by Fred Vargas
Adamsberg waited patiently for the answer, which seemed difficult to put into words.
‘I can’t stand him.’
‘Oh, OK,’ he said, picking up the paper.
While Adamsberg was concentrating on the short news report, the woman kept glancing around anxiously at the walls, looking first left then right, though Adamsberg couldn’t imagine why she was inspecting them. Something else was frightening her. She was scared of everything: of the big city, of other people, of gossip, and of him. Nor did he understand why she had come all this way to tell him about this Michel Herbier, if she hated him. The man in question, a pensioner, and a keen hunter, had disappeared from his home, on his moped. After he had been missing for a week, the gendarmes had entered his house to make a security check. They had found the contents of his two freezers – which had been packed with every kind of game – scattered all over the floor. And that was all.
‘I can’t get mixed up in this,’ Adamsberg said apologetically, handing her back the newspaper. ‘If this man’s disappeared, the local gendarmes are in charge, you must understand that. And if you know anything about it, it’s them you should go and see.’
‘That’s impossible, monsieur le commissaire.’
‘Perhaps you don’t get on with your local gendarmes?’
‘That’s right. That’s why the priest gave me your name. That’s why I made the trip here.’
‘But to tell me what, Madame Vendermot?’
The woman smoothed down her flowered overall, and lowered her head. She spoke more readily if one didn’t look at her.
‘What has happened to him. Or what will happen to him. He’s either dead already, or he’ll die soon if nobody does anything.’
‘It looks as if this man just took off, since his moped is missing too. Do we know if he took any baggage?’
‘No, he just took his shotgun. He owns a lot of guns.’
‘Well then, he’ll no doubt be back sooner or later, Madame Vendermot. You know quite well that we’ve no right to launch a search for an adult, just because he hasn’t been seen for a few days.’
‘He won’t be back, monsieur. The moped doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t there because someone wants there not to be a search for him.’
‘Are you saying that because he’s received threats?’
‘Yes.’
‘He has an enemy?’
‘Holy Mother of god, he has the most terrible of enemies, commissaire.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Oh no, Lord alive, we mustn’t speak it.’
Adamsberg gave a sigh, feeling sorrier for her than for himself.
‘And according to you, this Michel Herbier has run away?’
‘No, because he doesn’t know about it. He must surely be dead. He was seized, you see.’
Adamsberg stood up and walked around the room for a few moments, hands in pockets.
‘Madame Vendermot, I’m willing to listen to you, and perfectly willing to contact the gendarmerie in Ordebec. But I can’t do anything if I don’t understand. Give me a second.’
He left the office and went to see Commandant Danglard, who was still consulting the filing cabinet with a grumpy expression. Among the many billions of pieces of information Danglard held in his head were the names of the chiefs and deputy chiefs of the gendarmeries and central police stations throughout France.
‘Danglard, the capitaine of gendarmes of Ordebec, can you do that?’
‘In the Calvados?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘Émeri. Louis Nicolas Émeri, he was named Louis Nicolas after one of his ancestors on the wrong side of the blanket, one of Napoleon’s marshals, Louis Nicolas Davout, commander of the third corps of the Grande Armée. Davout fought at Ulm, Austerlitz, Eylau and Wagram, and he was given the titles of Duke of Auerstadt and Prince of Eckmühl, after one of his famous victories.’
‘Danglard, it’s just the one who’s around now that interests me, the head man in Ordebec.’
‘That’s what I’m saying. He’s very keen on his ancestry, doesn’t let you forget it. So he can be rather arrogant, proud, military. Apart from all the Napoleonic stuff, though, he’s quite agreeable, a clued-up policeman, rather cautious – perhaps a bit too cautious. He’s about forty. He didn’t distinguish himself in his previous posting, somewhere near Lyon, I think. In Ordebec, he has a pretty quiet life. They don’t get up to much there.’
Adamsberg returned to his office where the woman had once more continued her careful inspection of the walls.
