by Fred Vargas
‘How many arms does that Indian goddess have?’ he asked his juniors, still holding the scrap of dung.
The four lieutenants shook their heads.
‘Always the same,’ said Adamsberg. ‘When Danglard’s not here nobody knows the answer to anything.’
He closed up the sachet again, shut the zip and gave it to Voisenet.
‘We’ll have to call him to get an answer. Now, what it is, I think this horse, the one that produced this shit, familiarly known as Émile’s horse shit, was out in a field and has eaten nothing but grass. And I think the other one, the origin of the pellets in the villa, which we’ll call “the killer’s horse shit”, was fed in a stable on granules.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘I spent my childhood collecting horse manure for fertiliser, and cowpats for burning in the fireplace. I still do that, and I can assure you, Voisenet, that depending on what they’ve been fed, you get a different kind of horse manure.’
‘OK,’ agreed Voisenet.
‘When will we get the lab results?’ asked Adamsberg, as he punched in Danglard’s number. ‘Give them a kick up the pants: we need this stuff urgently – the shit, the Kleenex, fingerprints, body parts, all that.’
He walked away as Danglard came on the line.
‘Nearly five o’clock, Danglard. We need you for this Garches mess. It’s all cleared up, we’re on our way back, we’re going to do the first summary. Oh, one second, how many arms has that Indian goddess got? The one that sits inside a ball? Shiva?’
‘Shiva’s not a goddess at all, commissaire. He’s a god.’
‘A god! It’s a man,’ added the commissaire for his lieutenants’ benefit. ‘So Shiva’s a man, and how many arms does he have?’ he asked Danglard.
‘Depends on the different images, because Shiva’s powers are immense and contradictory, covering practically the whole spectrum, from destruction to blessing. Sometimes two, sometimes four, but it can go up to ten. Depends what he’s embodying at the time.’
‘And roughly speaking, Danglard, what does he embody?’
‘Well, to cut a long story short, “at the vacuum in the centre of Nirvana-Shakti is the supreme Shiva whose nature is emptiness”.’
Adamsberg had turned up the speaker, and looked at his colleagues who seemed as lost as he was and were making signs to forget it. Finding out that Shiva was a male deity was quite enough for one day.
‘Has this got anything to do with Garches?’ asked Danglard. ‘Not enough arms?’
‘Émile Feuillant’s inherited Vaudel’s estate, except the legal share that goes to Pierre junior. Mordent broke the rules and told him he was about to be arrested. So Émile, aka Basher, floored him and made a break for it.’
‘And Retancourt couldn’t catch him?’
‘She didn’t manage it. She can’t have had all her arms working, and he’d broken one of her ribs when he took off. We’re expecting you, commandant. Mordent’s out of it more or less.’
‘I dare say. But my train doesn’t leave until nine twelve in the evening. I don’t think I can change my ticket.’
‘What train, Danglard?’
‘The train that goes through the goddam tunnel, commissaire. Don’t imagine I’m doing this for my own amusement. But I saw what I came to see. And if he didn’t cut off my uncle’s feet, it came pretty close.’
‘Danglard, where are you?’ asked Adamsberg slowly, sitting back down at the table and turning off the speaker.
‘Where the heck do you think I am? I’m in London, and they’re pretty sure now, the shoes are almost all French, some good quality, some bad. Different social classes. Believe me, we’re going to get the whole lot on our plate, and Radstock is already rubbing his hands.’
‘But what the devil took you back to London?’ Adamsberg almost shouted. ‘Why the hell did you have to go and get mixed up with the damned shoes again? Leave them in Higg-Gate, leave them to Stock!’
‘Radstock you mean. Commissaire, I told you I was going and you agreed, it was necessary.’
‘Don’t mess me about, Danglard, it was that woman Abstract, and you swam the Channel to see her.’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen her again!’
‘I didn’t say that, but that’s got nothing to do with the shoes.’
‘I certainly hope not, Danglard.’
‘If you thought that someone had cut off your uncle’s feet, you’d want to go and take a look too.’
