all.’

  Mathias came round to the front of the bar, and took Kyril a yoghurt and a slice of tart, and patted his head.

  ‘He’s got a good appetite, your little boy,’ said Juliette. ‘It’s nice to see.’

  ‘What about you, Juliette?’ asked Mathias, coming back to the bar. ‘Does that ring any bells with you? An unexpected visitor? Sophia didn’t say anything?’

  Juliette thought for a while, but shook her head.

  ‘No, nothing at all. Apart from the famous postcard with the star, nothing happened. Well, nothing that disturbed her. You could always tell with Sophia and I think she would have said something to me.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Mathias.

  ‘Well, no, perhaps you’re right. Not necessarily.’

  ‘People are coming in, I’d better see to them.’

  Juliette and Alexandra stayed at the bar, chatting, but Mathias arrived with the orders and Juliette disappeared into the kitchen. There was too much noise now. It was impossible to talk peacefully at the bar.

  Vandoosler called in. He was looking for Marc, who was no longer at his post. Mathias said that he was probably hungry, which would be normal at one o’clock. Vandoosler grumbled and went out again before Alexandra could ask him anything. He found his nephew at the gate to their house.

  ‘Deserting your post, I see?’

  ‘Oh, please don’t talk like Lucien,’ said Marc. ‘I just went to get a sandwich because I was feeling weak. Come on, I’ve been working the whole bloody morning for you.’

  ‘For her, St Mark.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You know perfectly well who I mean-Alexandra. We’re still getting nowhere. Leguennec is interested in Elizabeth’s father’s criminal record, but he can’t forget the two hairs in the car. Alexandra had better keep very quiet. If she steps out of line at all, he’ll nab her.’

  ‘Is it really that bad?’

  Vandoosler nodded.

  ‘Your Breton’s an idiot.’

  ‘My dear Marc,’ said Vandoosler, ‘if everyone who got in our way was an idiot, it would be too easy. I suppose you didn’t get a sandwich for me?’

  ‘You didn’t say you’d be back. Shit, you only had to telephone.’

  ‘We don’t have a phone.’

  ‘Oh no, of course.’

  ‘And don’t say “shit” to me, it gets on my nerves. I’ve still got police reflexes.’

  ‘Yeah, it shows. Shall we go in? You can share my sandwich, and I’ll tell you all about Monsieur Dompierre. The pigeon arrived this morning.’

  ‘See, I told you it would.’

  ‘Excuse me, I had to go out and catch it. I cheated. If I hadn’t run downstairs, I would have lost it. But I don’t know whether this is any use at all. Maybe just a sparrow. Whatever you think, I’m giving notice, I’m resigning from this look-out business. I’ve decided to go to Dourdan tomorrow.’

  Vandoosler seemed greatly interested by the story of Christophe Dompierre, but he couldn’t say why. Marc thought perhaps he didn’t want to say why. Several times, his uncle read the card wedged on the fireplace under the coin.

  ‘And you don’t remember the quotation from Moby Dick?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I told you. It was a rather grand sentence, technical and lyrical, with “widest expanses” in it, but it didn’t have anything to do with what he was talking about. It was philosophical, a quest for the unattainable, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Still,’ said Vandoosler. ‘I would have liked it if you could have identified it.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to read the whole book to find it for you, do you?’

  ‘That would be too much to hope for. Your idea of going to Dourdan is all very well, but you’re going without any idea what to look for. From what I know of him, I’d be surprised if Siméonidis has anything to say to you. And Dompierre certainly won’t have told him about the “few little pointers” he found.’

  ‘I want to see what the second wife and stepson are like. Can you take my place this afternoon? I need to think and stretch my legs.’

  ‘Off with you, then, Marc, I need to sit down. I’ll borrow your window.’

