by Fred Vargas
I regard it a duty of the utmost importance to inform you that all three of them were members of the above mentioned association, of which I have the honour to be president. Although they attended only occasionally, they had been present at our assemblies during the last seven to ten years – I fear I cannot be more precise – joining us once or twice a year, in early autumn or in the spring.
Their ‘non-appearance’ might not necessarily have concerned me unduly, before I read the contents of your statement to the press. We do not insist on regular attendance, and members are free to attend or leave meetings as they wish. Nevertheless, the coincidence of these three deaths, and the fact that they had participated in our study group, seemed to me a matter of legitimate anxiety. All the more so, since I have become aware of the conspicuous absence of another member, one who was far more assiduous in his attendance, and who appeared to have some kind of contact with the deceased. They certainly greeted each other on meeting, of that I am sure.
I must ask you to forgive the length of this letter, but I feel certain that you will readily understand my fear – to use an expression perhaps more associated with the police – that a murderer is ‘at large’ in our association, something which might lead to further tragic deaths, and would undoubtedly put an end to our activities.
It is for these reasons that I would be extremely grateful if you could agree to meet me without delay, if possible at 12.30 on the day that you receive my letter. In view of the alarming nature of this affair, it seems highly preferable that I should not be seen entering your headquarters. I should therefore be much obliged – while apologising for these unusual conditions, dictated by circumstances – if you could go to the Cafe des Joueurs, rue des Tanneurs, and introduce yourself to the proprietor, mentioning my name. He will let you out through the back door, into a lane leading to an underground car park. Taking staircase 4, you will find yourself outside the rear entrance of a restaurant called La Tournée de la Tournelle, on the embankment of the same name. I shall be sitting well inside the room, at an inconspicuous table, reading a motorcycling magazine. I would be obliged if you would bring this letter with you, so that I may be certain of your identity.
With respect, monsieur le commissaire, I remain your faithful servant, etc.
Adamsberg had stumbled over only a few words – as who wouldn’t? he asked himself. A disconcerted silence followed his reading of the letter, possibly prompted more by its tone than by its content.
‘Could we hear it again?’ Danglard asked, noting the startled expression of Estalère, who was obviously quite lost.
Adamsberg automatically consulted his two non-functional watches, asked someone else the time – it was 10.10 – and acquiesced, without anyone objecting.
‘So it’s goodbye to Iceland,’ Voisenet commented, as the commissaire put the letter down.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Noël. ‘No chasing off after fish in the frozen north for you. But if I’ve got this straight, we’re on to some weird fish right here. A tank full of nutty fans of Robespierre and the French Revolution? That’ll be worth a look!’
‘Equally chilly climate,’ said Voisenet.
‘It wouldn’t be correct to call them “fans of Robespierre”,’ Mordent intervened, with the condescending tone he regularly took towards Noël. ‘They’re historical researchers who study Robespierre’s writings. That’s a big distinction.’
‘Yeah, well, even so,’ Noël answered, ‘they’ve got a thing about the guy, haven’t they? This is a Serious Crime Squad. We’re not in the business of defending mass murderers, are we?’
‘That’ll do, Noël,’ said Adamsberg.
Noël shrugged back inside his heavy leather jacket, a virile armour that made him look twice as tough as he really was.
‘Could it be a trap?’ asked Justin, pointing at the letter. ‘He’s asking you to go through a real labyrinth to get to see him.’
‘Amazing what people will get up to to lose the cops,’ said Kernorkian.
‘That’s rather reassuring in one way,’ Adamsberg remarked.
‘Look,’ said Justin, ‘even if the lane and the car park aren’t death traps, they’re asking you to go and meet a guy who talks like a book, and we have no idea if he’s telling the truth, or even if he really is the president of this association. It all sounds very conspiratorial, like an old-fashioned ambush.’
‘I won’t be going on my own, Justin. Danglard and Veyrenc will come along, they’ll help me to work out the historical ingredients of this conversation.’
