by Fred Vargas
“Lieutenant Froissy will take you to the washroom and give you a towel. Where did you get hold of the playing cards?”
“Your brigadier Gardon lent them to us. We had a fine time down here last night.”
“Damascus,” Adamsberg said. “Get ready. It’ll be your turn next.”
“My turn for what?”
“To wash.”
Hélène Froissy took the old lady down the corridor and Adamsberg moved on to Kevin Roubaud.
“You’re getting out, Roubaud, so get up. You’re being transferred.”
“I’m quite OK here,” said Roubaud.
“You’ll be back,” said Adamsberg as he opened the cell door wide. “You’re going to be charged with grievous bodily harm and on suspicion of rape.”
“Bloody hell,” said Roubaud, “I was just the back-up man.”
“But you weren’t very backward about coming up front, were you? You were number six on the list. That means you were one of the nastiest in the bunch.”
“Fucking hell, I came in of my own accord, didn’t I? Helping the police with inquiries, don’t I get something off for that?
“Bugger off. I don’t fix sentences.”
Two officers came to take Roubaud away. Adamsberg looked at his memory-jogger. Acne plus jutting plus solicitude equals Maurel.
“Maurel, who took over outside Marie-Belle’s?” he asked, with an eye on the wall clock.
“Noël and Lamarre, sir.”
“What are they playing at? It’s nine thirty.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to go out. She’s not opened Rolaride since her brother got nabbed.”
“I’ll get over there,” Adamsberg said. “Since Hurfin won’t sing, Marie- Belle will have to tell me what he dragged out of her.”
“You’re going just like that, sir?”
“Just like what?”
“I mean, in your sandals, sir. Would you like to borrow some shoes?”
Adamsberg looked down at his toes, poking out through worn leather straps and wondered what was wrong with them.
“What’s the problem, Maurel?” He was genuinely puzzled.
“I don’t know, sir,” said the lieutenant, back-pedalling as fast as he could. “You’re the boss.”
“Ah, I see,” said Adamsberg. “Not dressed properly? Is that it, Maurel?”
The lieutenant didn’t dare answer.
“I’ve not got time to go buy a pair of shoes” said Adamsberg with a shrug. “And Clémentine is just a tiny bit more important than my appearance, don’t you think?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Make sure she has everything she needs. I’m going to get the sister, and will be back shortly.”
“Do you think she’ll say anything?”
“I expect so. Marie-Belle loves telling her life story.”
As he went out the main gate a special delivery man handed him a parcel which he opened in the street. It contained his new handset, which he stuck on a car roof while he looked for the contract note with terms and conditions after the fact. The chip was good. They’d managed to transfer the old number to the new phone. Great. He put the gizmo in his inside pocket and walked on, with his hand on his chest as if he was warming the handset through the denim and resuscitating the conversation he’d been having with the phone.
He spotted Noël and Lamarre on duty in the street when he got to Rue de la Convention. The shorter of the two was Noël. Big ears plus crew cut plus bomber jacket make Noël. The pikestaff was Lamarre, the fellow from Granville who’d trained as a gendarme. Both men glanced at the commissaire’s feet.
“Yes, I know, Lamarre, I’ll get a pair later. I’m going up,” he said, nodding towards the fourth floor. “You can stand down.”
Adamsberg crossed the opulent hallway and went up the red-carpeted staircase. Before he even got to the landing he could make out the envelope tacked to Marie-Belle’s front door. He slowed down in dismay and walked up the last few steps to put his hand finally on the white rectangle of paper inscribed with his name: To Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg.
Flown the nest. Marie-Belle had slipped out under the noses of his officers of the watch. She’d scarpered. Scarpered without taking care of Damascus. Adamsberg frowned as he looked at the envelope. Damascus’s sister had abandoned the theatre at the height of the battle.
The sister of Damascus and of Antoine.