‘It’s not easy, I know, commissaire. Because as a rule, you’re not supposed to talk about it. It could bring terrible trouble. Tell me, are your shelves fixed on properly? Because you’ve put all the heavy boxes on the top ones and lighter things lower down. They could fall on top of a person, you know. You should always put heavier things at the bottom.’
Scared of the police, and scared of collapsing bookshelves.
‘This Michel Herbier, why do you hate him so much?’
‘Everyone hates him, commissaire. He’s a brute, he’s a horrible man, and he’s always been like that. Nobody talks to him.’
‘Well, that might explain why he’s left Ordebec.’
Adamsberg picked up the newspaper again.
‘He isn’t married, he’s retired, he’s sixty-four. He might have decided to go and make a new start somewhere else. Does he have relations anywhere?’
‘He was married. He’s a widower.’
‘How long since he was widowed?’
‘Oh, fifteen years or more.’
‘And you see him around now and then?’
‘No, never. He lives a bit outside the village, so it’s easy to keep out of his way. And that suits everyone.’
‘But some neighbours are concerned about him?’
‘Yes, the Hébrards. They’re honest folk. They saw him go off at about six in the evening – they live across the lane, you see. And he lives about fifty yards further on, in the Bigard woods, near the old rubbish dump. It’s very damp down there.’
‘So why were they worried, if they saw him go off on the moped?’
‘Because usually, when he goes away, he gives them the key to his mailbox. But he didn’t, this time. And they didn’t hear him come back. And there was post for him, sticking out of the box. So they thought Herbier only meant to go out for a short while, but something stopped him coming back. The gendarmes checked the hospitals, and he isn’t there.’
‘And when they went into his house, they found all the food from the freezers scattered on the floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did he have all that meat? Does he have dogs?’
‘He’s a hunter, he puts his game in the freezers. He kills a lot of animals, and he never gives any to anyone else.’
The woman shivered.
‘One of the gendarmes, Blériot, he’s nice to me, not like Capitaine Émeri, he told me what it was like in there. Horrible, he said. There was half a carcass of a doe, with its head still on, and some sides of venison. Other female animals too, hares, wild boar, partridges. All chucked about any old how, monsieur. It had been rotting for days when the gendarmes went in. In this heat, all that rotting meat, it’s a health hazard.’
Scared of bookshelves and scared of germs. Adamsberg glanced at the two huge stag antlers gathering dust, still lying on the floor of his office. They had been the generous gift from a Norman, as it happened.
‘Female hares and whatnot? Your gendarme is observant – or perhaps he’s a hunter too.’
‘No, no, he says that because everyone knows what Herbier is like. He’s a disgusting hunter, a wicked man. He only kills females and young animals and sometimes whole litters. He’s been known to shoot at pregnant does.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Everyone knows, monsieur. Herbier was had up once for killing a wild sow with some sucklings. Fawns too. Oh, it’s unbelievable. But since he does it at night, Éme
ri can’t catch him. What I can tell you is no other hunter will go out with him, and they haven’t for years now. Even the other people who shoot game won’t have him. He’s been expelled from the Ordebec hunters’ league.’
‘Well, he seems to have dozens of enemies, Madame Vendermot!’
‘Nobody wants to go near him, no.’
‘So you think some other hunters might have killed him? Is that it? Or maybe anti-hunting campaigners?’
‘No, no, commissaire. It was something else, something quite different.’
After being quite talkative for a few minutes, the woman was having difficulty speaking again. She still looked frightened, but this time it wasn’t the bookshelves. It was a deeper, more persistent fear, still holding Adamsberg’s attention in spite of himself, although the Herbier case did not apparently warrant making a trip all the way from Normandy.
‘If you don’t know anything,’ he said wearily, ‘and if you can’t talk about it, I don’t see how I can help you.’
Commandant Danglard had appeared in the doorway and was making urgent signals to him. A report had just come in with news about the little girl of eight who had run away in the Forest of Versailles, after breaking a fruit-juice bottle over the head of her great-uncle. The uncle had managed to reach a telephone before passing out. Adamsberg gave both Danglard and the woman to understand that her interview was coming to an end. It was the start of the summer holidays, and in three days a third of the staff would be off on annual leave, so current cases had to be dealt with quickly. The woman understood that there wasn’t much time left. In Paris, you can’t hang about all day, the priest had warned her, even if this little police chief had been patient and kind to her.
