by Fred Vargas
Château was suffering, and his pain communicated itself like a toxic aroma inside the small room, reaching each of the others. In his distress, and now that Adamsberg’s drawing had revealed his alter ego, it was possible to recognise in him yesterday’s Robespierre. He had shrunk in his seat, his lips had become thinner and the pink had left his cheeks. Adamsberg slumped back in his chair, as if exhausted and regretful about his own attack. He placed his burnt-out cigarette end in the ashtray, and shook his head rather sadly.
‘But you, Monsieur Château, you really do know how to smile, whereas He couldn’t, more was the pity for him. You don’t have his pallor, you don’t wear glasses, you don’t have any facial tics. Any more than you have ulcers on your legs, or suffer from nosebleeds. As you see, I did a little research yesterday.’
‘Well,’ said Château in an expressionless voice, ‘it’s just that I’m a very good actor. But once more, I must congratulate you, commissaire. I’m an experienced observer, but I was convinced that no one would ever guess my own very ordinary face was detectable behind his. Your colleagues themselves did not recognise it, as far as I can judge.’
‘And as a consequence,’ said Adamsberg, ‘you are right to fear that you are in danger. If I was able to detect François Château behind Robespierre, someone else could have. No one can replace you at the rostrum. No one else would be capable of it. If you were to die, the association would collapse. And more than that, if you weren’t there any longer, Robespierre himself would disappear, he’d be returned a second time to oblivion. And yet they took the precaution of covering his corpse with quicklime to be sure of destroying it. But what about his soul? Where did his soul go?’
‘I don’t believe in stories about souls, commissaire,’ said Château, in a more hostile tone.
‘We will leave you now, Monsieur Château. I will take the liberty of returning in three hours.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because you are not merely “a very good actor”. You’re Him, as my colleagues said. Or to put it another way, you are an excellent actor, because you are Him.’
‘You are leaving the realm of reason, commissaire.’
‘I’ll be back at –’ Adamsberg glanced at the clock – ‘seven thirty this evening. Meanwhile take care, it’s more important than you think.
XXI
NO SOONER WAS he out of the association’s offices – which meant going with a porter through two iron gates fitted with security locks and electronic codes, since the president was protected as if in a fortress – than Adamsberg phoned Retancourt, instructing her to lay on round-the-clock protection for François Château. The killer had eliminated Masfauré because without his money the association would not be able to carry on. That first blow was already lethal. And it could be presumed that after that murder, Robespierre was the future target. Arrived at by gradually instilling suspicion, then fear, and finally terror, as Robespierre had, before striking at the heart. Live a few days longer to think about me, sleep, to dream of me. Farewell. This very day, as I watch you, I will be enjoying your terror. How many members had he planned to kill? Enough for a rumour to start and begin thinning the ranks of the association, before aiming at its centre? Enough to leave Robespierre-Château standing alone, devastated by the collapse of his concept? The sign was, yes, certainly anti-Robespierrist, because it was a design for the guillotine, as amended by Louis XVI. The mark of the king’s last power, referring to the very machine that would decapitate him.
‘Stick close to him, Retancourt, take little Justin with you, he’s inconspicuous, and use Kernorkian on a motorbike. Take turns for shifts with whoever you like except Mercadet, Mordent or Noël.’
Retancourt filled in the reasons for herself: one too sleepy, the second too arthritic, the third too impulsive.
‘Leave Froissy at her desk though, I need her for computer searches. Do you know if she’s got anywhere?’
‘Not yet. She’s looking for a more direct channel, i.e. an illegal one.’
‘Excellent. I’ll be leaving the association headquarters at about eight thirty. Have Justin and Kernorkian in position by then, because I think our man’s in real danger. Though not necessarily today. It could go on for weeks,’ Adamsberg warned her, knowing that a mission to watch someone without any certain end point could be a strain on one’s nerves. ‘Danglard and Veyrenc are returning to base, and they’ll explain the situation to the team.’
‘You hit the bullseye, all right,’ said Veyrenc. ‘François Château was the actor playing Robespierre. But why are you going back to harass him again?’
The three men were standing by their car. Adamsberg intended to go for a walk, as was obvious without the need to mention it. He had given his folder of drawings to Veyrenc to help explain matters to his colleagues, and was preparing to stroll away, hands in pockets.
‘Because now,’ he said, ‘the man’s under threat of death.’
‘We understood that,’ said Danglard. ‘But yes, why are you still after him?’
‘Danglard, have you ever left a bottle of wine half full, once you’ve opened it?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘You know quite well. We haven’t emptied the François Château bottle yet. You could look at it two ways. François Château is Robespierre and he’s under threat. Or François Château is Robespierre and he’s dangerous. Or it could be something much less simple.’
Veyrenc, his hair once more tucked away under the tourist baseball cap, frowned and lit a cigarette, automatically passing the packet to Adamsberg.
‘You think Château feels so closely identified with Robespierre that he has somehow become him?’ he said. ‘So he might reproduce the death sentences during the Terror? No sooner destroying one enemy than he discovers another?’