Adamsberg slumped down and sat on the top step with the envelope in his lap. The time switch on the stair light ran out. Antoine hadn’t dragged info out of Marie-Belle, Marie-Belle had given it to him. To my brother the strangler. To my obedient brother. Murder by order of big sister, Marie-Belle Hurfin. He rang Danglard in the dark.
“I’m in the back of the car,” said Danglard. “Trying to sleep.”
“Danglard, did Heller-Deville have another illegitimate child, by the Romorantin woman? A daughter, by any chance?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. Marie-Belle Hurfin is two years older than Antoine. She’s Damascus’s half-sister. She’d never met him before she turned up in Paris twelve months ago and tracked him down.”
Adamsberg nodded to himself.
“Is that a nuisance?”
“Yes. I was after the killer’s mind. Now I’ve got it.”
Adamsberg shut the phone, stood up to switch the stair light back on and propped himself against the flat door to open the letter.
Dear Commissaire,
This letter is not intended to make your life easier. You thought I was an idiot, and I don’t take that lightly. But since I looked like an idiot, naturally I can’t hold it against you. I’m writing about Antoine. I want this letter to be read out at his trial, because Antoine is not responsible for his acts. I pulled all the strings from start to finish and I asked him to commit murder. I told him why, who, how, where and when. Antoine has no responsibility, he was obeying the orders I gave him, just like he always did. It’s not his fault, he’s not to blame for any of it. I want that said at his trial and I trust I can rely on you to do that. I’m rushing because I’ve not got much time left. You were a bit stupid to call Lizbeth down to the hospital to look after the old codger. Because you’d never know it, but Lizbeth sometimes needs a shoulder to cry on. My shoulder. So she rang me straight away to tell me about Decambrais’s accident.
So we didn’t manage to kill the codger and Antoine got nabbed. It won’t take you long to twig who the father was, specially as my mother has never tried to hide the fact, and you’ll be round here in two ticks. Two of your blokes are outside already, in the car. The game’s up and I’m off. Don’t waste your time looking for me. I’ve got heaps of cash that I siphoned out of that idiot Damascus’s bank account, and I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve got an African robe that Lizbeth lent me for a fancy-dress party, your blokes won’t even notice who’s inside, so I’m laughing. Give up, OK?
I’ll jot down some details so you cotton on properly that Antoine’s not responsible for anything. He hates Damascus as much as I do, but he couldn’t change a light bulb without the instruction manual. When he was a kid the only thing he ever learned to do, apart from listening to Mother and getting thrashed by Father, was how to throttle chickens and rabbits to vent his anger. Naturally, he hasn’t changed. Our father may have been top man in the aeronautical industry, but his main claim to fame is as world-champion heavyweight bastard. You have to get that straight. He spent his time getting girls pregnant and using his fists. He had a son, legal like, and he stuffed his mouth with the whole silver teaset. I mean that nutter Damascus, in case you hadn’t noticed. Antoine and me were his dark secret, the skeleton he kept in the country closet, and he always refused to give us legal recognition. It would damage his standing, so he said. But he wasn’t so careful when it came to the back of his hand. Me and my brother and my mother got knocked about a fair bit, I can tell you. I didn’t give a damn as I’d already decided to kill him one day, but he got there first and blew himself to bits. As for bread, h
e kept Mummy on war rations, just enough to keep going, because he was afraid what the neighbours might say if they saw us rolling in it. He was a bastard, a beast and a coward, nothing more, nothing less.
When he kicked the bucket, me and Antoine got together and said, don’t see why we shouldn’t have a slice of the dough, seeing as we weren’t even allowed to have the name. We had a right to it, we were his kids, weren’t we? Right, but we had to prove it first. Naturally, we knew we couldn’t do it with DNA because the bastard had blown himself up over the Atlantic. But we could make a case with Damascus, who was getting the whole pile to himself. Only we reckoned Damascus wouldn’t agree to a DNA test because he stood to lose two-thirds of a fortune. Unless he got fond of us, naturally. Or took a fancy to his sister. That’s a game I know how to play. Obviously we thought about killing him straight off, but I told Antoine it was out of the question. When we turned up to claim the inheritance, who would become suspects number 1 and 2? Him and me, naturally.
