by Fred Vargas
‘So that would mean that Victor and Amédée were brothers, or maybe half-brothers, wouldn’t it? If one envelope arrived to cover both of them.’
‘Gracious, I never thought of that,’ said Roberta, corking up the bottle. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me, because they were together all the time. But what I can tell you is when the Masfauré woman came to fetch Amédée, she didn’t so much as look at Victor, he could have been a piece of shit, pardon my language. Even a bad mother wouldn’t be like that, would she? And if she was his mother, why wouldn’t she fetch the two boys together that day?’
Adamsberg leafed through his notebook, where his jottings were in no sort of order.
‘Can I trouble you to call the postman again, and ask him whether, before Amédée arrived, the envelope wasn’t sent in the name of Pouillard? Marie-Adélaïde Pouillard? That was Amédée’s mother’s maiden name.’
‘No trouble, I always like talking to the postman.’
The reply came quickly, in the affirmative: yes, Pouillard was the name. Roberta had taken the opportunity to invite the postman over for supper.
XXVIII
DANGLARD WAS QUESTIONING the descendant of Danton when Adamsberg joined them in the middle of the interrogation. It was a small room, tucked under the roofs of Paris, untidy and airless. The man – a former bookbinder, Danglard told him – had been unemployed for four years. Danglard’s hair was ruffled, and on end, perhaps out of anger, and Justin was standing with head lowered, arms nervously folded.
‘Welcome, monsieur le commissaire,’ said the descendant jovially. ‘Glad to have you with us, your colleagues are keeping me entertained. As you can see, I don’t have a chair to offer you.’
‘Never mind, I prefer to stand.’
‘Like horses, eh? It might do you good, but the main drawback is that you can’t see past the end of your nose. Which makes you imagine that a descendant of Georges Danton would have killed someone to defend his ancestor’s honour!’
The man burst out laughing. Unprepossessing and repellent he undoubtedly looked, with his hollow cheeks, long, irregular, discoloured teeth and widely spaced dark eyes.
‘Yeah,’ he said, still laughing, ‘fat old Georges Danton. Described by some as a sincere patriot, warm-hearted, loving and generous. But in my book, he was totally fucking corrupt, an opportunist, arrogant, impressing everyone of course, with his bulk and his booming voice. But he was greedy and debauched, he had blood on his hands – and he was a traitor. At least Robespierre, villain that he was, wasn’t for sale. Like I told your colleagues here, I’m a royalist! That’s the least I could do, eh, to make up for the atrocities committed by my rotten great-great-something-grandfather. He voted for the death of the king, so he can’t complain if he lost his own head.’
‘And is he complaining?’
The question seemed to unseat the loquacious descendant of Danton for a moment.
‘And anyway, if you’re a royalist,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘what are you doing joining an assembly like that?’
‘I’m keeping watch,’ the man replied, now in deadly earnest. ‘I observe, I follow. I keep a tally of all their follies, all the vices of its members, a bunch of men that wear disguise and run around like rats in a sewer, they don’t even have the courage of their convictions. They think they’re anonymous, do they? Not to me they’re not! Swindles, unpaid taxes, crooked deals, pornography, arms trade, homosexuality, paedophilia, any weakness, it’s all grist to my mill. So I don’t think I come away empty-handed, oh no. Those republicans, they stink to high heaven. You needn’t waste your time looking for my records, they’re tucked away somewhere safe. And I’ve got plenty of them. Just a bit more evidence and I’m ready to light the fuse. Put the boot into that nest of pitiful insects. Exactly what you’d expect from descendants of the despicable fanatics who ruined France with their pathetic democracy. And if I destroy them, I’ll bring down the whole Republic.’
‘I see,’ said Adamsberg. ‘And how are you managing to carry out such a huge investigation all on your own?’
‘On my own? You’re way off beam, commissaire. The royalist network is much more extensive than you think. It has tentacles reaching into the legal profession, and even into your own police force. And there are quite a lot of us in the association. Do you really believe the French Republic is destined to last for ever?’
