by Fred Vargas
Drémard ran through the many contradictory opinions he had heard about Adamsberg, genius or disaster area, and fearing he’d get a rocket one way or the other, opted for prudence.
‘You’ve got a pen, sir?’
A couple of minutes later, Adamsberg had the witty Commissaire Nolet on the line. He was entertaining friends and the sound of background music and chatter muffled his voice somewhat.
‘Terribly sorry to disturb you, Nolet.’
‘On the contrary, Adamsberg,’ said Nolet heartily. ‘Are you in our area? Come and join us.’
‘It’s about your Chevron case.’
‘Fine, go ahead.’
Nolet must have asked someone to turn the volume down. Now Adamsberg could hear him better.
‘Chevron was witness to a marriage at Auxerre, twenty-nine years ago. And the ex-wife doesn’t want anyone to know it ever took place.’
‘Any evidence?’
‘The page in the register has been torn out.’
‘And she’d go to the lengths of killing the witness?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘OK, I’m interested, Adamsberg.’
‘We questioned the wife’s mother in Geneva. She denies her daughter was ever married. She’s terrified and under police protection.’
‘So we should find and protect the second witness?’
‘Exactly, but the problem is we haven’t managed to identify one yet. A press ad didn’t produce anything. But we need you to ask around among Françoise Chevron’s friends and family. You’re probably looking for a man, because as a rule people choose a witness from each sex.’
‘And what’s the name of the ex-wife, Adamsberg?’
‘Emma Carnot.’
Adamsberg heard Nolet move out of the room, closing the door behind him.
‘Right, Adamsberg. I’m alone now. You’re telling me this is Emma Carnot. The Emma Carnot.’
‘Herself.’
‘And you’re asking me to attack the great snake.’
‘What snake?’
‘Up there, dammit. The great snake that slides through the back rooms. Are you calling me on an ordinary mobile?’
‘No, of course not, Nolet, don’t worry. My ordinary phone’s been tapped so much it looks like a woodpecker’s been at it.’
‘Good. Start again. You’re asking me to take on someone at the very top of the system. Someone very close to the princeps in the state. And you know that every scale of the snake is glued to the next, so the armour is completely impenetrable. And you know the only thing I’d be able to do afterwards? Even if they let me?’
‘I’ll be with you.’
‘Oh, thanks very much, big help,’ Nolet shot back. ‘And where will we both be then?’
‘I don’t know. In Kisilova. Or somewhere else in the mists of the beyond.’
‘Christ, Adamsberg, I’ve always cooperated with you in the past. But this time, count me out. I can tell you don’t have any kids.’
‘Well, I do in fact. Two.’
‘Oh, that’s new,’ said Nolet.
‘Yes. So?’
‘So nothing. I’m not St George.’
‘Who?’
‘Guy who killed the dragon.’
‘Oh yes, I know who you mean,’ Adamsberg remembered.
‘Good. So you get my drift. I’m not going chasing after the damned snake that’s prowling about up there.’
‘OK, Nolet. Just transfer the Chevron case to me. The thing is, I don’t want some guy to die because he was witness to a marriage twenty-nine years ago and one of the parties to said marriage turned out to be a piece of shit. The fact that this piece of shit has become a link in the snake’s chain mail is neither here nor there.’
‘A fang would be more accurate. A poisoned fang.’
‘Whatever. Just drop the snake, pass me the file and forget the whole thing.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Nolet, breathing out heavily. ‘I’m on the way to the office.’
‘When will you send it me?’
‘I’m not sending it, damn you. I’m taking it up again.’
‘Really? Or are you just going to sit on it?’
‘Adamsberg, at least do me the credit of believing me, or the whole lot goes to the bottom of the Loire. I’m that close.’
‘Plog,’ said Adamsberg to himself as he hung up.
Nolet was on Emma Carnot’s track, and Nolet was a good cop. As long as he didn’t take fright at the snake along the way. Adamsberg had no idea what ‘princeps’ meant but he got the point. People used a lot of difficult words, and he wondered how they managed to command them so well. At least he could remember the kruchema which was something not everyone could do.
