by Fred Vargas
‘They were all still at table when he fell. They were drinking the wine he’d fetched the day before,’ said Mordent, consulting his notes.
‘And this gendarme?’
‘A real old-timer, stickler for detail. So he went back this morning, to take a look, because of the chalk mark.’
‘He’s got a good head on him then,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Yes. And he found the little blue drawing, about fifteen centimetres high, on this dirty old wall. The drawing is smudged from his jacket, but the sign is clear enough.’
And Mordent circulated the photo taken by the gendarme.
‘This killer isn’t fussy about his methods,’ said Danglard. ‘Chalk, eyebrow pencil, scissors, knife. Just so long as he can leave his mark, that’s what matters to him. And as we’ve already noted, he’s not setting out to make it conspicuous. But he can’t help drawing it, and in certain murderers, that is a sign of pride. Not uncommon, in fact,’ he said, with a glance at Retancourt.
‘I think,’ said Adamsberg, considering the blue graffiti, ‘that in the case of Jean Breuguel, the killer carved the sign with his left hand. That might explain why the drawing was clumsy.’
‘Why the left hand?’
‘Because his right was covered in blood.’
‘And that gets us where?’ asked Noël, who for all that he was unreconstructed, misogynist and aggressive, was no fool.
‘Where it gets us, lieutenant, is to the possible conclusion that Breuguel, not to be confused with Bruegel, is not an exception to our series after all.’
‘What do you mean, Breuguel, not to be confused with Bruegel?’
‘Ask Bourlin, he’s the one who said it.’
‘When someone says the name “Breuguel”,’ explained Danglard, ‘people are inclined to think they mean Bruegel the Elder, the sixteenth-century Flemish painter.’
‘No,’ said Noël, ‘people are not in the least inclined to think that.’
‘I agree with you there,’ Adamsberg admitted. ‘Mordent, what was the name of this victim, his occupation, do we have a photograph?’
‘Angelino Gonzalez. He was formerly professor of zoology in Laval University in Quebec, then he taught at the Jussieu Faculty in Paris. Since retiring, he’s been living with his sister, while trying to find a flat somewhere in Brittany, because he’s a Breton.’
‘He’s a Breton, with a name like Angelino Gonzalez?’ scoffed Noël.
‘Oh, shut up, Noël,’ said Adamsberg calmly, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘And where are you from?’ because he well knew that his lieutenant had been an abandoned child, left outside the social security office one Christmas morning in the snow, hence his name, which, as Mordent would have said, was the stuff of fairy tales. Except that it had not been much like a fairy tale in reality.
‘What kind of zoologist?’ asked Voisenet.
‘Birds.’
‘Victor said there’d been a specialist on little auks in the Iceland group,’ said Kernorkian.
‘We don’t know that Gonzalez was a specialist in northern seabirds,’ said Mordent.
‘And anyway, we’ve decided Iceland is irrelevant,’ said Mercadet firmly.
‘Absolutely,’ Adamsberg agreed. ‘But all the same, Justin, get a check on his passport.’
‘It’s been done,’ said Mordent, ‘but his passport was only eight years old. Two return trips to Canada, that was all.’
‘We decided Iceland was irrelevant,’ repeated Mordent.
‘How many times do we have to say that?’ said Danglard with some irritation.
‘Look,’ said Adamsberg, ‘it’s quite natural that we’ve still got memories of the Icelandic business running through our heads. Send the photo of Angelino Gonzalez to the president of the association. And send a copy to Victor as well.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Danglard. ‘Why Victor?’
‘Why not, commandant?’ said Adamsberg, standing up. ‘Don’t worry, I think we have left the icy rocks behind. And indeed I fear our new trip into Robespierre’s Arctic Circle might be even chillier.’
The team broke up to go for lunch, some to the Dice Shaker cafe, others to the Brasserie des Philosophes, and the rest eating a sandwich at their desk, which was Adamsberg’s choice, since he had ‘things to do’, in other words a drawing.