‘It would be a never-ending process,’ Danglard commented, ‘since the enemy Robespierre was pursuing was inside him. But in that case, why would Château have written to us in the first place?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Adamsberg, shifting from one foot to another, indicating that he was eager to be off. ‘We have to get to the bottom of this bottle. To find what’s there.’
‘The dregs,’ said Danglard.
‘Not quite,’ said Adamsberg. ‘It’s a bottle with two corks. We have emptied the first chamber. If Froissy finishes her research in time, I hope to be able to extract the second cork.’
‘What did you ask Froissy to do?’
‘An identity check on François Château.’
‘You think he’s given us a false name?’
‘No, not at all. When you get back, can you send me a photo of Victor.’
‘What’s Victor doing back again in the case?’ asked Danglard.
‘He was Masfauré’s secretary, he may have accompanied him to the association, he may have heard something, might know something. Tell me, Danglard, did Robespierre have any descendants?’
‘Total blind alley, commissaire. They said that Robespierre had an empty sack. As in empty balls.’
‘Yes, I got that.’
‘I don’t mean physical impotence, but a psychological block. A remarkable symptom of the extensive pathology of the man –’
‘Zerk is cooking a leg of lamb tonight,’ Adamsberg interrupted. ‘It’ll be too much for two.’
‘Let me bring the wine,’ said Danglard hastily, since the white wine Zerk bought at the corner shop was rotgut, as far as he was concerned.
‘It’s not so much for your company,’ smiled Adamsberg, ‘ but I need to pick your brains some more.’
‘When this case is closed,’ said Danglard, ‘can I keep those drawings?’
‘You want them as well? Why?’
‘It’s just that it’s a marvellous portrait of Robespierre.’
‘It’s a portrait of Château,’ Adamsberg corrected him. ‘You’re mixing them up yourself now. So what must it be like for him?’
The Seine was too far away for him to get t
here and back in time, especially at his leisurely pace. His best bet was to go to the Saint-Martin Canal. It was still water. It wasn’t the Gave de Pau, his native stream, of course, but it was quite like a river with seagulls overhead. The buildings along its banks were not the rocks of the Pyrenees, but they were still made of stone. Stone and water, leaves on the trees, seagulls, even rather bedraggled ones, were never to be despised.
His mobile vibrated as he reached the canal and its smell of wet clothes that the dirty water of cities always gives off. He was desperately hoping for a reply from Froissy and looked up at the shrieking gulls to offer them a pagan prayer. But they weren’t listening, and the text was merely to send him a photo of Victor. All this, although far from Iceland, did still concern the young men at Le Creux. Because if Victor knew about his philanthropic boss’s parallel hobby, he might well have told Amédée about it. And who knows what Victor and Amédée would have made of Henri’s enthusiasm for Robespierre? Dangerous? Expensive? Victor had apparently reported that Masfauré’s bookshelves contained nothing about the Revolution. That was logical enough, if he wanted to keep his links to the association a secret. And he certainly seemed to have done that. Mordent had reported that the lawyer had no record of any payments to any cultural association. So the money must have been handed over in cash.
Stone, water, birds. He leaned back on the bench he had chosen, hands clasped behind the nape of his neck, looking up at the sky, watching for any particularly leisurely gulls. It was easy to choose one, climb on its back without hurting it, and guide its flight, gently manipulating its wings, sending it away over the fields to the sea, and there play at flying in the face of the wind.
After travelling six hundred kilometres like that Adamsberg sat back up, asked someone the time, and hailed a taxi. The idea of returning to Château’s dark office did not appeal to him. Still less the prospect of emptying the bottle. That is, if he had the wherewithal to remove the second cork.
At 7.25, the porter opened the clanking gates once more for him and asked him to wait for Monsieur Château in his office, he wouldn’t be long. Having no more of the crumpled cigarettes scrounged from Zerk, Adamsberg had had to buy himself a new packet. Pacing up and down while smoking in the panelled office of the little president would not be excessive behaviour, if he was to pull that second cork. Froissy’s latest reply had reached him seven minutes earlier. How brilliant Froissy was! Having guessed right on this point made him feel slightly dizzy, as if he had ventured into the realms of unreason, realms where the mechanisms were unfamiliar and, worst of all, the future was hard to predict. Whereas, alone in the high Pyrenees at night, he felt as much at ease as a mountain goat. But the world of François Château, which had just become even more murky, was not at all his territory. He thought about the story Mordent liked – the one where as you entered the forest, the branches closed behind you and the way back was no longer possible or visible.
Adamsberg had not dared to open the desk drawer to take out the ashtray, and was looking at the books on the shelves without reading the titles.
‘Good evening, commissaire,’ came a rasping voice from behind him.
A voice he had heard the day before. François Château had entered the room, or rather this time Maximilien Robespierre had. Adamsberg stood stunned, faced with the person he had not seen from close up the previous evening. Arms folded, back rigid, this man, now bewigged, his face powdered and wearing a sky-blue coat, was looking at him with that smile that was no smile, blinking his eyes behind the little round spectacles with tinted lenses. Adamsberg was transfixed, as the others had been earlier. Talking to Château was one thing, discussing matters with Maximilien Robespierre quite another.