He took a shower, put his gun and two mobiles under his pillow, and lay down, still damp, under his red eiderdown, remembering the faded blue one in the kruchema. He heard the neighbour’s door open and Lucio walking in the garden. So it must be between half past midnight and two in the morning. Unless, that is, Lucio wasn’t going out to take a leak, but to find a new cache for his beer. Which his daughter Maria would pretend to discover after a month or two, marking another stage in their unending game.
Think of Lucio, Charm, the blue eiderdown. Anything, except Zerk’s face, his threatening expression, his tough-guy talk, and his relentless and unthinking rage.
‘A nice enough boy, with the voice of an angel,’ or so Veyrenc said, but that wasn’t Adamsberg’s view. And yet there were some elements in the whole affair that were in Zerk’s favour: the dirty tissue, the very old feet in Highgate, the convenient boots under the stairs. But the dog hairs were a formidable obstacle. And Zerk would make a perfect killer, wax in the hands of some older man, some ‘Paole’. They would split the job, one going to Highgate, the other to Vaudel’s place. A sick couple, combining the psychopathic and powerful Arnold Paole and a disturbed and fatherless young man. Son of nobody, son of nobody in particular, son of Adamsberg. But son or not, Adamsberg did not feel the slightest bit inclined to lift a finger for Zerk.
XLV
THE SHRILL SOUND OF A CRICKET WAS HEARD IN THE ROOM. Adamsberg identified it as coming from his ordinary mobile – the one tapped by woodpeckers – and picked it up, checking his two watches. Somewhere between 2.45 and 4.15 a.m. Rubbing the sleep out his eyes, he looked at the phone which said he had two new messages. They were both from the same number, three minutes apart. The first one said por, the second qos. Adamsberg immediately called Froissy. Froissy never minded being woken at night. Adamsberg imagined she took the chance to have a little snack.
‘I’ve got two messages I can’t understand,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think they mean anything good. How long do you need to identify a caller from a mobile?’
‘For an unknown number? About a quarter of an hour. Ten minutes with luck, but you have to add half an hour for me to get to the office, because I don’t have my equipment at home. What’s the number?’
Adamsberg read out the number, feeling on edge, sensing there must be some urgency. Forty minutes was a long time.
‘Oh, I can tell you that one right away,’ said Froissy. ‘Because I just identified it this afternoon. It’s Armel Louvois.’
‘Holy shit.’
‘I was just starting to list all his calls. He doesn’t make many. There had been none for the last nine days because he must have switched the phone off when he disappeared. So why has he switched it back on? Why is he coming out of hiding? He’s sent you a message, you say?’
‘He sent me two incomprehensible texts.’
‘Texti,’ said Froissy automatically, adopting Danglard’s pedantic term for them.
‘Can you pinpoint where he is for me?’
‘If he hasn’t switched it off again.’
‘Can you do that from home?’
‘I can try, but it won’t be that easy.’
‘Please try as fast as you can.’
She had hung up. It was pointless to tell Froissy to hurry, she always did things as fast as a fly.
He pulled on his clothes, and picked up the holster and both mobiles. He realised as he was going downstairs that his T-shirt was on back to front. The label was scratching his neck. He’d fix it later. Froissy called back as he was pulling on a jacket.
‘He’s at the villa in Garches,’ she announced. ‘Another phone is transmitting from the same address. I’m trying to identify it.’
‘Keep trying.’
‘I’ll have to go to the office. Take me about an hour.’
Adamsberg alerted two teams and calculated the time. It would take thirty minutes at least before the first team could meet up at headquarters, then there was the distance out to Garches. If he went at once, he could be there in about twenty minutes. He hesitated, and all his instincts told him to wait. A trap. What the fuck was Zerk doing in the old man’s house? With another mobile? Or was he with Paole? And if so what was Zerk calling him for? A trap. Certain death. Adamsberg got into the car and leaned his arms on the steering wheel. They didn’t get him in the vault, they were having another go here, it was pretty obvious. To stay put was by far the wisest option. He read the messages again: por; qos. He switched on the ignition, then stopped. Yes, it was clear as daylight, it was obviously and logically a trap. His fingers gripping the key, he tried to think why, nevertheless, some other instinct was telling him he should get to Garches right away, an instinct with no reason to it, which had taken over his mind. He switched on the headlights and drove off.