‘Cook up the sauce, you mean,’ said Voisenet.
‘History is not a sauce,’ protested Danglard.
‘Apologies, commandant.’
‘And as protection,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘because, indeed, you never know, I’ll need five officers as backup. In other words, just you, Retancourt. Wait for us in the car park, and see us out. That’s the riskiest moment. Then just go round through the main door of La Tournée de la Tournelle, like an ordinary customer coming for lunch. Make yourself inconspicuous.’
‘That’ll be difficult,’ remarked Noël sarcastically.
‘Not as difficult as for you, lieutenant,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Anyone can see from a hundred metres you’re a gung-ho cop. Retancourt can look either threatening or reassuring when she feels like it.’
Adamsberg could read on Retancourt’s calm features that Noël would pay for the insult; it wasn’t the first time.
‘This association does exist, I’ve just checked it out,’ said Froissy who rarely took her eyes off her laptop, and who had missed the last exchanges. ‘It was founded twelve years ago. But on its website, it doesn’t give the names of its officers.’
‘We can check that in the Journal Officiel, they’re obliged to name them by law,’ said Mercadet, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Their website is very sober,’ Froissy continued. ‘Reproductions of classic eighteenth-century engravings, a few texts by Robespierre, some photos of their meeting place, dates of the assemblies, and an address. It looks like an ancient guildhall or something.’
Danglard leaned over to look at the screen.
‘Probably a former granary,’ he said. ‘The rib vaulting at the top of the windows suggests late eighteenth century. Where is it?’
‘Northern Paris, on the edge of Saint-Ouen, 42 rue des Courts-Logis,’ Froissy told him. ‘They say they’ve got 687 enrolled members. They have a big debating chamber, with a speaker’s rostrum, a cafe, a lounge and cloakrooms. Their meetings, which are either “ordinary” or “exceptional”, take place once a week, on Monday evenings.’
‘Tonight then,’ said Adamsberg with a slight shudder.
‘And tonight’s an “exceptional” one,’ Froissy added.
‘What time?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
‘You’d have to have a lot of money to hire a place like that. Can you find out, Froissy? Who owns it, who rents it, etc. Don’t forget that we’ve been strung along ever since the beginning of this case. We’ve been sent to Iceland, prepared for the guillotine, yes, but through a sign that was too obscure to work out at first sight. Then with the murder of Jean Breuguel, we’re taken back to Iceland, wrongly, let me point out, and back again to the guillotine, but this time the sign has been drawn differently, more hesitantly. We’ve been bounced between apparent suicides and real murders, and between suspects: Amédée, Victor, Céleste, Pelletier, or the “killer on the island”. And now we’re faced with Robespierre. Or rather with a murderer inside this association, assassinating people who appear to be enthusiastic about Robespierre.’
‘He’s infiltrated their club, has he?’ said Kernorkian.
‘Or perhaps more than one person has infiltrated the assocation? Political murders, perhaps?’
‘Or some personal vengeance,’ suggested Voisenet. ‘Because for Robespierrists, our three victims don’t seem to have been very assiduous at the assemblies.’
‘If the president is telling the truth.�
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‘And if he exists.’
‘Or else,’ said Mordent, ‘like this guy says – what’s his name?’
‘Château, François Château.’
‘Well, like this François Château suggests, someone is out to destroy the association. Who’d want to stay in a club when some crazy killer is eliminating its members? It would have to shut up shop in less than a year. The reason could be political, or it could be personal.’
‘But then,’ said Justin, looking down at his notes, ‘why were we sent off at the start into that Icelandic business?’
‘I don’t know that we were actually “sent” off there,’ said Adamsberg, pacing back down the room. ‘Perhaps I made a mistake, or expressed myself badly, or lost my way. It’s this wretched tangle of seaweed – a cat couldn’t find its kittens inside that.’
‘Not even Snowball,’ said Estalère.