Without a word, the person opened the drawer and put the ashtray on the desk.
‘That’s a handsome costume,’ said Adamsberg, for want of anything better, sitting down on the edge of a chair.
‘I wore this at the Feast of the Supreme Being which was my apotheosis,’ the man replied drily, taking up his stance again. ‘The only morning when I was seen to have a genuine and open smile, people who are fond of anecdotes like to say, because of the celestial sunshine that had dawned on Paris that day. You have never seen that unique brightness, and you never will. I was wearing this same coat again on 8 Thermidor in front of the assembly. But it was powerless to avert my death two days later, bringing an end to the Republic.’
Adamsberg opened his cigarette packet and proffered it without response towards Château (or whatever he should call this man). He, who had detected the little president behind Robespierre that night, should not have been overcome by his appearance now. But with his outfit, the man’s whole personality seemed to have changed, as if Robespierre’s impassive face had replaced, even brutally blotted out, the smiling and rather childish features of François Château. Almost nothing of the modest president remained, and Adamsberg wondered what was behind this excessive and indeed ridiculous performance, which nevertheless disturbed him. Did Château expect to be able to draw from Robespierre the strength he feared he would not have himself for this interview? Did he mean to impress the commissaire with this icy demeanour? But there was something else, he concluded, observing him through the cloud of smoke. Château had been weeping, and did not want it to be noticed at any price. Under the face powder, Adamsberg could distinguish, in spite of everything, the red edges of his lower eyelids and the pouches forming underneath his swollen eyes. Adamsberg instinctively pitched his voice at its lowest and gentlest.
‘Is that so?’ he said, still perched uneasily on his chair.
‘How can you doubt it, monsieur le commissaire? After me, Reaction swept through France, and she fell like a careless and easy woman into the arms of a tyrant. And then what happened? A few brief attempts at rebellion, memories of our glorious efforts, quickly swallowed up in a cheapened republic where corruption and greed destroyed our ideals, although the words Liberty, Equality, Fraternity still echo nostalgically round the world. The motto may be carved on buildings, but no one nowadays shouts it out with heartfelt enthusiasm.’
‘Did you make it up? That motto?’
‘No. The words were around everywhere at the time, but I combined them in a single cutting phrase: “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity or Death”.’
Château, his nostrils flaring, suddenly interrupted himself and leaned towards Adamsberg, putting his delicate hands flat down on the desk.
‘Will that do, monsieur le commissaire? Have we amused ourselves enough now? Because that’s how you wanted to see me, wasn’t it, to see me as “Him”? Did you like the show? And are we finished now?’
‘What will become of all this?’ asked Adamsberg prosaically, gesturing broadly to indicate the whole building.
‘What does that matter to you? We still have enough money left to finish our research.’
The biting, icy-cold tones of Robespierre persisted in the president’s voice, and were still disturbing Adamsberg.
‘This man,’ he said, ‘do you know him?’ and he held out his phone with the photo of Victor.
‘Is he dead too? Is he another contemptible traitor?’ asked Château, taking hold of the phone.
‘Have you ever seen him here?’
‘Of course. He’s Henri Masfauré’s secretary, his name’s Victor, he’s a foundling and a son of the people. Has he been eliminated too?’ he asked coldly.
‘No, he’s still alive. So he came along with his boss to the assemblies?’
‘Henri couldn’t do without his secretary, and Victor obeyed. He memorised everything. Question him.’
‘That’s my intention,’ said Adamsberg, conscious that in his imperious role Château had just given him an order.
It didn’t embarrass him, but it struck him forcibly. He stood up, took a few steps, and then put his phone down on the table, after pressing 4, which would communicate directly with Danglard, so that his deputy would be able to follow the rest of the conversation from headquarters. I
n this extraordinary situation, his deputy’s opinion would be valuable.
‘How does it come about that you look so like Robespierre?’ Adamsberg asked, without sitting back down.
‘Make-up, monsieur le commissaire.’
‘No, you really do resemble him.’
‘A freak of nature, or the intervention of the Supreme Being, take your pick,’ said Château, sitting down and crossing his legs.
‘A resemblance that prompted you to go looking for traces of Robespierre and to found the association, the “concept”?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Until the character of Robespierre took you over entirely.’
‘Perhaps because it’s getting late and you’ve had a hard day, monsieur le commissaire, your subtle mind is losing its sharpness. You’re going to ask me next if I have become “identified” with him. By some kind of aberrant mental quirk, or because I am suffering from a split personality, or some other completely grotesque idea. I’ll stop your ridiculous assumptions right there. I play the part of Robespierre, as I have just demonstrated to you, and that is all. And indeed, I am very well paid to do so.’
‘You’re quick off the mark.’
‘It’s not hard to be one jump ahead of you.’
‘He’s beaten,’ said Danglard out loud, in the anxious tones of a man watching a match of some kind.
All the squad had gathered round, leaning together over the table to hear better the voices coming from the phone.
‘You are indeed François Château, I do know that,’ said Adamsberg.
‘Exactly. End of discussion.’