by Fred Vargas
‘So you can’t give us the name of the fourth man whose absence has worried you, nor provide us with a photo of him?’
‘That is correct. And in any case, he wears theatrical make-up, and takes on a role. He didn’t at first. But after a while, he caught the bug so to speak, like so many others. That’s why his absence concerns me. He should have been there two weeks ago, he was due to speak. And he wouldn’t have missed it, because he enjoyed it too much. But in that throng of people, whose faces are all in some way masked, I couldn’t possibly suggest a suspect. I can tell you that the ones who get most excited when Robeslpierre appears number about fifty. But the murderer might equally well be a man of the shadows, as stealthy as a predator, not letting his hatred appear on the surface.’
Château was now working hard on his ring finger.
‘And what about this?’ said Adamsberg, showing him a drawing of the sign. ‘Have you ever seen this? It has appeared at the scene of all three murders.’
‘No, never,’ said Château, shaking his head. ‘What is it supposed to represent?’
‘That’s what we wondered. What does it suggest to you? In context?’
‘In context?’ said Château, rubbing his bald patch.
‘Yes, in your context.’
‘The guillotine?’ said Château, a little like a schoolboy, hesitating to answer in class. ‘But which one? The one before, or the one after? Or the two mixed up? That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Very true,’ said Adamsberg.
Who now thrust his hands deep in his pockets. He couldn’t see either how they were to track down one man among seven hundred anonymous and disguised members of the association. Another mass of tangled seaweed had appeared on his horizon, one even more tentacular than his previous obsession, but now moving towards it, and getting mixed up obscenely with it.
‘Did you say that people can take part in your sessions as occasional members?’
‘Yes, three times a year.’
‘Like tonight for instance?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘Who? The three of you?’ asked Château, surprised, dropping his nail file.
‘Why not?’
‘But what do you hope to get from that?’
‘An impression,’ said Adamsberg with a shrug.
‘It’s an important session tonight. His very long speech of 5 February 1794, or 17 Pluviôse, year II, if we go by the revolutionary calendar. It will be cut down though, I assure you.’
‘I’d like to see that,’ said Danglard.
‘Very well. Come along at 7 o’clock this evening to the back door of the building, number 17, I’ll arrange for you to have costumes and wigs. That is, if it does not inconvenience you. Because if you remain in ordinary modern dress, you would have to stay in the public gallery at the back, and you would then see very little.’
‘Your Robespierre impersonator,’ said Adamsberg, ‘why can’t you replace him with someone else?’
Château fell silent for a moment, looking thoughtful and out of countenance.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘if you come along tonight, you will understand.’
XVIII
ADAMSBERG, WITH LONG, straight black hair, tied in a ponytail and reaching halfway down his back, was looking at himself in the tall mirrors in the association’s cloakroom: he was wearing a dark grey, double-breasted riding coat, a white shirt with a standing collar and a white stock knotted at the throat. ‘Elegant but sober,’ Château had decided for the commissaire. ‘We won’t add anything, because I don’t believe it would suit you. You will be the son of a modest provincial notable, let’s leave it at that. For your Commandant Danglard on the other hand, I suggest a cream waistcoat, a dark purple frock coat and a lace jabot, as he could be the slightly more worldly descendant of an illustrious military family. As for your colleague with the auburn streaks, a wig, of course, and a dark blue waistcoat, coat to match, white breeches, son of a Parisian lawyer, brilliant but more austere.’
Dozens of men were going past them, looking preoccupied, dressed in silk, velvet and lace, and all hurrying towards the great chamber of the National Asssembly. Some had gone into corners to reread the text of their speech. Others were chatting in period dialogue, addressing each other as ‘citizen’, and talking about the miller who had been stoned for hoarding flour, a woman who had died of a stomach complaint, or a cousin who was a priest and had escaped into exile. A little lost in the midst of what seemed to him a huge and somewhat infantile masquerade, but all the same distracted by his own appearance, Adamsberg almost failed to spot his two colleagues.