Adamsberg looked up at the sky which was clouding over, watched as a duck flew across the horizon, and turned back to the phone more calmly.
‘What uncle? I didn’t know there was an uncle involved.’
‘I’m not talking about a living uncle, I’m not talking about someone walking around with no feet. My uncle died about twenty years ago. My aunt’s second husband, and I was very fond of him.’
‘Without wanting to upset you, commandant, nobody would be capable of recognising their uncle’s dead feet.’
‘Not his feet, no, the shoes. As our friend Lord Clyde-Fox rightly said.’
‘Clyde-Fox?’
‘That eccentric English lord we met.’
‘Ah. Yes,’ said Adamsberg with a sigh.
‘I saw him again yesterday, incidentally. He was down in the dumps because he’s mislaid his new Cuban pal. We had a few drinks, he’s a specialist on Indian history. And as he quite rightly said, what can you put into shoes? Feet of course. Usually your own. And if the shoes belonged to my uncle, there was every chance the feet did too.’
‘A bit like the horse shit and the horse,’ Adamsberg commented. Fatigue was starting to give him a backache.
‘Like the container and the contents. But I’m not sure whether it’s actually my uncle or not. It could be a cousin, or someone from the same village. They’re all cousins of some kind over there.’
‘OK,’ said Adamsberg, sliding along to the end of the table. ‘Even if some nutter has made a collection of French feet and his path unfortunately crossed that of your uncle, or his cousin, what the hell has that got to do with us?’
‘You said yourself that there was no rule against taking an interest,’ said Danglard, sounding disgruntled. ‘You were the one who wouldn’t let the Highgate feet drop.’
‘While we were there, yes, maybe. But now we’re in Garches and I’m not interested. And that was a big mistake to go back, Danglard. Because if these feet are French, Scotland Yard will want us to collaborate. It could have been sent to a different squad, but now, thanks to you, our squad is the one with its head above the parapet. And I need you here, for this bloodbath in Garches, which is a damn sight more scary than some necrophiliac who went round cutting off feet right and left twenty years ago.’
‘Not “right and left”. I think they were selected.’
‘Did Stock tell you that?’
‘No, that’s my idea. Because when my uncle died, he was in Serbia, and so were his feet.’
‘And you’re wondering why the amputator went all the way to Serbia to collect feet, when there are sixty million of them in France.’
‘A hundred and twenty million. Sixty million people, a hundred and twenty million feet. You’re making the same mistake as Estalère in reverse.’
‘But what was your uncle doing in Serbia anyway?’
‘He was a Serb himself, commissaire. His name was Slavko Moldovan.’
Justin arrived, out of breath.
‘There’s this guy outside demanding an explanation. We rolled out the crime scene tapes, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants to come in.’
XI
LIEUTENANTS NOËL AND VOISENET WERE STANDING FACING each other and, with their outstretched arms blocking the door, forming a barrier in front of the man, who did not look particularly intimidating.
‘How do I know you’re policemen?’ he kept repeating. ‘How do I know you’re not burglars – especially you,’ he said, pointing at Noël, whose head was
close-shaved. ‘I’ve got an appointment, five thirty, and I’m always on time.’
‘Yeah, well, your appointment can’t see you!’ said Noël with an aggressive sneer.
‘Show me your police badges. You haven’t shown me any proof.’
‘We’ve already explained,’ Voisenet said. ‘Our badges are in our jackets and our jackets are inside, but we have to keep this door shut, so that you can’t go in there. The whole site is forbidden to the public.’
‘But of course I’m going inside!’
‘Can’t be done.’