The replies arrived quickly. First came Victor’s, saying he had ‘never seen that guy at all, he didn’t look remotely like the worshipper of little auks who was with us’, and one from François Château, who said, yes, he did fancy he recognised him. But did they have any other photos to show him?
They arranged to meet him at 3 p.m. at his office at the association’s headquarters. A sign of confidence, but with express instructions that if Veyrenc was coming along, he should wear something on his head. Which he did, a black baseball cap with Paris written on it in golden letters.
‘It was all I could find in our cupboards,’ said Veyrenc, ‘and I got this khaki bomber jacket from Retancourt. Good, isn’t it? I’ll keep my distance behind you.’
‘Why is it,’ asked Adamsberg, ‘that whatever we do, people always guess we’re cops?’
‘Because of our perverse expressions,’ said Danglard. ‘Because we look as if we’re always on the alert and suspicious for no reason. Because of the power we think we have, and because of the aggressive aura we give off, so people think we’re ready to pounce. It’s a matter of pheromones, not a matter of what clothes we’re wearing.’
‘Talking of clothes,’ said Adamsberg, ‘was it you, Danglard, that took photos of us last night dressed up as eighteenth-century politicians? And then sent them to everyone’s mobile in the squad?’
‘Yes, indeed. I thought we looked splendid.’
‘But everyone laughed at us.’
‘Laughter is a defence mechanism when you’re impressed. They all thought you looked terrific, let me tell you. Froissy fell in love with you at 9.20 this morning. It changes their usual view of you. Men and women both.’
‘All very well, Danglard. And what do I deduce from that?’
‘Ambiguity.’
Adamsberg was accustomed not to reply to the remarks of his deputy.
XX
‘MY WORD, I think so, Yes, I think I have seen him here,’ François Château, looking through the four photographs that Adamsberg had brought. ‘You may take the cap off in here, lieutenant,’ he said with a smile.
‘His name was Angelino Gonzalez,’ said Veyrenc, as he obeyed, and shook out his multicoloured hair.
‘Lieutenant,’ Château went on, still smiling, ‘it’s not the National Assembly you should have been in, but the Roman Senate. You’re the very image of a bust from antiquity! But I’m sorry, I’m losing the thread, I was making up a role for you. Angelino Gonzalez, you say? But as I told you, I don’t know people’s names.’
‘But you do observe them,’ Adamsberg said.
‘We need to know the kind of people who attend, so to speak. After the session – you left too early last night, you know – a buffet supper is served in the annexe alongside. You have to pay, but most people stay for it. And that is the time when they can not only eat and drink, but chat among themselves. I go along sometimes, I take part, I overhear conversations. I could almost give you an undertaking that seventy-five per cent of our members are actually professional historians, which doesn’t prevent them getting carried away, as I said before. Another fifteen per cent are, let’s say, amateur historians, from every walk of life, people who are eager for knowledge. So, for instance, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, we might find a policeman among us, someone like your Commandant Danglard. And the other ten per cent are all sorts, professionals, civil servants, psychologists, psychiatrists, businessmen, teachers, and some people who do actually work in the theatre. There are one or two artists, but I have noted that there is only a slight correlation between a taste for history and practising the arts. And over the last twelve years, you might say I’ve got
to know all of them. And all of them, whoever they are, are won over by the costumes, the faithful reproduction of official texts, the period atmosphere, and, I think I may say, the fact of wearing an eighteenth-century frock coat. It lends one aplomb.’
‘I noticed that, ’ said Danglard.
‘You see. And that’s not counting the fact of playing a part, even a non-speaking one. Here, commandant, everyone exists, every voice counts. We vote in the assemblies. We participate in the creation of ideas and laws. In short, we become significant.’
‘What about the “occasionals”?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘I certainly don’t neglect them. Because it’s among such members that one might find people “infiltrating” or spying, or enemies. They don’t pay the annual subscription – which is high, because you can imagine how much it costs simply to acquire and maintain the costumes – but they have the right to come to three sessions a year, as if going to the theatre. We couldn’t do without them – all our full-time members started off as occasionals. But some insist on remaining visitors. Which was the case for Henri Masfauré, and Alice Gauthier, and the third man, the one with the name of a painter.’