The man laughed again, and then with a dramatic gesture, flung open the twin doors of a small cupboard. Pinned up on the inside panels were reproductions of portraits of Danton and Robespierre, bespattered with dirt, their eyes defaced with red paint which had sent rivulets dripping down their cheeks.
‘Like them like that, eh?’
‘Violent piece of work,’ commented Adamsberg. ‘Violent enough to make you a killer, while you wait for the big night.’
The man lovingly closed his cupboard.
‘As if I’d waste my time picking them off one by one, when I can soon be done with the lot of them.’
Adamsberg signalled to his colleagues that it was time to leave.
‘And you can tell that chinless wonder François Château, and his two stuck-up pedantic acolytes,’ the man shouted after them, ‘that their pigsty is doomed!’
‘Aggressive guy,’ said Adamsberg, when they were back in the street.
‘Danton must be fed up with him,’ said Justin.
‘It’s always your own folk who betray you.’
‘Is he having us on?’ asked Danglard.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Those posters were old, he hadn’t just laid them on. He really does hate them.’
‘Makes him a credible suspect,’ said Justin.
‘I think he’s aiming higher, ’ said Adamsberg. ‘He wants to fling the mud of scandal at them, and he thinks if he can destroy the reputation of the association, he can destroy that of the Revolution, and bring down the whole Republic, no less! What did he say to explain why he was spotted outside the psychiatrist’s house?’
‘That the secretary was just one of the people he was spying on. He’s looking for a chink in his armour.’
‘And has he found one?’
‘Don’t know. His “files” are in a secret place, he kept saying.’
‘I don’t think either of the stuck-up and pedantic acolytes are at much risk from that Danton descendant. If the killer wants to decapitate the association, he’ll go for Robespierre. And for the time being, the murderer is setting off his wave from a long way off, by eliminating the “occasionals”. Why? Because a storm you can see approaching gradually is much more frightening than one that falls on you out of the blue. He’ll pull in his net little by little, deliberately, because he wants to be seen coming over the horizon. We can reduce the protection for Lebrun, just see that he gets into a safe taxi at the hospital gates. Same for Leblond. Call him in too, try to find where he lives. He’s a bit more slippery than the secretary, I think.’
‘Lebrun will whimper with fear,’ said Danglard.
‘If he’s as scared as all that, let him resign.’
‘He’d lose face. A psychiatrist hiding behind a burladero.’
‘A what?’
‘The wooden barrier in the bullring,’ said Danglard in exasperation. ‘You asked me what it was yourself, not six hours ago.’
‘So I did.’
The angelus sounded at 7 p.m. in St François-Xavier’s Church. Adamsberg stopped in the street.
‘Time for a coffee,’ he said.
An aperitif rather, thought Danglard. Given the time.
‘Should you be interested in following up on “it’s always your own folk who betray you”,’ said Adamsberg, ‘it’s possible that the two Icelandic murders are not quite what we thought.’
‘We said we’d finished with Iceland,’ said Justin, rather plaintively.
‘Yes indeed. But that doesn’t stop us taking a little trip there, if you’re tempted.’
Neither the commandant nor the lieutenant was tempte
d, and they didn’t move. Adamsberg smiled at them, gave a little wave and left them. The two men watched him walk off and go into a cafe. A few minutes later, they were sitting at his table.
‘It’s not Iceland we’re going to, in fact, but a farm in the Eure-et-Loir département.’
‘Where you went today?’ said Justin.
‘And which meant you missed the first part of our questioning of Danton,’ added Danglard sourly.
‘Was it interesting?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you are, Danglard. Half an hour’s enough for people like him. A farm with an odd name, Le Thost, pronounced “Le Toh” by the way, occupied in the past by a couple named Grenier who took in foster-children.’
‘Where Amédée Masfauré lived until he was five, yes, you told us that.’
‘Where he was imprisoned, more like. Ill-treated in every way, until the kid went berserk with this business of chopping the heads off ducks.’
‘He mentioned something about ducks when we were at Le Creux,’ said Danglard, who was suddenly much more relaxed, now that his glass of white wine had appeared.
