by Fred Vargas
‘It’s a guillotine.’
‘Oh, right. Bit gruesome. Like in the Revolution then?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Is this some loony? A mad revolutionary or something? Or the opposite perhaps, if you see what I mean.’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. We’ve been investigating an association that studies the revolutionary period. We think the killer is operating inside that club, and that he’s choosing his victims. But there are seven hundred members, and they all join it anonymously.’
‘Ah, you’ve got a proper tangle there. How are you going to solve it?’
‘We’re waiting for the false move.’
‘So he’d have time to kill another forty or fifty of them, if he’s clever.’
‘I realise that, chief.’
‘Sorry, commissaire, didn’t mean to depress you.’
‘No harm done. He may well have made it tonight, the false move. The victim’s wife and children, where were they?’
‘Weekending with the grandmother in Clamecy.’
‘A fat man, with glasses, prepared to walk, and who is well informed.’
‘Good luck, commissaire. When a case stalls, nothing you can do, no good trying to bash your head against a brick wall. If it’s not coming right, it’s not coming right. A pleasure to talk to you. I’ll let you know if we find anything tomorrow.’
‘Chatty fellow but not stupid,’ said Adamsberg to himself, as he ended the call. ‘Good-hearted.’
‘I’ll warm up your omelette again.’
‘Don’t bother, I’ll eat it cold like they do in Spain.’
‘You’re going to Dijon?’
‘No, he’s sending me all the info.’
‘So why does he put a mask on, this killer? Sorry, but I could hear everything from your mobile. Why doesn’t he put a stocking over his head, like everyone else?’
‘That might be his false move, Zerk. But he couldn’t have guessed that his attempt to kill the man would fail. Second mistake, leaving too quickly after trying to hang the man. The chair would have made a noise, falling over, so perhaps he thought he’d better get out fast.’
‘You’re not going to tell Danglard?’
‘Froissy is on duty with Mercadet. They’ll tell him.’
‘You don’t want to do it, do you?’ said Zerk. ‘Why do you think he’s being like this?’
‘Not the first time he’s got mad at me.’
‘But it’s the first time he’s persuaded other people to join him. What’s got into him?’
‘What’s got into him is that we’re really stuck on this case. And when Danglard’s stuck, he gets bored. That’s his worst enemy, boredom. Because when Danglard’s bored, he gets desperate, and when he’s desperate, he goes to pieces and starts lashing out. But I also think meeting Robespierre didn’t do him any good. He’s got kind of hooked. He’ll calm down, Zerk, don’t worry.’
‘How come he gets bored?’
‘You know, one of the most valuable things I’ve passed on to you, Zerk, is that even when you’re not doing anything, you’re not bored.’
A text message came in from François Château on Adamsberg’s mobile.
Leblond sure of ID. Man he calls cyclist. From occasionals or what’s left of them. Infiltrator.
Name Vincent Bérieux, Adamsberg texted back. Lives Vallon-de-Courcelles. Ring a bell?
No, but V-de-C charming place on mountainside, been there.
‘Is he taking the piss, or what?’ Adamsberg asked, showing Zerk the message.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
No mountains Dijon area, Adamsberg texted back.
Locals call it mountain. We all make our own Mountain, commissaire. Goodnight.
‘Yes, he bloody is taking the piss.’
Adamsberg called Froissy.
‘Who was guarding François Château tonight?’
‘One second, commissaire. Lamarre and Justin. But he didn’t come home tonight. Whereas he usually gets in at the same time every evening. So Noël went to the hotel. Because sometimes Château stays late. They’ve got an audit coming up in a couple of weeks, so we thought, as their accountant, he was working overtime. But he wasn’t in his office either.’
‘And no one saw him enter or leave?’
‘No, commissaire. Château goes in through the gardens, he has direct access to his office. He could have been there without us seeing him.’
‘And he could have left as well, Froissy. And had time to come back from Dijon by now.’
Adamsberg composed another text message for François Château.