‘Nobody directed us anywhere,’ Adamsberg went on. ‘We went off in that direction on our own. Even at the scene of the first murder, the killer left a sign that was nothing to do with Iceland. But there was that letter that Alice Gauthier had written to Amédée, then there was that second murder out at Le Creux, and the hot rock in Iceland was the link. So we all went off to Iceland on our own.’
‘Where the fog comes down in five minutes and swallows us up,’ said Mordent. ‘Why do you carry / Your load of mist / witch of the rain / on the fields?’
Danglard looked at him in some astonishment.
‘Sorry for interrupting,’ said Mordent. ‘I didn’t make it up, Veyrenc, it’s an Icelandic poem.’
And Mordent stretched out his long neck, a sign that the old heron was embarrassed and concerned.
‘That doesn’t alter the fact,’ he insisted, ‘that the first two victims had both been to Iceland. Coincidence? But we don’t like coincidences, do we?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Adamsberg, doing an about-turn. ‘These two victims might have met up after the Iceland drama. Let’s suppose that one of them was already a member of this association. And let’s suppose that the first one, for the sake of argument, Henri Masfauré, initiated the other, let’s say Alice Gauthier, to the meetings of the Robespierre society.’
‘But we found nothing to suggest any activity like that by either Masfauré or Gauthier.’
‘No, but if this president is telling us the truth, they really were members of the society, Mordent. Jean Breuguel too. It’s not the kind of thing you would shout from the rooftops: Robespierrist studies? That might not have pleased the head of Madame Gauthier’s school, or Masfauré’s industrialist contacts.’
‘Yes, it is still a subject with a whiff of sulphur about it,’ Danglard confirmed.
‘But if the killer had nothing to do with Iceland,’ said Mercadet, ‘why did he take those books to Jean Breuguel’s flat?’
‘Just to fool us, lieutenant, to encourage us along the false trail we’d started on, and keep us away from the association. That would explain why the drawing of the guillotine was so weird. He needed to draw it, but he didn’t want us to identify it.’
‘Got it,’ came Froissy’s high-pitched voice.
‘What?’
‘The hall, it’s called the Grange aux Blés, yes, it’s a former granary, and belongs to the municipality of Saint-Ouen. They hire it out to various groups and the Robespierre association has it one night a week. The name of the person who hires it for Mondays is Henri Masfauré,’ she added calmly, ‘at a rent of . . . 120,000 euros a month.’
‘What?!’ said Adamsberg, breaking off from pacing up and down. ‘A whole new side of the mountain suddenly comes to light, the invisible philanthropist.’
‘A philanthropist and Robespierre, that’s like day and night!’
‘No, Kernorkian,’ said Danglard, and his voice had an acid edge. ‘Robespierre had a genuinely philanthropic turn of mind, believe me. He was in favour of the happiness of the multitude, he wanted everyone to be able to earn a living, the abolition of slavery, the abolition of the death penalty – yes, that’s true, he did speak against it early in the Revolution – universal suffrage for men, and honourable citizenship for all the groups excluded from society, blacks, Jews, illegitimate children. And he wanted “sublime” perfection on this earth.’
‘Danglard,’ Adamsberg interrupted, ‘let’s try and keep to the point. Which is: there’s a murderer inside the Robespierre association, who’s started killing its members. Stick to the point.’
A surprising command, coming from Adamsberg, who was more like a sponge floating in the water than a limpet sticking obstinately to its rock. He asked the time again. It was 11.15.
‘Needs to change the batteries in his watches,’ Froissy whispered.
‘Let’s return to the subject in hand,’ said Adamsberg more firmly. ‘Veyrenc and Danglard, get ready to come with me, but no arms. Mordent, check out the business of renting that hall with Masfauré’s lawyer. Was it official, above board, or was it paid in cash? Get hold of Victor, and ask if Masfauré had any history books in his library, works on the Revolution. Or do you think he concealed his hobby?’
‘At 120,000 a month, I’d call it more than a hobby,’ remarked Mercadet.