I came up to Paris with a simple plan – to tell him I was his half-sister, to cry poverty, and get taken in. Damascus fell for it in two days flat, hook, line and sinker. He took me to his bosom, then he started weeping, and when he found out he had a brother, you could have washed the floor. The stupid twit would have eaten out of my hand. The DNA plan was going to work like a dream for Antoine and me. Once I’d got my hands on two-thirds of the pile, I was going to drop Damascus Birdbrain like a hot potato. I don’t like guys who thump their hairy chests but burst into tears when someone treads on a ladybird. I didn’t realise Damascus was barking mad until later on. As he was eating out of my hand and needed someone to lean on, he told me all about his crazy scheme, about his revenge, his plague, his fleas, the whole bang shoot. I knew the stuff inside out, he spent hours going over the details with me. The names of the guys he’d tracked down, where they lived, the whole lot. I never believed his stupid fleas were going to kill anyone. So naturally I changed strategy. Put yourself in my shoes. Why should we settle for two-thirds when we could get the lot? Damascus had the name, and that meant a heap of a lot. We had zilch. The best of it was that Damascus didn’t want to touch a penny of his father’s loot, he said it was filthy money, that it had ghosts. By the way, I don’t think he had a whale of a time as a kid, either.
On with the story. All we had to do was to let Damascus get on with his scheme, and we’d shadow him, doing his murders for him. If we carried through, brother Damascus would go down for life, no remission. After the eight deaths I’d have put the police on to him, just by fluttering me eyelashes, I know how to play that game. Then since he eats out of my hand I’d have got power of attorney for all his loot, I mean, me and Antoine would have got our hands on it in a trice, so we’d have put things back the right way round. Antoine only had to do what I told him and do the killing, the role suited him, because he likes to obey, and he likes to kill. I’ve not got the right build and it’s not to my taste. I gave him a hand to get two of the guys to come out when the police were crawling all over – that was Viard and Clerc – and he throttled them both. That’s why I’m telling you it’s not Antoine’s fault. He did what I told him, he’s not up to doing anything else. If I asked him to go fetch a pail of water from Mars, off he’d go, without a murmur. It’s not his fault. If you could have him looked after, in some intensive care place, if you see what I mean, that would be fairer, because he’s not responsible. What he’s got between the ears is just cotton wool.
Damascus saw that people were dying, and he didn’t want to know more than that. He was convinced it was the effect of his “Journot force,” that’s all he wanted to know. Poor idiot! I’d have hoodwinked him right through to the end if you hadn’t turned up. He’d better get care as well, in something intensive.
As for me, I’m OK. I’m never short of ideas, I’ve got no cares for the future, so don’t worry your head about me. It wouldn’t do any harm if Damascus could send some of his filthy money to Mum. But don’t forget about Antoine, specially. I’m relying on you. Give Lizbeth a hug from me, and another one for Eva, the poor wreck. And a kiss on the cheek for you, commissaire. You fucked it all up for us, but it was a classy act. With no hard feelings from
Marie-Belle
Adamsberg folded up the letter and sat down in the dark, resting his mouth on his knuckles, for a good long while.
Back at the station he opened Damascus’s cell door and silently beckoned him to follow him into his office. Damascus took a chair, sat down, threw his hair back over his shoulders, and stared at the commissaire, patiently and intently. Adamsberg remained silent as he handed Marie-Belle’s letter to her half-brother.
“Is it to me?” the young man asked.
“It’s to me. Read it.”
It hit Damascus hard. When he’d finished, his head was in his hands, the letter was trailing on the floor and tears were dripping into his lap. There was a lot to swallow at one go: being hated by your brother, being hated by your sister and finding out that the Journot force was just bullshit. Adamsberg stayed seated behind the desk, and carried on waiting in complete silence.
“So the fleas weren’t carrying anything at all?” Damascus finally whispered, with his head still facing the floor.