Halfway there, after the Saint-Cloud tunnel, he pulled over on to the hard shoulder. Por, qos. He had just thought – if you could call it thinking – of Froissy’s ridiculous use of the term ‘texti’. That got him back to por again. And now he was almost sure that he had often seen por on his mobile. When he sent a text message and typed SMS, he often ended up with something like these words. Yes. When he tried doing SMS he ended up first with pop then por pos qos sos and finally sms.
SMS. SOS.
An SOS that Zerk wasn’t managing to tap in properly. He’d tried again, perhaps handling a phone without being able to see it, and got it wrong again. Adamsberg put his siren and lights on the roof and set off once more. If Zerk was setting a trap, he would surely have sent a comprehensible message. If he had failed to text SOS, it meant he couldn’t see the screen. Perhaps he was in the dark. Or perhaps the phone was in his pocket and he was typing while trying not to be seen. Not a trap, a call for help. Zerk was with Paole, and it was half an hour since he had sent the messages.
‘Danglard?’ Adamsberg said, calling while driving. ‘I’ve got an SOS from Zerk, done blind. The murderer must have taken him back to the crime scene where he’s going to suicide him. Finish things off.’
‘Father Germain.’
‘No, it can’t be him, Danglard. How would he have known the cat was a female? But that’s what he said. Don’t surround the house, and don’t try to get in via the door. He’ll certainly shoot him at once if he sees you. Just head for Garches, and wait for me to call you again.’
Still holding the wheel with one hand, he called Professor Lavoisier.
‘Lavoisier, I need a number for Émile at the hospital, it’s urgent.’
‘Is that Adamsberg?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do I know it’s you?’ asked Lavoisier who was entering fully into the role of conspirator.
‘Good God, doctor, I haven’t got time for this.’
‘Nothing doing,’ said Lavoisier.
Adamsberg sensed that this hold-up was serious. Lavoisier was taking his mission to heart. Adamsberg had ordered ‘no contacts whatsoever’, and he was being punctilious about following instructions.
‘Look, shall I tell you what Retancourt said when she came out of the coma in that awful case we had? Can you still remember it?’
‘Yes, of course. Go ahead.’
‘To see the last Roman, as he draws his last breath,
Myself to die happy, as the cause of this death.’
‘OK, mon vieux, I’ll transfer the call for you because the hospital will refuse you access to Émile unless I put you through.’
‘Yes, but hurry, doctor.’
A few crackles then Émile came on the line.
‘Is it about Cupid?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Cupid’s fine, Émile, but now tell me how to get inside Vaudel’s house another way, not the front door.’
‘Back door.’
‘No, I mean another way, not so obvious.’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘Yes there is, Émile. And you used it. When you came in at night to pinch a bit of cash.’
‘What, me, guv?’
‘Don’t give me that – we had your prints on the drawer of the desk. I don’t care about that now. Just listen carefully. Whoever massacred your boss is about to kill someone else tonight in that house, and I need to get in there without him seeing me.’
‘Can’t help you.’
The car was just getting to Garches. Adamsberg switched off the siren.
‘Émile,’ said Adamsberg, through his teeth, ‘if you don’t tell me now, Cupid gets it.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘I bloody would, Émile, and stamp on him with my boot.’
‘Fucking bastard cop.’
‘Spot on. Now just fucking tell me, how do I get in?’
‘Next door, Madame Bourlant.’
‘Yes?’