Château, where r u?
Home in bed. It’s late!
23.15. My men didn’t see you.
Poor watchdogs! Bit worrying. Worked late on audit + home 20 mins ago.
‘Oh shit!’ said Adamsberg, banging his phone down on the table.
‘But the gendarme said the attacker was fat,’ said Zerk.
‘He’s in that association, they all know how to disguise themselves. If he looked fat, it means he was thin. And Château’s thin.’
‘But he’s little. And they said he was one metre eighty, didn’t they?’
‘Or maybe less.’
‘And anyway, why would Château shoot himself in the foot like that, knocking off his own members?’
‘Same way Robespierre did, knocking off his.’
Adamsberg looked at the phone again before going upstairs. Oblat had worked fast: photos of the sign and the crime scene. He pulled up a chair and examined the images more closely. Zerk leaned over his shoulder.
‘So you are going to Dijon,’ he said simply.
XLIV
BRIGADIER-CHEF OBLAT drove him from the station to Vincent Bérieux’s garage in Vallon-de-Courcelles.
‘Nothing’s been touched?’ Adamsberg asked, as they went in.
‘No, nothing, commissaire, because of the sign. We were waiting for you.’
‘Why didn’t the killer centre the rope, in your opinion? Why is it hooked to one side?’
Oblat scratched his neck, in his too-tight uniform collar.
‘Petrol cans in the way, maybe?’
‘Maybe. And it’s a heavy chair, the one he used. Can you go outside and listen?’
Adamsberg put the chair upright and let it fall over again.
‘So, did you hear anything?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Would the neighbours have heard that, do you think?’
‘Too far away, I’d say, commissaire.’
‘So why did he run away so fast, and too soon?’
‘Panic is all I can think of. After committing four murders, you might not have nerves of steel.’
‘Can we take down the rope?’
‘It’s all yours,’ said Oblat, climbing up on the chair.
Adamsberg fingered the rope, as if he were testing fabric, letting his hand run along the coarse fibres and sliding the slipknot, then handed it back to the gendarme.
‘Can you take me to the hospital?’
‘Right away,’ said Oblat. ‘You’ll see. He’s not saying much.’
‘Nerves,’ said Adamsberg.
‘Shock, most of all. Looks like he wants to wipe out the memory, I’ve seen it happen before.’
Adamsberg went into the Dijon main hospital at one thirty, when the patients had just finished lunch. A smell of cabbage and overcooked veal hung in the air. Vincent Bérieux was not expecting him, but looking vaguely at the television from his bed: he was on a drip, with various tubes attached to him. The commissaire introduced himself, and asked how he was feeling. In pain. Here, the throat. Hungry. Tired. In shock.
‘I won’t stay long,’ Adamsberg said. ‘Your case is connected to those of four other victims.’
By blinking, the man indicated: ‘Why? How’s that?’
‘Because of this,’ said Adamsberg, showing him a drawing of the sign. ‘It was painted on a petrol can in your garage. And we found it with the other vi
ctims too. Does it mean anything to you?’
Bérieux shook his head several times: firm denial.
Adamsberg hadn’t realised how difficult it can be to read the expression on a man who is lying open-mouthed under a breathing mask, his features twisted in pain. He couldn’t tell whether Bérieux was telling the truth or not.
‘The white wig, can you tell me anything about that?’
The patient motioned for a pad and pen.
‘Old-fashioned. Like in olden days,’ he wrote.
‘And you’ve no idea who your attacker was?’
‘Not at all. Quiet life, me.’
‘Not as quiet as all that, Monsieur Bérieux. Because what makes you leave Vallon-de-Courcelles now and then, where you do have a quiet life with your family, to go to meetings of the Association for the Study of the Writings of Maximilien Robespierre?’
Bérieux frowned, obviously surprised and disturbed.
‘We know all about it,’ said Adamsberg. ‘The other victims used to attend as well.’
The man picked up the pen again.