“Nothing at all.”
Damascus fell silent for another while, gripping his knees like a man who’d drunk something ghastly and was trying hard to keep it down. Adamsberg could almost see the real world hitting Damascus – as if a huge, heavy lump had crashed into his skull and burst open the balloon of his imaginary world, spilling its paltry contents all around. He wondered if the man would ever be able to drag himself out of the office after having the sky fall in on his head like that.
“No plague?” he mumbled, barely able to articulate.
“No plague.”
“They didn’t die of plague?”
“No. They were throttled by your half-brother, Antoine Hurfin.”
He slumped forward, squeezing his knees even tighter.
“Throttled and smeared,” Adamsberg went on. “Weren’t you at all surprised by the neck wounds and the charcoal?”
“Yes, I was.”
“So?”
“I thought the police had cooked that up to keep the plague under wraps so as to avoid mass panic. You’re telling me that’s not so?”
“Precisely. Antoine was tailing you, and killed them after you’d left.”
Damascus looked at his hand and stroked his diamond.
“And Marie-Belle was pulling the strings?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Another collapse.
At this point Danglard came in and Adamsberg pointed him to the letter lying on the floor at Damascus’s feet. Danglard picked it up, read it and nodded solemnly. Adamsberg scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper which he handed to his deputy.
Emergency call to Dr Ferez, for Damascus. Get Interpol on to Marie-Belle. No real chance, she’s too smart.
“So Marie-Belle didn’t like me?” Damascus whispered.
“No.”
“I thought she loved me.”
“So did I. Everyone did. That’s what put us off the scent.”
“Did she love Antoine?”
“Yes. A bit.”
Damascus hunched himself up.
“Why didn’t she ask me for the money? I’d have given her the lot.”
“They didn’t dream they would get it that way.”
“I don’t want to touch it, in any case.”
“But you’re going to, Damascus. You’re going to hire a top barrister for your half-brother.”
“Yes,” said Damascus, still hugging himself.
“You should look after their mother, too. She’s not got anything to live on.”
“Yes. The ‘blowsy hag from Romorantin’. That’s what they called her at home. I didn’t know what it meant, I’d no idea who she was.”
Damascus looked up suddenly.
“You won’t tell her, will you? You won’
t tell her!”
“Tell who? Their mother?”
“Narnie. You won’t tell her that her fleas weren’t …weren’t …”
Adamsberg didn’t try to help him along. Damascus had to find the words himself, and say them over and over again.
“Weren’t … carriers?” Damascus managed to say in the end. “It would kill her.”
“I’m not a killer. Nor are you. Think about it, young man, think hard about that.”
“What are they going to do to me?”
“You didn’t kill anybody. All you have to answer for is a score or more of flea bites and a big scare.”
“So?”
“I don’t think they’ll press charges. You can go home today. Now.”
Damascus shuffled to his feet like a man with backache, keeping his fist clenched on his diamond ring. Adamsberg watched him leave, then shadowed him to see how his first contact with the real world outside would go. But Damascus went off down the corridor to his open cell, got into his bunk and curled up. In his own cell Antoine Hurfin was curled up just the same, but facing the other way. What a wonderful father you must have been, Mr Heller-Deville.
Adamsberg opened Clémentine’s cell. She was smoking and playing patience.
“So?” she said with a glance at the commissaire. “You getting anywhere? All that hustle and bustle down the corridor, but nobody tells me what’s going on.”
“You can go now, Clémentine. We’ll give you a lift back to Clichy.”
“Not a moment too soon.”
Clémentine put her stub out on the floor and put on her cardigan, which she buttoned up with care.
“Those sandals are nice,” she said appreciatively. “They look well on your plates.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, commissaire, now we’ve got acquainted, you can tell me, can’t you, if the last three of the animals have kicked the bucket or not. What with all these comings and goings I’ve not kept up with the news.”
“They all died of plague, Clémentine. Kevin Roubaud was the first to cop it.”