‘Hurry up, “citizen”,’ said Veyrenc, putting a hand on his shoulder, ‘the session starts in ten minutes.’
It was only by his upcurled lip that Adamsberg had recognised his lieutenant, and then with a slight shock. Yes, indeed, it would be easy for a murderer to infiltrate these surroundings, where all these men were unrecognisable, and their names unknown – and to observe anyone as much as he pleased.
Danglard, looking quite jaunty in his purple silk coat, was leaving his mobile with one of the staff.
‘Pity we don’t wear these clothes any more,’ he commented cheerfully. ‘I don’t appear to advantage in boring modern dress. How did we get to this age of totally unimaginative clothing?’
‘On stage, Danglard, ’ said Adamsberg, pushing him towards the massive wooden doors and forgetting for a moment, in this strange theatre, that he had only come here because he needed to try and penetrate the slippery heart of the bundle of seaweed.
They positioned themselves in the ‘Plain’ of centrist deputies, a few feet away from the rostrum, from which an unknown speaker was boasting about the recent victories of the patriotic Republican armies. It felt cold inside these stone walls, hung with tapestries, and under the huge barrel-vaulted wooden roof. There was no central heating, the conditions of the revolutionary era were being respected. By the light of the large candelabra, Danglard was watching the crowd, particularly the tiered seats on the left, where the deputies of the so-called Mountain sat.
‘There! That’s Danton!’ Danglard whispered to Adamsberg. ‘Third row down, sixth along. He will be guillotined in two months exactly, and he already senses it.’
‘Of the 8th Squadron,’ a nearby deputy was complaining, ‘only twelve horses and nine men were left standing!’
The presiding officer of the assembly now called upon Citizen Robespierre to speak. There was silence and a man walked straight up the steps of the rostrum, then turned round. There was frenetic applause, women called out from the galleries, and flags were waved.
The actor, straight-faced, his complexion pallid under his white wig, his thin, stiff torso tightly buttoned into a striped frock coat, looked over the assembled deputies then adjusted his small round spectacles before looking down at his text.
‘He looks deathly pale,’ said Adamsberg.
‘He wears powder, he always does,’ muttered Danglard, signalling to Adamsberg to keep quiet, as the assembly now fell quite silent, at a near imperceptible gesture from the actor.
His voice rose up in the air, high-pitched and without resonance. He went through his speech, sometimes repeating sections, sometimes showing extraordinary talent, sounding vicious, reassuring, aggressive, by turns, punctuating his delivery with a few broad declamatory gestures.
‘It is time to state clearly the aim of the Revolution and the destination at which we wish to arrive: it is time to give ourselves an account of it, and of the obstacles which still keep us from that aim.’
After about fifteen minutes, Adamsberg felt his eyelids closing. He turned towards Danglard, but the commandant, leaning forward, was watching the speaker, fascinated, mouth open above his lace jabot, as if he were observing an animal of some unknown species. It looked to Adamsberg as if it would be impossible to snatch his commandant out of this state of bemusement.
‘. . .We desire an order of things when all base and cruel passions will be in chains, and all g
enerous and benevolent passions will be awakened by the laws . . .’
*
In his boredom, Adamsberg sought some complicity on his other side, from his compatriot and son of a vineyard owner, Veyrenc. Less mesmerised than Danglard, but just as amazed, Veyrenc was staring intently at the small, intense and pale-complexioned man who was declaiming from high above them, not missing a detail of the scene. Adamsberg looked again at the actor, seeking to discover how he was thus able to subjugate his colleagues. Strikingly elegant, subtle and precise in each of his gestures, the man might inspire interest through his incantatory declarations, astonishment by his austere demeanour, or alarm by the fixed stare directed from those pale blue, repeatedly blinking eyes, or by the tightly compressed lips which did not seem capable of a smile. It was living History, the president had warned them, the actor was embodying the Sea-Green Incorruptible. And totally succeeding.