‘It’s Lina, my daughter,’ she said hurriedly, ‘she saw him, Herbier. She saw him two weeks and two days before he disappeared. She told her boss, and in the end all Ordebec knew about it.’
Danglard was back sorting out his files, a frown wrinkling his wide brow. He had seen Veyrenc in Adamsberg’s office. What the hell was he doing there? Was he going to sign up, join the force again? The decision was due that evening. Danglard stopped near the photocopier and caressed the big cat lying on top of it, seeking comfort from its soft fur. The reason for his antipathy to Veyrenc was not easily confessed. It was a persistent and nagging jealousy, almost like that of a woman, the need to keep Veyrenc away from Adamsberg.
‘We have to be quick, Madame Vendermot. Your daughter saw him, and something made her think he was going to be killed?’
‘Yes, he was shrieking. And there were three others with him. At night.’
‘There was a fight? Because of these does and fawns? A meeting, a hunting supper?’
‘No, no.’
‘Well, look, just come back tomorrow,’ Adamsberg decided, moving towards the door, ‘when you feel able to talk.’
Danglard was waiting for him, standing up and looking cross, leaning on the desk.
‘Have they found this little girl?’
‘The searchers found her hiding up a tree. She’d climbed very high, like a wild cat. And she was holding this gerbil in her hands, she didn’t want to let it go. But the gerbil seems to be OK.’
‘A what, Danglard? A gerbil?’
‘It’s a little mouse thing. Kids love them as pets.’
‘And the child? What state is she in?’
‘She’s like your pigeon. She’s starving hungry, and thirsty and tired. She’s been taken to hospital. One of the nurses won’t go in because of the gerbil – it’s hiding under the bed.’
‘And can the little girl tell us what this is all about?’
‘No.’
Danglard was only giving his information out with some reluctance, still preoccupied with his own thoughts. It wasn’t a day for chatting.
‘She knows her great-uncle has survived?’
‘Yes. She seemed both relieved and disappointed. She’d been living with him, just the two of them, for goodness knows how long, never set foot in school. And we’re not at all sure now that he’s actually a great-uncle.’
‘Right, tell the Versailles police to follow it up. But tell whoever is in charge not to kill the gerbil. Have them catch it, put it in a cage and feed it.’
‘Is that so urgent?’
‘Obviously, Danglard, because it may be the only thing in the world this child has. One second.’
Adamsberg hurried over to Retancourt’s office. She was getting ready to swab the pigeon’s feet.
‘Have you disinfected it, lieutenant?’
‘Just a minute,’ said Retancourt, ‘we had to rehydrate it first.’
‘Good, don’t throw the string away, I want it analysed. Justin’s got hold of the technician, he’s on his way.’
‘Damn bird just crapped on my hand,’ said Retancourt coolly. ‘What does that little woman want?’ she asked, pointing to his office.
‘To tell me something she can’t tell me. Indecision personified. Either she’ll leave of her own accord, or they’ll have to chuck her out at closing time.’
Retancourt shrugged a little disdainfully. Indecision was something foreign to her way of life. Hence her powers of propulsion, far exceeding that of the twenty-seven other members of the squad.
‘And what about Veyrenc? Is he still undecided too?’
‘Veyrenc made his mind up long ago. Cop or schoolteacher, which would you choose? Teaching is a virtue that brings bitterness, police work is a vice that brings pride. And since it’s easier to give up a virtue than a vice, he has no choice. I’m off to see this so-called great-uncle in hospital at Versailles.’
‘What shall we do with this pigeon? I can’t have it at home, my brother’s allergic to feathers.’
‘Your brother’s staying with you?’
‘Just for now. He lost his job, he nicked a case of bolts and some oil cans from the garage.’
‘Can you drop him off at my place tonight then? The bird, I mean.’