  Vandoosler spent the rest of the day watching the street. It kept him entertained, but what Marc had told him of Dompierre was worrying him. He found it surprising that Marc had chased after the man. Marc was good at impulsive actions. Despite his underground lines of conduct, which were firm and even a bit too pure, recognisable by those who knew him well, Marc fired off in all directions when he attempted to analyse things, yet his many deviations, in terms both of logic and temperament, could sometimes lead to valuable results. Marc was torn between the twin perils of angelism and impatience. One could count on Mathias as well, not so much for detective work as for registering things. Vandoosler thought of his St Matthew as a kind of dolmen, a great standing stone, sacred, but unconsciously absorbing all kinds of perceptible events, its particles of mica open to the winds. Well, anyway, a complicated man to describe. Because he was also capable of brusque movements, of racing off, of taking risks at judiciously chosen moments. As for Lucien, he was an idealist, liable to be tempted by every manner of excess, from the top of the scale to the bottom. In the cacophony of his agitation, collisions and impacts were always possible, striking unexpected sparks.

  And Alexandra?

  Vandoosler lit a cigarette and returned to the window. Marc was drawn to her, that was all too likely, but he was still very entangled in his feelings about the wife who had left him. Vandoosler found it hard to follow what was going on with his nephew, because he himself had never kept for more than a few months promises meant to last fifty years. Why did he make so many promises, anyway? The face of the young woman with her Greek ancestry touched him. From what he had seen of her so far, Alexandra was an interesting combination of vulnerability and boldness, authentic but repressed feelings, and moments of wild but sometimes silent bravado. It was the kind of mixture of enthusiasm and sweetness that he had known and loved long ago in another person. Whom he had abandoned in half an hour. He could still clearly see her walking back down the platform with the twins, until they were just three little dots in the distance. Where were those three little dots now? Vandoosler sat up and gripped the balcony rail. He had neglected for ten minutes to watch the street. He threw away his cigarette and reviewed once more the string of plausible arguments incriminating Alexandra that Leguennec had drawn up. He still needed to play for time, and for something else to crop up to slow down the investigation by the Breton inspecteur. Dompierre might just do.

  Marc came in late, followed shortly thereafter by Lucien, whose turn it was to do the shopping, and who had the day before asked Marc to get hold of two kilos of langoustines, if they looked fresh and if it looked easy to steal them.

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ Marc said, putting the big bag of langoustines on the table. ‘Not at all easy. In fact what I did was pinch the bag belonging to the man ahead of me in the queue.’

  ‘Very ingenious,’ remarked Lucien. ‘You really do deliver, don’t you?’

  ‘Next time, try to have a craving for something simpler,’ said Marc.

  ‘That’s always been my problem,’ said Lucien.

  ‘You wouldn’t have made a very effective soldier, then, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Lucien stopped short in his preparations fo
r supper, and looked at his watch. ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Great War!’

  ‘What about the Great War? Have you been called up? Does your country need you?’

  Lucien put down the kitchen knife, with distress written all over his face.

  ‘It’s June 8,’ he said. ‘This is a disaster. I can’t cook the langoustines. I’m supposed to be at a commemorative dinner tonight, I can’t not go.’

  ‘Commemorative? Some mistake surely? It’s World War Two you commemorate at this time of year, and anyway it’s May 8 not June 8. You’ve mixed it up.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Lucien. ‘Yes, of course, the 1939–45 dinner was supposed to be on May 8. But they wanted to ask two veterans of the First War, so as to give it a more historical dimension, see? But one of them was ill. So they put the veterans’ night off for a month, so it’s tonight. I can’t miss it, it’s really so important: one of the veterans is ninety-five but he’s absolutely all there. I must meet him. It’s a choice between History and the langoustines.’

  ‘Guess it’ll have to be History then,’ said Marc.

  ‘Of course. I’m off to get changed.’

  Lucien gave a final glance full of genuine regret at the kitchen table and went upstairs. Then he left the house at a run, asking Marc to save him a few langoustines for when he got home later that night.

  ‘You’ll be too drunk to appreciate this gourmet stuff,’ said Marc. But Lucien was out of earshot and running towards 1914-18.

  XXVI

  MATHIAS WAS ROUSED FROM SLEEP BY A SERIES OF SHOUTS. JUMPING out of bed, he went to the window. Lucien was standing in the street calling his name and Marc’s. He had climbed up onto a big rubbish bin, it wasn’t clear why; perhaps he thought his voice would carry better from there, but he looked very precarious. Mathias picked up the broom handle and knocked on the ceiling to wake Marc. Hearing no response, he decided to do without his help and reached Lucien just as the latter was tottering from his perch.