Justin turned his head from left to right during the entire story about the seven or ten ducks, trying to shake off the images like flies. A child with a hatchet, the blood, the duck meat put non-stop on the plate for days afterwards. And the big boy who helped get rid of the pieces of meat.
‘Easy to see why he’s buried his memories then,’ he said.
‘I don’t think he’s buried anything,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I think he’s lying. And the big boy who looked after him during those five nightmare years, another foundling like himself, I’m sure Amédée hasn’t forgotten him either. He was, and probably is, still, the only person he’s ever loved, his saviour.’
‘And?’
‘And he was ten years older, not good-looking, that is except for his fair curly hair and a big smile. Someone who wasn’t seen very much by the neighbours.’
Danglard had his eyes fixed on some faraway place, but automatically held out his arm as the waiter passed.
‘Brothers, you mean? They’re brothers?’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Justin.
‘Amédée and Victor,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Brothers. Half-brothers. Abandoned, ten years apart by the same mother.’
‘Where’s the evidence?’ asked Danglard, his arm still outstretched.
‘Only one letter arrived every month at the farm, containing the allowance. Not two. Once Amédée was there it came from Madame Masfauré. But before that, it had come from Mademoiselle Pouillard, Marie-Adélaïde Pouillard, who later married Henri Masfauré.’
The waiter filled up the glass Danglard was holding out, and the commandant turned his head suddenly to thank him, breaking out of his brief daze.
‘And one fine day, she came to fetch Amédée, when he was five years old?’ asked Justin. ‘Out of remorse? But if so, why did she only take the one child?’
‘Because if it had been up to her, she’d never have come at all.’
‘OK,’ said Danglard. ‘Let’s suppose that Henri Masfauré learned somehow or other that his irresistible wife had given up a baby for adoption some time in the past. According to the dates, not long before they married. Perhaps she was afraid she’d lose Masfauré?’
‘Because he didn’t want children?’
‘I’m not sure that’s it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘More likely she preferred to get rid of the child, rather than see the Masfauré money get away. Same scenario ten years earlier, with some theatre producer. Remember, this woman was a man-eater, nothing stopped her.’
‘Of course,’ said Danglard. ‘Brothers, Amédée and Victor, names of the dukes of Savoy.’
‘Precisely,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You were spot on with that.’
‘But I can’t see it makes much sense,’ Danglard said, shaking his head. ‘Even when she gave them away to unknown people, she gave them names attached to the aristocracy.’
‘When Masfauré learned of the existence of this abandoned son,’ said Adamsberg, ‘either he felt a pang of conscience, or perhaps it was a matter of morality. At any rate, he obliged his wife to go and fetch the child. I think our philanthropist saw a different side of his wife that day. Perhaps he was horrified by her. Or perhaps he forgave her? But in any case, it was out of the question for Marie-Adélaïde that Masfauré should learn there was actually another child, abandoned fifteen years before. So she didn’t say a word about Victor, and when she went to the farm, she didn’t so much as look at him. Deliberately.’
‘Contemptible,’ said Danglard, ‘a contemptible hypocrite.’
‘So now we’re getting somewhere,’ said Adamsberg quietly. ‘Aged about fifteen or so, Victor was certainly old enough to have poked about in the Greniers’ paperwork and found out what his mother’s name was: Pouillard. And then he could have seen the same writing on the envelopes, but in her new name of Masfauré. So imagine what this teenager must have felt when the beautiful Marie-Adélaïde Masfauré turns up at the farm to pick up little Amédée, and doesn’t give him a glance. Then she snatches from his arms Amédée, the only person under the sun for whom he had any affection. The big car goes off, with the little boy sobbing his heart out, and leaves the other boy to his lot.’
‘Abandoned twice,’ said Justin.
‘Quite enough to turn Victor into a bundle of rage and hate,’ said Danglard.
‘To the point of killing her, commandant?’
Adamsberg tipped his chair back, thoughtfully.
‘Well, he may have wanted to,’ said Justin.
‘But why then, ten years later, did he turn up at the Masfauré house?’ asked Adamsberg. ‘Having appropriated their name for himself, in order to attract their attention? Why didn’t he just say he was Marie-Adélaïde’s son? Why didn’t he create a scandal? Why did he enter the family in disguise, and then become entrenched there? What could have been his purpose, if not to kill her, Justin?’