‘Don’t tell my wife, she doesn’t know. She wouldn’t like it.’
‘I won’t tell. But why, Monsieur Bérieux?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not enough for me. You’re a great reader of history books?’
‘No.’
‘Well then?’
‘Always keen on stuff about Robespierre. Wanted to take a look, dammit. Don’t tell my wife,’ he wrote again, underlining the last sentence this time.
‘Well? After you’d taken a look?’
‘I was hooked, dammit. Went back. Like people go to casinos.’
‘How often?’
‘Twice a year?’
‘Since when?’
‘6 or 7 years.’
‘Henri Masfauré, Alice Gauthier, Jean Breuguel, Angelino Gonzalez, recognise any of those names?’
A shake of the head: no.
Adamsberg pulled out photographs of the four victims.
‘What about when you see their picture?’
Yes, Berieux nodded, after looking hard at the photos.
‘Ever speak to them?’
‘Nothing to say. You don’t go there to chat. You just attend.’
‘I’ve been told you were acquainted. Perhaps not well, but a bit. That you exchanged a few words and gestures.’
‘Just being polite, like with other people.’
Adamsberg looked at the man’s eyelids, which were drooping, indicating that he was tired. He wouldn’t say any more. He did know the other people. But in what connection? At whose request? And what were they after, to have carried on meeting for so many years?’
The patient rang for the nurse. Tired, shaky, he indicated.
‘You’re exhausting him,’ the nurse said. ‘His cardiac rhythm has accelerated. Can you please leave it for now and come back another time if you need to? He’s had a bad shock, you have to understand.’
His cardiac rhythm has accelerated, Adamsberg said to himself, as he ate a meal on the square outside the Cathedral of Saint-Bénigne, near Dijon central station. Adamsberg thought again about François Château’s two text messages the night before. The president hadn’t sounded shocked, or anxious, on learning that another of his members, the fifth, had been attacked. His tone had been ironic, detached. Last night, Château was being Robespierre, indifferent to other people’s fate.
He called Justin.
‘What the hell were you up to with Lamarre last night?’ he asked sharply. ‘Château says he got home at 10.55, but you didn’t see him.’
‘Perhaps he came back via the roof,’ said Justin.
‘No, because the way through the car park is being covered. Like I say, what the hell were you doing?’
‘We didn’t budge from the spot, commissaire.’
‘That doesn’t mean you didn’t do anything. Lieutenant, I’m not threatening you with the guillotine, but think hard, it’s important.’
‘All right, there was a moment or two when we were having a bet, playing heads or tails. And the coin rolled away a bit. Fetching it and looking at it, could have taken about a minute. Well, it was a two-euro coin.’
‘Plenty of time, then, for Château to have entered the building.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘While you were playing a game.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What was the bet?’
‘Whether he’d come home.’
‘And what did the coin say?’
‘That he would.’
From the train, Adamsberg sent a text message to Danglard: Rope pulled over to side, coarse texture, white hairs from wig on floor, victim not talking. He sent the same message to Veyrenc and Retancourt.
How is he? Veyrenc texted back.
Like a cat crouching. V. muscular cat.
Are u coming into squad?
No. How is it?
Grumbles, murmurs, whispers. Your place 6pm?
OK.
Veyrenc put his phone down. It was so unlike Adamsberg not to come into his office during an investigation that he felt the need to go and visit him. Not that he thought the bad mood in the squad would deeply affect the commissaire. He was not sensitive to this kind of nervous tension, which slid across the surface of his indolent nature. But Danglard’s opposition was something else again, and one way or another, the commissaire would be affected by that.
Veyrenc and Adamsberg spent an hour and a half going over all the elements of the case in vain, but the ends led inconclusively in countless directions. For example, Leblond had called the office desk earlier to ask for an update. He sounded a bit tense, but not overly so. Lebrun was another matter. He had called at the station in person, wearing a beard and wig, much alarmed by the latest attempted murder.