‘. . . In our country, we wish to value morality over egotism, the reign of reason over the tyranny of fashion, scorn for vice over scorn for misfortune, pride over insolence, love of reputation over love of money, good people over polite society, genius over wit, the charms of true happiness over the staleness of pleasure . . .’
‘Citizen Robespierre,’ a voice interrupted from the right-hand side of the assembly, ‘what demon drives you to think Man is so perfectible? Are you seeking to force virtue on the “good people” to make them lose the very reason you talk about so much?’
‘That’s not in the texts!’ Danglard whispered with annoyance in Adamsberg’s ear. ‘The speech of 17 Pluviôse was not interrupted.’
Adamsberg realised that Danglard was genuinely shocked by this departure from the official record. As was Robespierre, who took off his glasses, and whose relentless gaze now turned on the interrupter, to whom he directed a mere twist of his lips. The man sat down at once, all passion extinguished.
‘Christ Almighty,’ murmured Veyrenc.
The orator had resumed his speech, imperturbably.
‘. . . and we desire that by sealing achievements with our blood, we should at least see the dawn of universal felicity. That is our ambition, that is our aim.’
The entire chamber rose in a standing ovation, and the space was filled with the sounds of chairs grating on the floor, benches creaking, applause, shouts, insults exchanged between deputies, while from the public galleries the revolutionary tricolours were frantically waved.
Feeling shamefaced, Adamsberg had discreetly slipped out of the building. He waited for his colleagues, leaning against a tree, smoking one of Zerk’s cigarettes. This extraordinary evening had irritated him as much as it had troubled him, and he looked in near-amazement at the ordinary people and objects around him, the tree, the metal grille round its roots, the passers-by wearing jeans, the darkened window of a chemist’s shop, a newspaper kiosk. It had taken no more than an hour for that other century to draw him inside its margins, for him to become accustomed to the costumes, lights, declamations and sounds of the assembly. As for Danglard and Veyrenc, they were quite lost for the evening, fascinated, spellbound by the fever of the period. So yes, he did understand. What an admirable, yet dangerous object that little François Château had created! What unpredictable passions might overcome these men, who had for years now been carried away by the enchanted atmosphere of these evenings – and what terrifying assassin might they engender?
An hour and a half later, the three men were driving back into central Paris without exchanging a word. Seeing their shocked faces, Adamsberg decided to let them return gradually to the present day. Only when they had crossed the Seine and were waiting at a traffic light, did he say calmly:
‘Pedestrians, asphalt, traffic fumes, the twenty-first century.’
‘You didn’t understand,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Well, as long as you’re not calling me “citizen”, there’s still hope.’
‘No really, you didn’t understand,’ Veyrenc insisted.
‘Do you remember,’ said Danglard from the back seat, ‘what Château told us? That they couldn’t find a replacement for Robespierre. And that we’d understand why tonight.’
‘Yes,’ said Adamsberg, ‘because that actor is quite fantastic.’
‘No, commissaire, because it’s him.’
‘Him, who?’
‘Robespierre. The actor, as you call him, is HIM. He is Robespierre, the Incorruptible.’
Adamsberg sensed that it would be pointless and unbecoming, almost vulgar, to remind his colleagues that Robespierre had died by the guillotine. As was confirmed for him, when he heard Veyrenc murmuring, as if to himself, face turned to look out of the car window.
‘Nothing more to be said. It was HIM.’
XIX
‘A RESULT, COMMISSAIRE,’ said Mordent, striding into Adamsberg’s office.
His long legs made Mordent look more than ever like an old heron.
‘What?’ asked Adamsberg, without looking up.
He was standing at his desk, but that wasn’t what annoyed Mordent, because the chief almost always worked standing up. It was that he wasn’t working at all. He was drawing. Whereas the rest of the squad was anxiously monitoring calls from police stations all over France, because of the call Adamsberg himself had sent out about the fourth ‘false’ suicide. Worse than drawing, he was painting in watercolours! He had borrowed paints from Froissy, who did landscapes as a hobby.