‘I suppose so,’ Retancourt grumbled.
‘Watch out, we have cats patrolling our garden.’
The little woman’s hand was placed timidly on his shoulder. Adamsberg turned round.
‘That night,’ she said slowly, ‘Lina saw the Furious Army.’
‘The what?’
‘The Furious Army,’ the woman repeated, in a whisper. ‘And Herbier was with them. And he was screaming. And three others with him.’
‘Is it a club? Something to do with hunting?’
Madame Vendermot was staring at Adamsberg in disbelief.
‘The Furious Army,’ she whispered again. ‘The Great Hunt. The Ghost Riders. Haven’t you heard of them?’
‘No,’ said Adamsberg, staring back at her stupefied gaze. ‘Come back some other time and you can tell me all about it.’
‘But you don’t even recognise the name? Hellequin’s Horde,’ she whispered.
‘Look, I’m very sorry,’ said Adamsberg, taking her back into his office. ‘Veyrenc, do you know anything about some curious army?’ he asked, pocketing his keys and his mobile.
‘Not curious, Furious,’ the woman corrected him.
‘Yes. Madame Vendermot’s daughter saw the missing man riding with it.’
‘And some other people,’ she insisted. ‘Jean Glayeux, and Michel Mortembot. But my daughter didn’t recognise the fourth.’
An expression of astonishment appeared on Veyrenc’s face, then he smiled slightly with that raised lip. Like a man who has just been offered an unexpected treat.
‘Your daughter really saw all this?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Where?’
‘The usual place where people see it. On a road near Ordebec, the Chemin de Bonneval, in the Forest of Alance. It’s always passed that way.’
‘Is that near where she lives?’
‘No, we live a few kilometres away.’
‘And she went to try and see it?’
‘No, no, certainly not. Lina’s a very sen
sible girl, very down to earth. She just happened to be there, that’s all.’
‘At night?’
‘It’s only ever seen at night.’
Adamsberg was leading the little woman out of the office and asking her again to come back the next day, or to telephone him another time, when she’d sorted it all out more clearly in her mind. Veyrenc held him back discreetly, chewing on a pen.
‘Jean-Baptiste,’ he said, ‘do you really not know what she’s talking about? The Furious Army? The Ghost Riders?’
Adamsberg shook his head, rapidly combing his hair with his fingers.
‘Well, ask Danglard,’ Veyrenc insisted. ‘It’ll interest him a lot.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, as far as I know, if anyone sees them, it foretells disaster. Perhaps some big disaster.’
Veyrenc smiled again, and as if the intrusion of the Furious Army had made up his mind for him, he signed up to re-enlist.
IV
When Adamsberg arrived home, later than he intended, since the great-uncle had turned out to be complicated, his neighbour, the elderly Spaniard Lucio, was pissing noisily against a tree in the little garden, in the warm evening.
‘Salud, hombre,’ said the old man, without interrupting what he was doing, ‘one of your lieutenants is waiting for you. This big fat woman, tall as a house. Your boy let her in.’
‘She’s not a big fat woman, Lucio, she’s a goddess, a polyvalent goddess.’
‘Oh, that one?’ said Lucio, buttoning his trousers. ‘The one you’re always going on about?’
‘That’s the one. The goddess. So naturally she doesn’t look just like everyone else. Have you ever heard of something called the Curious Army? Mean anything to you?’
‘No, hombre.’
* * *
Sitting in his kitchen were Lieutenant Retancourt and Adamsberg’s grownup son, known to him as ‘Zerk’. (The commissaire couldn’t get used to his given name, Armel, having been aware of his son’s existence for only seven weeks: the nickname had its origin in the previous case, which had brought them together.) Cigarettes dangling from mouths, the pair were both peering into a basket lined with cotton wool. They didn’t look up when Adamsberg came in.
‘Have you got that?’ Retancourt was asking the young man sternly. ‘What you do is, you dip little bits of biscotte in water and you feed him gently with them. And a little water using the dropper, not too much at first. And you add one drop of the stuff in this bottle, it’s a tonic.’