‘He was sweating,’ said Veyrenc. ‘Made his make-up run.’
‘I suppose he wanted more protection?’
‘Yes, he asked us to watch all the access points of the hospital at Garches. But that’s impossible.’
‘And anyway, what would we be watching out for? A man we know nothing about, we don’t know what he looks like, easy to lose in the crowd of staff and visitors to a hospital. We just know he wears glasses and walks on his own two feet and that’s all. So what did Danglard decide?’
‘He suggested that Lebrun take some leave, and stay home with the friend he’s lodging with, or just leave town. But he said he couldn’t do that, because of his work and the association. So Danglard agreed to assign an extra man, to calm him down. He also asked for a gun licence so he could defend himself if he’s attacked.’
‘People are getting very jumpy. All over the place.’
‘You don’t seem too disturbed by that.’
‘No, I’m not, on the contrary I’m pleased. When people get jumpy, it means there’s some movement. Do you understand, Louis? We’ve been needing something to budge. That wig, those white hairs in the garage, that’s something moving. Because they’re over the top. As my son said, why didn’t the attacker just put a stocking over his head like anyone else? The gendarme from Dijon called me again. The white hairs were long and curly at the end. Therefore they came from a wig – of a kind you can well imagine. It doesn’t take us far, but the killer was taking a risk. Why was he wearing it?’
‘To get into character?’
‘You’re thinking of Château. But I don’t think he needs to dress up to get into character or vice versa. For the historical character to enter him and possess him, he knows what to do. He’s got the key. Much more powerful than some miserable wig any fool could put on.’
Veyrenc served himself a second glass of port.
‘Do you remember the death of Robespierre?’ Adamsberg said, looking more animated. ‘The story Danglard told us in the car? How he was carried on a stretcher, shot in the jaw and wounded, and two surgeons came to see him?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And one of the doct
ors put his hand into Robespierre’s mouth. He pulled out a mass of bloody tissue and two of his teeth. OK, say you’re that surgeon. Just think. You’ve got Robespierre lying in front of you. Until today, he was the madly worshipped master of the country, the idol of the Revolution, the great man. What would you do with the teeth, Veyrenc?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The teeth you’re holding in your hand? Teeth belonging to the great Robespierre? You don’t give a damn, perhaps? You just chuck them on the floor, like a bit of rubbish? As if you were gutting a duck? Think.’
‘I see what you’re getting at,’ said Veyrenc after a moment. ‘No, I wouldn’t throw them away. I couldn’t do that.’
‘Don’t forget, you’re not a fanatical Robespierrist yourself, you’re just a doctor. So?’
‘Even so. I still wouldn’t throw them away.’
‘You’d keep them,’ said Adamsberg, slapping the table with his hand. ‘Of course you would keep them! If only not to commit the sacrilege of throwing them to the dogs. But next, citizen surgeon, when Robespierre is dead, and his body has been covered with quicklime so that he can never be seen again, what do you do with them then? His teeth?’
Veyrenc thought quickly, sipping his port, and shifting his injured leg.
‘OK, I’m just a surgeon, I’m not a Robespierrist,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘So, a few months later maybe, I’d give them to someone. Someone for whom they might have great importance, and who wouldn’t get rid of them.’
‘Who? Help me, because I’ve no idea who that might be.’
Veyrenc thought again, at greater length, counted on his fingers, shook his head, seemed to be weighing up the various candidates, keeping some, rejecting others.
‘The woman who loved him fondly all her life. Actually there were two of them. Madame Duplay, his landlady, and one of the daughters, Éléonore. But Madame Duplay hanged herself in prison after Robespierre’s death. That leaves Éléonore. Yes, I’d take the teeth to Éléonore Duplay. He was her god.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She escaped by some miracle from the repression that followed, and she survived another forty years. But without him, her life had no meaning. She lived on for years as a recluse, with another sister, I think. They never stopped mourning.’
‘So she didn’t have any children?’