‘You’re drawing,’ said Estalère, who had come in on Mordent’s heels.
Estalère was always following on someone’s heels, for some reason. He was like a lost duckling, attaching himself to another brood. Whoever he came across in the corridor, Mordent, Voisenet, Noël, Justin, Kernorkian, Froissy or anyone else, he wheeled round and started following, so that all the officers had got used to finding the young man just behind them, and delegating to him some task or other.
‘Last night, Estalère, I woke up at four o’clock with an idea in my head,’ Adamsberg explained. ‘I scribbled it on a piece of paper and went back to sleep.’
He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out to the young policeman.
‘It just says “draw”,’ said Estalère. ‘Was that your idea, sir?’
‘Yes. So I’m following instructions. You should always follow instructions that come in the night, Estalère, not the ones in the evening, which are often overblown and harmful.’
‘And the ones that come at night? What are they like?’
‘They don’t tell you,’ said Adamsberg, shaking his head and dipping a very fine paintbrush into a bowl of water.
‘Commissaire,’ Mordent interrupted, ‘I just told you something when I came in.’
‘I know, commandant. But you didn’t go on. You said “A result”, and I said “What?” As you see, I’m listening.’
‘We’ve found our dead man,’ said Mordent with emphasis.
‘The fourth? With the sign?’
‘Yes. Only we don’t know yet if he’s the right one.’
‘Who’s the right dead man then?’ asked Estalère.
‘We don’t know,’ said Adamsberg, standing back to look at his picture, ‘whether he is the man missing from the Robespierre association, as reported to us by the president. Or whether perhaps we have come across yet another one, someone else. In the Icelandic case, which isn’t our case any more, we were afraid of a potential six deaths once the murderer got going. In this case, there are six hundred potential victims. Forgive me,’ he said, putting down the paintbrush and looking at Mordent, ‘but with watercolours, there are some strokes that you can’t let dry before you’ve finished them. So who? Where? How? Everyone to the council chamber.’
Estalère hurried out of the office, this time without following anyone. Council chamber meant a meeting, and a meeting meant coffee to fetch. With sugar, without sugar, with milk, without milk, just a spot of milk, espresso or americano, he knew it all, having memorised everyone’s order. He never drank coffee himself. A
damsberg looked at his stationary watches and Mordent indicated to him that it was eleven o’clock.
‘The call was from the gendarmerie at Brinvilliers-le-Haut, near Montargis,’ Mordent announced, once everyone had gathered in the chamber.
‘In the Loiret département,’ Danglard added.
‘They didn’t exactly have a suicide, but a fatal accident, nineteen days ago, in a village called Mérecourt-le-Vieux.’
‘That was four days before Alice Gauthier’s murder,’ Veyrenc calculated.
‘So why did they answer our call?’ asked Justin. ‘We didn’t say “accidents”, we said “presumed suicides”.’
‘Because one of the gendarmes, when called to the scene on the evening of the accident, got some bright blue chalk on his sleeve, from a wall. After our call – he was a bit excited on the phone, so I’m just trying to give you what he said – he wondered what blue chalk might be doing on the wall of some stairs down to a dark old cellar. It was a narrow staircase, that’s how he came to brush against the wall.’
‘Because the accident happened in a dark old cellar?’ asked Voisenet.
‘Yes.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘A man, aged about sixty. Every evening, he went down to the cellar after dinner, so it was night-time, to fetch two bottles of wine for next day, so that they would be the right temperature. And he always carried them laid flat, so as not to disturb the sediment. That’s what his sister said, because he was living with his sister’s family. He must have tripped on one of the steps as he came up, and fell backwards. Because his hands were occupied with the bottles, he couldn’t reach out to grab anything, and he fell all the way down the steps. As did the bottles, though one of them didn’t break, the gendarme said.’
‘There’s no justice in this world,’ said Kernorkian.
‘So what did the inquiry find?’ asked Adamsberg. ‘Could a member of the family have pushed him?’