‘Jean Breuguel.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘But if you don’t ask for people’s names or identity papers, how do you know your occasionals only come three times?’ asked Veyrenc. ‘Or for your full-time members, how do you know somebody else doesn’t come in their place?’
‘We ask for a pseudonym, and we photograph the palm of everyone’s hand. At reception, we compare the lines with our photo. It’s quite quick and accurate, and it’s not like a fingerprint.’
‘Good idea,’ said Veyrenc.
‘Well, no, it’s not bad,’ said Château with satisfaction. ‘Certain other people thought perhaps we should use the back of people’s identity papers, but that carries too much information. You’d quickly get to the person.’
‘Who are these “other people”?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘My two co-founders, I told you about them, the secretary and treasurer, who are also anonymous, and who act as my bodyguards.’
‘Are they accountants too?’
Château smiled again. Once past his initial distrust, the man was on the whole agreeable, and with a sharp intelligence.
‘Don’t ask, please, commissaire. Let’s just say that they’re both very keen on history.’
‘Keen, you say,’ said Danglard. ‘So not professional historians, then?’
‘I didn’t say that, commandant. They are in fact in charge of the research side of our enterprise.’
‘The study of the “Robespierre effect”.’
‘Well, not only that. The therapeutic effect too. We only discovered that after a while. Many people who were suffering from depression, or from extreme timidity, or were in other ways scared of life, have found some help here. They are able to re-enter real life and face it again, after having taken part in this reality at one move. Do you see what I mean? You must meet my associates – let’s call them Leblond and Lebrun if you will agree to that – because they know the members better than I do, especially the stranger or more unusual ones. And perhaps they also know the “occasionals”, who are loyal attenders, yet still wish to stay on the margins. That’s a bit of a worry.’
‘But an obscure point,’ said Veyrenc. ‘Why are you worried about them, if they are the least representative people?’
‘Maybe it’s just an unfortunate coincidence, since the fourth victim – Gonzalez you called him? – wasn’t one. But then I can’t be sure about him. Because if he is the man I’m thinking of, he always wore a wig and frock coat. So it’s hard to identify him from this photograph after death. But he did have a long nose, drooping eyelids and thick lips, so I think I’m right.’
‘One moment,’ said Adamsberg, getting up. ‘Do you have a piece of paper?’
‘Of course,’ said Château, a little surprised, passing him a sheet of computer paper.
Adamsberg chose a photo of Gonzalez and did a rapid and accurate sketch of it.
‘That’s good,’ said Château. ‘You probably don’t go in much for history, do you?’
‘I don’t have a good memory for the written word, I remember better what I’ve seen. Now, watch carefully.’
And with a few deft strokes, Adamsberg added to Gonzalez’s face a wig, a high collar and a stock knotted at the throat.
‘And now?’ he said, passing the sketch to Château. The president nodded and stroked his bald patch, looking impressed.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘I do know him. I can see him perfectly now.’
‘An occasional?’
‘No. He liked strong emotions, He often came to the special sessions. He always volunteered to take speaking parts. He made an excellent Hébert, for instance, the man who yelled insults at everyone, an extremely crude journalist – the editor of the paper Le Père Duchesne, as you will know.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ said Adamsberg.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Château, reddening, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘Hébert was famous for writing “fuck this” and “fuck that”, every two lines in the paper, and Gonzalez liked imitating him, they were stirring sessions. “Let those toads in the Plain go and sneeze into the sack,” he would say. Robespierre was very shocked by Hébert’s vulgar language.’
‘Sneeze into the sack?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘A contemporary expression for being sent to the guillotine. Gonzalez was also successful at playing Marat, the wild one. My word, the trouble he took over his make-up, to get his eyes to look hooded. We have three make-up artists here,’ said little Château, cheering up, as usual when he was describing his ‘concept’. ‘And in a completely different style, he also played the unforgettable Couthon. Yes,’ he finished, passing the portrait back to Adamsberg, ‘he really loved it. Coffee?’ he asked, standing up.