‘Because if he made himself known and she died, he’d be the first suspect,’ said Danglard. ‘Nobody was to know she was his mother.’
‘So he bided his time,’ said Justin, ‘until the right moment came along.’
‘In Iceland,’ said Adamsberg.
‘In Iceland,’ Danglard repeated. ‘So does Amédée know that Victor is his brother?’
‘I think,’ said Adamsberg hesitantly, ‘it must be because his parents expressly told him to keep quiet that Amédée told us nothing about his early childhood. He must of course remember Victor, his hero at the farm. But he didn’t recognise him when he turned up years later. After all, he was only five when they were split up, so he might well not recognise a grown man of twenty-five. But perhaps, unconsciously, he does know who he is. Nothing else can explain why he’s so devoted to him, just like a kid. As for Victor, I’m convinced he’s kept his secret, even from his dear Amédée. If he hated his mother, their mother, enough to want to kill her, he would have to keep it quiet.’
‘So the whole story about Iceland and the man with the knife . . .’ Justin began.
‘. . . would be false,’ Adamsberg finished the sentence.
‘But they didn’t have time to concoct a story before we questioned them,’ Danglard objected.
‘Yes they did. Remember the way Amédée went dashing off on horseback, completely pointlessly, and then Victor went after him? Victor ordered Amédée to do that, the minute Céleste mentioned the name of Alice Gauthier.’
‘But how could Victor have guessed that Gauthier was on the Iceland expedition? He didn’t know the people’s names.’
‘Because Amédée had already shown him the letter. He didn’t have any secrets from Victor.’
‘I see,’ said Danglard. ‘So they had time to get their story together when they were out in the woods.’
‘Remember the description of the killer that Victor gave us? An ordinary sort of face, no distinguishing features. He gave a vague impression of him, a sort of invisib
le man. But he insisted – and so did Amédée – on the man’s savagery. He was “a monster”, abominable, a real killer. As if Victor was leading us down a dark passage with a torch. Look over there, you cops, for the monster without a name or a face. And you can keep on looking till the end of time.’
‘What about the death of the legionnaire?’ asked Justin.
‘A cover-up for the murder of the mother?’
‘And what about Masfauré? Did Victor kill Masfauré too?’
‘No. Why would he kill his benefactor? Ten years later? No, no motive. Masfauré belongs with the Robespierre case. Two cases, two different murderers. Which we thought were one and the same. That’s why the seaweed seemed so tangled. Danglard, you can tell them all about this tomorrow. I’m not sure I want to come along.’
‘You’re not totally satisfied, are you, commissaire?’ said Danglard in a low voice. ‘About Victor.’
Adamsberg turned towards his deputy, with a faraway look in his eyes: it was one of those moments when he was off in some inaccessible zone, and his eyes had darkened so that the iris and the pupil were one.
‘Satisfied, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I’m not happy about it.’
XXIX
THERE WAS AN outburst of excitement in the council chamber when Danglard had finished his report. Appreciative whistles and the clicking of fingers signalled approval of Adamsberg’s ‘cloud-shovelling’ trip to the farm at Le Thost, from which he had brought back interesting data.
The commissaire’s reputation for being a ‘cloud-shoveller’ – conferred upon him by a police officer in Quebec during a previous case – had long divided his squad, which was split between ‘believers’ and ‘positivists’. The believers went along with the commissaire’s meandering thoughts – often unspoken or hard to read – out of loyalty or, as in the case of the devoted Estalère, blind faith. The positivists were those officers who were wedded to Cartesian logic for conducting investigations, and were exasperated or disorientated by the commissaire’s wayward approach. Retancourt was the pragmatic leader of this faction. Yet to everyone’s surprise, the statuesque lieutenant had not criticised Adamsberg’s expedition to the farm the previous day. ‘Just like a woman,’ Noël had commented, ‘soon as a kid’s involved, their brains turn to mush.’ To which Kernorkian had replied tartly that at least if Noël was regarding Retancourt as a woman, that must be some kind of progress.