‘You go through the cellar. Two houses used to belong to this bloke, wife in one, fancy woman in the other. So he goes through the cellar. Door got blocked when they were sold, but the old lady opened it again. She shouldn’t ought to have, but Vaudel, he didn’t know, he never went down the cellar. But I promised I’d never tell on her, so she let me use it. We had this arrangement, see?’
Adamsberg parked the car fifty metres from the house and closed the door quietly.
‘Why did she unblock it?’
‘Scared of fires. Emergency exit. Stupid, because her lifeline’s perfect.’
‘She live alone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t you dare mess with my dog now.’
Adamsberg contacted the two teams. One was on the way, the other just setting out. No light showed in the Vaudel house, and the shutters and curtains were closed. He knocked several times next door, at Madame Bourlant’s. An identical house, but in a much worse state of repair. It wasn’t going to be easy to get a woman living alone to open the door just by saying ‘police’, which wouldn’t convince anyone. Either you didn’t believe it was the police, or you did, which was even worse.
‘Madame Bourlant, I’ve got a message for you from Émile, he’s in hospital.’
‘So why come in the middle of the night?’
‘He doesn’t want anyone to see me. It’s about the cellar door. He says someone has found out and you’re going to get into trouble.’
The door opened a few inches on a chain. A fragile-looking woman of about sixty was looking at him more closely as she put on her glasses.
‘How do I know you’re a friend of Émile’s?’
‘He says you have a fantastic lifeline.’
The door opened and the woman let him in, putting the chain back on.
‘I am a friend of Émile’s, but I’m also a commissaire de police,’ said Adamsberg.
‘No, you can’t be.’
‘Yes, I can. All I’m asking you to do is open the way through the cellar. I need to get into the Vaudel house. There are two teams of police following, and they’ll need to come the same way. You will let them through.’
‘There isn’t a way through the cellar.’
‘Look, madame, I can get it unblocked without you if I have to. Just don’t cause any trouble, or everyone in the neighbourhoood will know about the door.’
‘It isn’t a crime, is it?’
‘They’ll say you were going to rob Vaudel of all his money.’
The little old woman went to get the ke
y, muttering about the police. Adamsberg followed her into the cellar and then into the corridor which led from it.
‘The police do a lot of daft things,’ she said, as she unlocked the door. ‘But this takes the biscuit. Accusing me of being a thief, I never heard such nonsense. And you’ve been bothering Émile, and that other young man.’
‘The police found a handkerchief belonging to the other young man.’
‘That’s stupid. People don’t drop their handkerchiefs in other people’s houses, so why would they when they’ve just murdered someone?’
‘Don’t follow me, madame,’ said Adamsberg, pushing the little old woman gently back. ‘This could be dangerous.’
‘A murderer?’
‘Yes. Get back inside your own house and wait till the police team arrives, don’t do anything else.’
She trotted off back down the corridor and Adamsberg climbed quietly up the cluttered cellar stairs into Vaudel’s house, taking care not to dislodge a bottle or a box. There was just an ordinary door to the kitchen, and the lock took him only a minute to pick. He headed straight for the room with the piano. If Paole was going to engineer Zerk’s suicide, that’s where he would do it, at the scene of his remorse.
The door was closed and he could see nothing. The tapestries on the walls muffled voices. Adamsberg went into the bathroom next door and climbed on top of a linen chest, from where he could reach a ventilation grill.
Paole was standing with his back to him, holding a gun equipped with a silencer. Opposite him, Zerk, tears rolling down his face, was sitting on the Louis XIII armchair. All the gothic bravado had gone. Paole had literally nailed him to the spot. A knife transfixed his left hand, nailing it to the wooden armrest. A lot of blood had already been spilt: the young man must have been pinned to the chair for some time, sweating with pain.
‘Who was it to?’ Paole was saying, waving a mobile phone in front of Zerk’s eyes.
Zerk must have tried to make his call for help again, but this time Paole had caught him at it. The older man had opened a flick knife, taken Zerk’s right hand and slashed it several times, as if he were cutting up a fish, not appearing to hear the young man’s cries of pain.
‘So don’t think you can start that again. Who to?’