Adamsberg looked at his two watches, then at the clock on the panelled wall.
‘We’re taking up a lot of your time,’ he said.
‘It matters even more to me than to you to discover who is killing our members. My time is entirely at your disposal,’ Château went on, over the sound of the coffee machine. ‘Four murders in three weeks. But it will be terribly hard to identify a killer among our large membership.’
‘Well, I have to say,’ Adamsberg commented, ‘we would have a much greater chance of doing so, if everyone spoke the truth.’
And he saw once more the infernal knot of seaweed whose tentacles gripped him, even in the night. He didn’t like what he had to do next.
‘What do you mean, and to what are you referring, commissaire?’ the president asked him calmly.
‘I’m referring to Robespierre.’
‘Exceptional performance, don’t you think?’ said Château, putting the cups down on the desk. ‘I didn’t conceal that from you, did I? That 17 Pluviôse speech is certainly a choice example, don’t you agree? Though in places it gets really rather boring, as was often the case with the Incorruptible. But he manages to get it across.’
‘Like him.’
‘Him? Who?’
‘That’s what my colleagues said when we went home last night. They came out of your session more or less in a state of shock.’
‘So soon?’ smiled Château, passing round the sugar.
‘“It was HIM,” they said. “Himself. Robespierre.”’
The president glanced in some surprise at Danglard and Veyrenc, who were both looking at Adamsberg uncomprehendingly, at a loss as to why the commissaire was revealing their reactions of the previous night.
‘And they were right,’ Adamsberg went on. ‘It was Him, and that of course is why you can’t find a replacement for him.’
‘What are you getting at, commissaire?’ asked Château with a shake of his head. ‘Your colleagues themselves are looking a bit mystified, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Not at all,’ said Château, taking an ashtray out of a drawer.
Adamsberg took out a cigarette, while with the other hand he placed a folder on the desk. From it he took a watercolour painting on stiff paper, and passed it across to Château.
‘What do you think of this?’ he asked.
‘The sitter isn’t handsome,’ said Château, after a moment of silence during which he clamped his mouth shut, ‘but the portrait is excellent. You really are talented.’
‘And is it a good likeness?’ asked Adamsberg, passing the picture to his colleagues.
He lit his cigarette, leaned back, and for once in his life tried to feel calm without succeeding.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Château. ‘It’s of me.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Danglard, looking rather stunned and carefully putting the watercolour back on the desk, so as not to harm it.
‘Is this perhaps a present, commissaire?’ asked Château warily.
‘You may have it with pleasure, but not just yet. Do you remember the experiment we did just now with Gonzalez’s face, when we added the wig and costume? I took the liberty of choosing for you the exact costume in which Robespierre appeared last night. He wore a striped coat in two shades of golden brown, his jabot was cream-coloured and made of plain lace, the wig was a dazzling white, the spectacles were round, and of course his face was powdered and pale.’
Adamsberg showed the second painting to his colleagues before passing it across to the president. All three men stiffened, and Adamsberg let his ash fall on the floor, without intending to.
‘The face is without the natural rosy complexion that you normally have,’ he added.
All said and done, Adamsberg stood up to pace the room for a moment, stretching his arms discreetly downwards.
‘It’s Him,’ whispered Danglard, while Veyrenc, bemused, simply stared at the portrait.
‘Him? Who?’ Adamsberg asked gently. ‘Him, Maximilien Robespierre, whose head was cut off in 1794? Or you, sitting opposite us, Monsieur François Château? Robespierre returned from the shades of the dead? Or François Château, who knows him so well, so intimately, that he knows how to give his fixed smile, blink his eyes repeatedly, maintain his impassive expression, make the delicate gestures with his hands, imitate his voice, stand very erect, with his back like a ramrod? And indeed,’ he went on, turning back to the desk and leaning towards Château, ‘you do naturally hold yourself very straight, your movements are very delicate, your voice is naturally quite weak, your eyes are pale blue, and your smile is rather strained.’