‘True. Froissy, I want you to send out an urgent internal memo now to all the police and gendarmerie stations in the country. We’re looking for any apparent “suicide”, accompanied by a drawing of the guillotine. Send them pictures of the drawing, in the three versions we’ve got.’
‘Who’s the apparent suicide?’ asked Estalère.
‘Don’t you remember,’ Adamsberg explained, with the protective patience he always used towards Estalère, ‘that François Château told us another of his members had disappeared, and that he had been acquainted with the victims we already have? Whether that’s true or not, we should start looking. The police could have missed a fake suicide.’
‘And not noticed the sign,’ said Mercadet. ‘After all it was almost invisible in the case of Masfauré, and Bourlin only looked for it at Breuguel’s flat because of the books on Iceland.’
‘Get them to start with any reported suicides in the last month. Have them send officers out to check the scene for the sign. And if that doesn’t turn something up, they’ll have to go back to the previous month and so on. Tell the divisionnaire we’re extending our inquiries. Justin, can you draft the memo? And, Froissy, imitiate my signature. We’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Retancourt, you get ready and go first, as our vanguard.’
‘Danglard,’ Adamsberg said, as they went out, ‘what’s the saying “If the mountain doesn’t come to you, you have to go to the mountain”?’
‘I thought we were supposed to be sticking to the subject,’ said Danglard somewhat curtly.
‘Yes, indeed. But Mordent wasn’t obliged to recite that Icelandic poem to us. You’re infecting them, commandant, one by one. In the end, there won’t be a single cop concentrating on the central issue in this squad. And right now, I need cops who can concentrate.’
‘Because you can’t.’
‘Precisely. So, this thing about the mountain?’
‘It’s not a “thing” exactly, commissaire. It’s a saying from the Koran, and indeed it’s about Mohammed. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed will have to go to the mountain.”’
‘Well, in my case, and more modestly, I should say “Although I didn’t go to the mountain, the mountain came to me”, because I couldn’t see the way ahead.’
‘Yes, you did. You understood the sign.’
‘But I didn’t go anywhere with it, Danglard. I just couldn’t get past the guillotine.’
‘Best not to, indeed.’
‘And if that letter hadn’t arrived this morning, we’d still be stuck.’
‘But the letter did come. And it came because you put out the press release.’
‘Commandant, you’re being very kind to me today,’ said Adamsberg with a smile.
XVII
ADAMSBERG CALLED
COMMISSAIRE Bourlin from the car.
‘We’re leaving Iceland, Bourlin,’ he said. ‘For good.’
‘And going where?’
‘To the Association of Robespierre Studies.’
‘You mean the Association for the Study of the Writings of Maximilien Robespierre,’ Danglard corrected him, loudly enough to be overheard.
‘Well, shit!’ said Bourlin. ‘Your guillotine!’
‘The president wrote to us personally – three of his members had gone missing.’
‘Our three so-called suicides?’
‘Exactly. And there’s a fourth one missing now, he says.’
‘How many members have they got?’
‘Getting on for seven hundred.’
‘Shit!’ Bourlin repeated.
‘That’s what I wanted to tell you.’
‘Do you think the killer’s going to chuck a bomb in among them? To cut a corner?’
‘No. He’s enjoying himself too much. For the moment.’
The owner of the Cafe des Joueurs was waiting when they arrived.
‘They didn’t tell me there would be three of you.’
‘There was nothing to say there shouldn’t be,’ said Adamsberg, taking the letter out his pocket.
The mere sight of the elegant handwriting reassured the cafe proprietor, who led them to the back exit, through into a small courtyard, and then to a further one, before they reached the lane and a metal fireproof door.
‘You go down there to the car park of La Tournelle. I presume they told you which staircase to take?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, be quick,’ the man added, looking left and right. ‘And don’t draw attention to yourselves. Although with him –’ and he indicated Veyrenc’s hair – ‘I guess that’s a waste of breath.’
Then he turned on his heel, without a further word. Justin was right. It smelled of old-fashioned plotting and conspiracy thrillers.
‘This is all a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?’ said Veyrenc.