As Adamsberg approached from inside the house, he judged that the man was either singularly obtuse or else rather brave, given his average height and corpulent figure. If he really did think they were burglars, he’d have done better to stop arguing and get away fast. But he looked like someone from the professional classes, self-confident and self-possessed, with the pompous air of a man doing his duty or at any rate his job, whatever the circumstances, at least if it didn’t harm his fee. Was he an insurance agent, an art dealer, a lawyer, a banker? His manner of approaching these two policemen with their shirt-sleeved arms indicated a clear class reflex. He wasn’t somebody who could be sent packing, and certainly not by the likes of Noël and Voisenet. Negotiating with them would be beneath him, and perhaps it was that social conviction, that basic caste scorn, which made him brave beyond foolishness. He had nothing to fear from his social inferiors. Apart from his present attitude, his shrewd and old-fashioned face might be quite attractive in repose. Adamsberg laid a hand on the plebeian arms and nodded to the newcomer.
‘If this really is something to do with the police, I’m not leaving till I see your superior officer,’ the man was saying.
‘I am their superior officer, Commissaire Adamsberg.’
Astonishment, disappointment. Adamsberg had seen these all too often on people’s faces. But almost immediately afterwards there would be submission to the superior rank, in however odd a form it had appeared.
‘Enchanté, commissaire,’ said the man, holding out his hand. ‘Paul de Josselin. I’m Monsieur Vaudel’s doctor.’
Too late, thought Adamsberg, as they shook hands.
‘I’m sorry, doctor, but you can’t see Monsieur Vaudel.’
‘So I gather. But as his doctor, I surely have the right and indeed the duty to be informed about it. Is he ill, in hospital? Dead?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘And he died at home? Is that why there’s all this police presence?’
‘Correct, doctor.’
‘But when? How? I examined him a couple of weeks ago, and he was in good health.’
‘The police are obliged to keep details confidential. Normal procedure in a murder case.’
The doctor frowned, muttering ‘murder!’ to himself. Adamsberg realised that they were talking to each other across the outstretched arms, like neighbours talking across a fence. The two lieutenants had maintained their stiff attitude without anyone thinking to change it. Adamsberg tapped on Voisenet’s shoulder and lifted the barrier.
‘Let’s go round into the garden,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t contaminate the floor.’
‘I understand, I quite understand. So you can’t tell me anything about it?’
‘I can tell you as much as the neighbours have been told. It was during the night from Saturday to Sunday, and we discovered the body yesterday morning. The alarm was raised by the gardener when he got home at about five o’clock.’
‘Why did he raise the alarm? Did he hear cries?’
‘According to the gardener, Vaudel normally left his lights on all night. But when he arrived back, there were no lights showing – he said his employer had a pathological fear of the dark.’
‘I know, it goes back to his childhood.’
‘Were you his doctor or his psychiatrist?’
‘I was his GP, but also his somatopathic osteopath.’
‘I see,’ said Adamsberg, who didn’t. ‘Did he tell you much about himself?’
‘No, absolutely not, he hated the idea of psychiatry. But what I could feel in his bones told me a lot. I was actually very attached to him, medically speaking. Vaudel was an exceptional case.’
The doctor stopped speaking abruptly.
‘Yes, I see,’ said Adamsberg. ‘You won’t tell me any more if I don’t tell you any more. Our professional secrecy makes it stalemate.’
‘Precisely.’
‘You do realise I will have to ask you what you were doing between eleven on Saturday night and five on Sunday morning.’
‘No offence taken, I’m quite willing to tell you. Given that most people are asleep at that time, and since I don’t have a wife or children, what can I say? At night I’m in bed, unless I get called out to an emergency. You must know that.’
The doctor thought for a moment, pulled out his diary from his inside pocket and carefully rearranged his jacket.
‘Ah, Francisco,’ he said, ‘our concierge. He’s paraplegic, I don’t charge him for treatment – he called me at one in the morning. He’d managed to fall between his wheelchair and the bed and got his tibia at an angle. I sorted his leg out and put him to bed. Two hours later he called me again, the knee was swollen. I was rather sharp with him, and said you’ll just have to put up with it, and I called to see him again in the morning.’
‘Thank you, doctor. You know Vaudel’s handyman, Émile?’
‘Émile? The noughts and crosses specialist? Fascinating case. I took him on as a patient too. He was very resistant, but Vaudel took an interest in him and told him to come and see me. In three years I’d gradually brought his violence level down.’
‘Yes, he did mention that, but he put it down to getting older.’
‘Not at all,’ said the doctor with amusement, and Adamsberg recognised the shrewd and forthcoming face he had detected under the pompous exterior. ‘Age usually increases neuroses. But as I was treating Émile, I was gradually reaching zones that were stiff, and making them more supple, although he kept shutting doors behind me. But I’ll get there in the end. His mother beat him as a child, you know, but he’ll never admit it. He idolises her.’
‘So how do you know that?’
‘This way,’ said the doctor, putting his index finger just up and to the right of the back of Adamsberg’s neck, touching the base of his skull.
He felt something like a sting, as if the doctor’s finger had a spike on it.
‘Ah, another interesting case,’ Josselin noted under his breath, ‘if you’ll allow the observation.’
‘Émile?’
‘No, you.’
‘I wasn’t beaten in my childhood, doctor.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
Adamsberg stepped to the side, removing his head from the doctor’s curiosity.
‘Our Monsieur Vaudel – I’m not asking you to infringe professional secrecy – but did he have any enemies?’
‘Yes, plenty. And that was the root of the problem. He had enemies who were threatening and even deadly.’
Adamsberg stopped on the gravel path.
‘I can’t give you any names,’ the doctor said quickly, ‘and it would be useless anyway. It would fall outside your investigation.’
Adamsberg’s mobile vibrated, and he excused himself to take the call.
‘Lucio,’ he said crossly, ‘you know I’m at work.’
‘I never call you, hombre, this is the first time. But one of the kittens won’t feed, she’s wasting away. I thought perhaps you could come and stroke her head.’
‘Too bad, Lucio, I can’t do anything about it. If she won’t feed, that’s life, it’s a law of nature.’
‘But you could calm her down, get her to sleep.’
‘That still wouldn’t make her suckle, Lucio.’
‘You’re a real bastard and a son of a bitch.’
‘And above all, Lucio,’ said Adamsberg, raising his voice, ‘I’m not a magician. And I’ve had a bloody awful day.’
Adamsberg bit his lip, and the doctor came closer.
‘Is it a baby who won’t feed?’ he asked politely.
‘No, a five-day-old kitten,’ said Adamsberg curtly.
‘If whoever you’re talking to would like, I could try something. It’s probably the MRP of the lower jaw that’s blocked. Not necessarily a law of nature but possibly a postnatal and post-traumatic dislocation. Was it a difficult birth?’
‘Lucio,’ said Adamsberg sharply into the phone, ‘is it one of the two we had to deliver?’
‘Yes, the white one with a grey tip to the tail. The only girl.’
‘Yes, doctor,’ Adamsberg confirmed. ‘Lucio had to press and I had to pull her out by the jaw. Perhaps I pulled too hard. It’s a female kitten.’
‘Where does your friend live? If he’s willing of course,’ said the other, raising his hands as if a life in the balance suddenly made him humble.
‘Paris, 13th arrondissement.’
‘I’m not far, I’m in the 7th. If you agree, we could go there together and I could treat the kitten. If there’s anything to be done, that is. Meanwhile, what your friend should do is sprinkle water all over her body, but without making her soaking wet.’
‘We’re on our way,’ said Adamsberg, feeling as if he was sending a signal for an urgent police operation. ‘Sprinkle her with water, but not too much.’
Feeling a little dazed, as if he had now left the bridge, and was being besieged by bashers, migratory flows, doctors and one-armed Spaniards, Adamsberg told his colleagues to clear things up and drove back with the doctor.
As they entered the ring road, he said, ‘This is ridiculous. We’re going to give medical assistance to a kitten, while all hell has broken loose on Vaudel.’
‘A nasty crime, was it? He was very rich, you know.’
‘Yes, I guess it will all go to the son,’ said Adamsberg, feeling his voice ring false. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Only through his father’s mind. Desire, refusal, desire, refusal, both of them, same thing.’